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The room is hazy with smoke, the scent of herbs strong and heady in the air.
Vexara lounges upon an excessively large pile of cushions in the center of the lordling’s chambers, her bloodied boots kicked up upon the pillows, marring the fabric with smears of wretched crimson. “Enough of your pacing,” She hisses to Gortash. His head whips around from where he stands with his back to her. “You’re stressing me out.”
“You could stand to be a bit more careful, you know,” He spits back to her. She bares her teeth, scowling up at him.
“And you could stand to take a hit and relax.” Brushing away his concerns with a roll of her eyes, she stretches an arm out towards him, hookah in hand. He gazes at it, considering, until he scoffs and shakes his head, while her frown deepens.
There’s something burning in his rich brown eyes, and it sparks something in her gut. A lick of arousal, coiling tight in her belly, filling her with heat. He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath, and sighs. “You need to control your bloodlust,” Gortash huffs, voice thick with frustration. His eyes shift, and his words turn to accusation. “You’re always tracking blood through my quarters. The severed head is completely unnecessary.”
His nose is crinkled with disgust at her blood stained footsteps scattered across the floor, his eyes alight with malice as they fix on her most recent trophy lying in a puddle of blood at her feet with its mouth agape. He stares at her with revulsion, glaring as if he hates her and it draws a shiver down her spine. She wants to ruin him. “I gave you a gift,” Vexara argues, pointedly, nodding to the head. With a leisurely stretch, she gets to her feet, abandoning the hookah in favor of slinking up beside him. The head belonged to the latest lord that had annoyed Enver Gortash. He’d spoken of the man briefly, some merchant who’d bought out a place in Baldur’s Gate politics. A smart man, but more trouble than he was worth, proving resistant to Gortash’s grabs for power.
He’d told Vexara of their latest meeting while they were sprawled in bed, her hand tracking lazy circles over his stomach. He’d been frustrated, vexed, angry. They weren’t the sort to confess their feelings to each other, Gortash only complained to Vex when he wanted something, needed something. And there was only one thing the chosen of Bhaal could provide, sure as the sun would rise each day. Blood, buckets of it, lakes and oceans of it. She kills as easily as she breathes and she is ever so loyal to her tyrant, she would bathe him in the blood of his rivals each day, she would revel in taking their lives and reaping his gory vengeance.
She walks her fingertips up his back, pressing herself to his side. A breath away from his ear, she murmurs, “You wanted me to kill him.”
“He was a fool, but I asked you to do no such thing,” He insists, tense. Dragging her hand up to his shoulder, she massages at his tension, working into his muscles before digging her nails through the thin fabric of his shirt. He winces. A smile pulls at her lips, and she slips her hand beneath his shirt, roaming over his shoulder to his collarbone, simply feeling the expanse of his skin. Slowly, her hand comes to close around his throat, and to her delight, and surprise, he lets it.
Every inch of her body longs to clench her fist, to choke the life from him, to listen to the sweet symphony of his gasps for air and his pleas for mercy. Her knuckles ache, her hand twitches, but she keeps her grip soft and steady. Not yet, no, she will not have him until the end of all life. One day, when she has brought the world to its knees, when there is nothing but death and destruction and the two of them alone, she will have him. She will gut him and she will weep and she will devour his heart. When the body’s gone cold she will give her father his final sacrifice, she will return her unholy blood to him and she will treasure her own death.
That day edges closer, closer and closer with each day as their influence spreads, but she must wait. “You know you don’t need to ask,” She purrs, sweetly, her free hand trailing down his stomach. He stiffens beneath her touch, his breathing strained by her fingers wrapping tighter around his throat, but he is still for a long moment.
It’s only when her hand grazes over his trousers, where he’s rapidly hardening for her, that he snaps. Yanking her hand away from his throat, he turns to face her, backing her up to the wall at her back. His gaze is dark, intense, he’s mad and oh how she needs his anger. She lets him walk her backwards, until her back hits the wall and she takes a sharp inhale of breath. “I’ve had just about enough of you, assassin,” He hisses. Just as the sly grin begins to spread over her face, the back of Gortash’s hand collides with her cheek, jerking her head harshly into the wall. The sting on her skin is bittersweet, the newfound ache in her head is comforting.
