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“You know…” Kazaran muses lightly into the sparse space between himself and the body beside him. His nose catches on his lover’s collarbone, his eyes closed, blood for once sitting at a pleasant simmer rather than a rolling boil. He breathes in a long breath, savouring how it tastes of sweat and sex. A quiet scene, peaceful even.
It’s almost enough to convince an outsider that they are anything like normal lovers. Until Kazaran goes and opens his mouth again, of course.
“I’ve been thinking on how I might kill you, recently.”
Gortash, to his credit, doesn’t so much as baulk at the comment. He simply hums curiously, fingers lifting to pet absentmindedly through Kazaran’s thick black locks. “And what conclusion have you come to?” He asks idly, as if inquiring about the weather or something equally mundane.
“I can’t decide, I wondered if you might have a preference,” Kazaran’s nails scratch at the centre of Gortash’s chest as he speaks, as if to pet him back.
“At first my only thoughts were of a sharp blade,” he continues, without waiting for Gortash to speak. His voice takes on a raspy quality, slightly strained. Even just talking about such visions is exciting him. “Taking it and running it down your stomach, peeling back the skin and the fat and the muscle so I can pluck out each organ one-by-one. I’d drink in the iron taste of your viscera, maybe I’d even fuck the tangle of your intestines so the last thing you’d see as you died would be my bliss as I cum inside the mess I’d made of your body.”
Gortash hums, shifting so that he can tug Kazaran closer, hooking one of the murderer’s legs over his hips so his cock presses against a hip rather than the bed. Kazaran is hardening, unsurprising given the topic of discussion, and at this new angle he finds himself grinding unsubtly forward, driven but blood and lust. He groans, panting against Gortash’s neck.
“You would look so sweet covered in your own gore, Enver,” he sighs, a pulse of arousal shooting down his spine as he draws the image he’d conjured a thousand times into his mind's eye. Lord Enver Gortash would make such a lovely corpse, he’d do anything to preserve it, he’d spend hours carving away just to savour how he’d scream.
“A beautiful image my dear,” Gortash says indulgently, and Kazaran knows he doesn’t care for blood the same way as he does but… despite that, he continues his pets through Kazaran’s hair.
As he feels the gentle pets to his scalp Kazaran finds himself rocking against Gortash’s hip bone. It is sharp and uncomfortable, barely even counts as pleasant, but he hardly thinks that matters. He hums a moan into the Tyrant’s throat, scraping sharp teeth over his pulse.
“I am intrigued about my other options, however.”
Kazaran sighs, a smile on his lips, “My next thought was of you with one limb in each of The Slayer’s arms,” he says, and as he does he feels the beast stir within him at the mention of itself. His eyelids flutter, his cock twitches, “I imagined it pulling and pulling and pulling. I imagined hearing the pops of your joints separating followed by the tearing of flesh and the smell of your sweet blood soiling an altar below.” His brows furrow, breaths short and quick, he’s so aroused it’s almost painful.
“Oh, how you’d scream ,” he says, breathless, wanting, and still Gortash just lays there and listens. Kazaran finds himself gnawing superficially at the junction of Gortash’s stubbled throat, his hips still humping slowly but restlessly.
“I thought briefly about smashing your skull,” he continues quickly, as if worried he’ll find himself unable to finish, “pummeling with something heavy until your face is nothing but mangled flesh and bone. I would be coated in you, I’d get to suck your grey matter from my fingers, lick your blood from my lips- But no-” He shakes his head once, decisively, “I like your face too much, I’d want to keep it.”
Gortash laughs, shifting down on the bed to bring their faces closer. “ That , my darling murderer,” he says, voice low and indulgent, “Is perhaps one of the most romantic things you’ve ever said to me.”
Kazaran huffs a moan as their new position aligns him to a slightly better place to hump against, now pressing into the soft layer of fat at his middle rather than the bone of his hip. “I’d keep your eyes in a jar, drown them in magic so I could look into them forever even long after your pulse has stopped,” he gasps, and he brings a hand up to Gortash’s face, meeting the aforementioned eyes hungrily. Gods, and they are lovely eyes, dark and ambitious, soft but sharp.
Perhaps he should worry he’s turning soft. Turned, perhaps, the warmth in his chest he feels when he meets Gortash’s eyes is certainly not sharp. It is nothing like the blade he is supposed to be, not at all a tool for murder, but a tool for caressing, gods-forbid soothing . He wants to kill him, yes, but he wants to kill everyone, that’s just who he is. The problem is that he also wants to keep him alive, much more than he wants to see him dead, which is something he honestly can’t say about anyone else. Even Ketheric, whom their plan relies on just as much, if he were to die Kazaran would simply laugh and find a new Myrkulite pawn.
But Gortash he may even… mourn? It’s an odd thought, an odd position to be placed in. He’s never met someone whose death he might mourn before.
He’s pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of stubble scratching at his cheek, light, sweet kisses dragging him from the recesses of his mind. He should hate it, shouldn’t he? He’d always hated it when his ‘mother’ had smothered him with kisses, he’d killed her in cold blood without a second thought.
Why are kisses from Gortash any different?
“You seem lost in thought, my sweet,” Gortash simpers, and the low, amused rumble sets a fire inside him, “too many good options, is that it?”
Kazaran rolls on top of him, a frown on his face, sitting firmly on his hips so that Gortash’s half-hard cock sits between his cheeks. It would be so easy to label his feelings for the man as lust and move on, but doing so sets him on edge. It’s similar to the feeling he gets when he is forced to suppress his Urges, the clawing feeling of something buried alive.
“Many good options,” he says, running his hands up Gortash’s chest, through the thick hair on his pecs, “I picture them when I close my eyes, I savour the thoughts of your perishing at the end of my blade. I run the images over and over in my mind. I like to imagine killing you, but-“ he hesitates, unsure if he’s handing Gortash more fuel than he should. He’s aware the tyrant manipulates most people, he’s aware of his honeyed lies and half-truths, but for some reason he doubts that Gortash had engineered this feeling in him. This feeling is as much his own as the Urge, he’s sure of that… What worries him is its potential to leave him open to attack, or worse, control.
“But?” Gortash prompts after a long moment of silence. His eyebrow is raised, his mouth curled in a half-smile, the expression speaks of amusement, it should anger him but instead he just feels warm.
Kazaran sighs, leaning down so their chests are flush. He nips at Gortash’s