“Really?” She retorts, “And yet I still have so much more to give you.” Another slap, quick as the last, and she bites down on her tongue, the taste of copper flooding her mouth. Gortash is smug, smiling down at her like he’s won, like he’s taken the fight out of her. Now, his touch is tender, a sickening mockery of love, caressing her jaw and trailing his thumb over her bottom lip. Locking eyes with him, she drops her mouth open, and he presses his thumb down onto her tongue. He’s practically mesmerized as she works her tongue over the digit, a preview of everything her mouth can do. Yet just as she can lavish him with affection, she can remind him she is not a thing to be tamed. She bites down on him. He winces, just barely, pulling his finger from her mouth as she fixes him with a wicked, bloody smile. His thumb is coated with both of their blood, together, and he drags it down her chin, leaving a streak of brilliant red in his wake. She licks it from her lips gratefully, swallows a mouthful of her own blood.
“You would look so pretty on your knees for me,” He tells her, admiring the spit and blood smeared over her chin. His eyes are heavy, half-lidded, he looks at her as if he worships her and that is exactly how it should be. She can’t help but return his reverent gaze, smiling up at him as innocently as she can muster. It disgusts her just how much she enjoys looking at him, especially knowing how much care he puts into mussing his hair and lining his eyes to look like he hasn’t slept in four days. He is beautiful, in his own, rough way, but the chosen of Bhaal should not care for beauty, her heart should not skip. She wishes to crush the butterflies in her belly.
Forgive me father, for I am selfish. Forgive me, for your perfect killing machine is flawed, is more man than monster, is preoccupied with the pleasures of the flesh. I will eat his heart one day but I cannot bear to part with him now. When all is ash he shall be yours, but please, oh please, for now let him be mine.
She finds naught but silence in her prayers, and she knows she brings her father shame in her submission. That’s why, just when he leans in to meet her lips, she rams her knee into his gut, and watches him crumple to the floor. “Gods damn you,” He swears through grit teeth as his knees hit the ground, and she thinks he looks even better on the floor.
“Stay there,” She tells him, and much to her surprise, he listens. Reaching down, she runs a hand through his hair, mussing the delicately styled strands. He hates when she does it, and she hates the feeling of his hair gel on her skin, but the grimace on his face makes it worth it. He’s endlessly tolerant of her nonsense, even as she gives his hair a sharp tug, pulling him in closer. Her other hand raises to gather her robes, parting the fabric at her hips and exposing her bare skin to him.
Gortash drinks in the sight of her greedily, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. He brushes his fingertips over one of the many scars littering her skin. “You’re going to regret this.” Ignoring his protests, she settles back against the wall, spreading her legs apart and tugging him closer.
“Life is awfully short to have regrets, my sweet tyrant,” She coos. Despite his protest, he wastes no time in eagerly parting her folds, dragging his tongue over her clit. He knows her body well, knows exactly the way she likes it, lapping at her cunt with practiced ease. The first time he’d explored her body had been after their first successful heist, when they’d recovered ancestral Bhaalian torture racks and the bones of brother Toop from the Baldur’s Gate House of Wonders. She’d returned to the temple only to find herself almost missing his company. A wretched thought, Bhaal’s most treasured spawn actually enjoying the presence of such a devoted follower of Bane. Hating herself the entire time, she’d snuck into his office, and he’d taken her there, on the desk.
She told herself it was nothing special. She only liked him because he didn’t fear or worship her in the same way Bhaal’s followers did. She was so used to being in control, she enjoyed the fight he put up, and most of all, she enjoyed losing that fight. In truth, he was the only person she could truly see as a peer - not even Ketheric could compare.
Her nails dig into his scalp as she lets out a deep sigh of pleasure, her head lolling back against the wall with a dull thunk. A finger brushes against her entrance, dragging through the slick, before pressing forward. “Yes,” She gasps, eyes fluttering shut. He pushes his finger into her easily, his tongue still working at her clit with fervor, she squirms against him, desperately trying to roll her hips to bring him deeper, closer, but his free hand comes to cover her belly and push her against the cold stone wall. His finger quirks inside of her, and she keens, tugging on his hair harder.
Gortash moans against her, and the vibration alone leaves her aching. It’s too much, and not enough, and he slides in a second finger that makes her cry out. He fucks his fingers into her slowly, curling against the spot he knows makes her melt, and just as she inches ever closer to hurtling over the edge, he pulls away. Her eyes flicker open and she glares down at him, half breathless. “You are a vile, vile man,” She sneers.
Her hands unweave from his hair, which is throughly disheveled, and he licks the taste of her from his lips as he rises to his feet. He rises only because she allows him to, she tells herself, but he grabs her by the chin and meets her eyes and any sense of fight leaves her. She wants him in the most wicked way. “Are you quite finished?”
“Not even close,” Vexara hisses back. He rewards her with a gentle slap, much softer than his earlier ministrations, almost affectionate. It only makes the arousal in her gut burn even hotter.
There’s a smile on his face. An irritatingly smug smirk, and she longs to kiss it away, but he holds her face still. “My beloved assassin,” He hums. Beloved.
She had been beloved once. She had parents, a sister, a family. An orphan found, abandoned as a mere babe, taken in, treasured, loved. The urge had driven her to slaughter them all at the age of 14, and that was when Sceleritas Fel found her, brought her home, into Bhaal’s arms. She was destined to kill everyone she loved - she was not to be beloved, but to be feared, and yet this scheming tyrant in front of her had the gall to look her in the eyes and insinuate he loved her. There is a swirling pool of bile in her stomach. She hates the way her heartbeat quickens at his words, his adoration.
He dips his thumb between her lips, and she accepts it, gazing up at him as he grazes over her teeth. “Why don’t you kneel down so we can put this pretty mouth to good use, hm?” Gortash issues the command gently, but his other hand comes to rest upon her head, pushing her down. Her pride be damned, she aches to touch him, so she quickly finds his belt as she sinks onto her knees and lets his finger slip out of her mouth. His hands are tenderly gathering her hair, brushing it back from her face and pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail, his fist keeping it securely out of her face. She wastes no time in dropping his trousers, mouthing teasingly over the outline of his hard cock beneath his underthings. “Don’t tease,” He hisses with a sharp tug of her hair.
Her eyes flicker up to him for just a moment as she peels off the last layer of fabric between them. He watches her with admiration, but he doesn’t hesitate in directing her attention back to his weeping cock with a jerk of her ponytail when she stares at him for a little too long. Encouraged, she lavishes a long lick up the underside of his dick, focusing her attention on the tip when she reaches it. She sucks him into her mouth with a low moan, enjoying the heavy weight of him on her tongue, the harsh grip of his hands guiding her up and down on him. He bucks his hips, fucking into her throat, and she nearly chokes, gagging around him. A warning, her teeth scrape lightly over the base of him, and he rewards her with a gentle slap. He’s playing with fire, but he knows she won’t actually bite. At least, she hasn’t yet. She’s had ample opportunities too - but why would she ruin this? In some sick way, she likes it.
She relinquishes control, dutifully sucks at him and whimpers around his cock as he fucks her mouth, his head thrown back while he sighs his pleasure. “You look just - beautiful like this,” Gortash moans, and she resents the way her cheeks flush at the compliment. With a particularly harsh thrust, he hilts his cock in her throat, pressing her down further as she gags. Finally, he yanks her off of him, and she is left gasping, a thin string of drool connecting her lips to his cock still.
“What do you want, my dear Bhaalspawn?” He asks her almost tenderly. He lets her hair fall back down upon her back, reaching down to cup her cheek.
“Gods, just hurry up and fuck me,” She demands. He bends, scoops her off the floor as if she weighs next to nothing - though a sharp sigh he gives when she’s in his arms exposes the struggle it is for him, and makes for the bed. If this were any other lover she would slaughter them for treating her so delicately, for carrying her about like a bride. They will be wed one day, but not for a long time yet. They will be wed in true Bhaalian fashion at the end of the earth - ritual murder suicide, upon Bhaal’s altar. She is no blushing bride, no princess to be carried, she is a demigod to wreak death and vengeance and - he lays her upon the bed and kisses all the thoughts out of her head.
Her body is hot, aching, her head feels dizzy and she recognizes the urge crawling up her throat. “Get your clothes off,” He orders her, hastily getting up to toss aside his shirt. She makes quick work of her robes, even as her hands are trembling. Once she’s bare as the day she was borne from Bhaal’s flesh, she settles back upon the pillows, eyeing Gortash as he crawls atop the bed. She’s seen him probably a hundred times now, but she never tires of the sight. He settles between her legs, spreading her thighs apart and taking a moment to look her over. “You look thoroughly debauched, my dear,” He coos to her, running a hand down her belly, ever lower until his thumb comes to rest on her swollen clit.
A wanton moan leaves her throat, and she frowns up at him. “Hurry up,” She tries to sound stern, but it comes out much whinier than she’d intended. Her hands fist the bedsheets.
“Should I make you beg?” He rubs a slow circle over her, the friction driving her mad as she arches up to meet his touch, longing for more. Her eyes never leave his as he shifts beside her, his free hand coming to nudge the head of his cock against her dripping cunt.
“I would sooner cut out your tongue than beg for you,” Vexara spits back, the urge bleeding into her words. Her body betrays her, still, alight with heat and pleasure and trembling for more as he teases her exactly where she needs him.
“Oh, I recall you rather like my tongue where it is.” He’s hovering over her, inches away, she longs to grab him and dig her nails into his flesh until the bed is soaked with his blood. She swallows back the urge, keeping her hands secured on the sheets instead. His thumb tweaks her just right, building a steady rhythm as her hips come to roll against it in time, her head falling back onto the pillows with a blissful sigh.
He builds her up, brings her to her breaking point, and just as she is hurtling towards the edge - his hand draws away. “Fuck!” She swears, blinking her eyes back open. “Enver,” She growls finally, a warning.
He meets her dark eyes with an unwavering spirit. “Beg,” He orders.
She can think up a million ways to kill him in a single second. She hates his command because she wants to give in, and as his thumb begins a new, torturously slow pace on her clit, she breaks. “Please,” She croaks.
“What do you want?” He urges.
“Please just hurry up and fuck me like you hate me,” She snaps.
A wicked grin draws across his face, but she only sees it for a moment before he is kissing her hard enough to bruise, all teeth and tongue, swallowing up her cries as he eases his cock inside of her, nice and slow. She shivers with pleasure when he’s fully seated inside of her, he’s still just long enough for her to break their kiss and gasp for breath before he’s setting a punishing pace. His hands force her legs further apart, keeping her spread while he fucks into her with vigor, a low groan escaping the man’s lips. “You’re so wet for me,” He purrs into her ear, trailing open mouthed kisses down her jaw and throat.
Finally, she releases the sheets, her arms wrapping tight around him, drawing him ever closer. With each thrust she buries her nails deeper into his skin, begging for it to bleed. She’s chasing her release now, her hips rolling to meet his, back arching to take him deeper. “Don’t - don’t you dare stop,” She sighs.
He keeps his pace perfectly steady, and she revels in the feeling of his breath on her neck as he pants, beginning to lose himself. His thumb works slow circles over her clit, and he gives her an order she’s all too happy to obey - “Come.” It’s all she needs. Her orgasm comes crashing over her like a wave, overwhelming all of her senses. Every muscle in her body tightens, and Gortash lets out a heavy groan as she clenches around him.
His thrusts are sloppy, erratic now as he chases his own release, his hands still pinning her spread legs to the bed, gripping hard enough to bruise. She pulls him closer, tighter, kisses the stubbled skin of his jaw and murmurs into his ear, “Enver…” She doesn’t use his first name often - and it’s exactly the push he needs. Burying himself to the hilt, he spills inside of her, his hips jerking shakily. Their bodies fit together just right, and she basks in the afterglow as he shudders above her, her fingers delicately weaving through his hair in a much too tender gesture.
He withdraws from her, and collapses at her side, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me I’ve exhausted you already,” She jests, trailing her fingertips through the hair on his chest. She’s as close as she dares to be to him. Bhaal’s chosen spawn does not cuddle, and he would never ask her to. But she lays her palm flat upon his chest and feels his heart beating beneath it. The warm spark in her belly is the closest to love she’s ever felt.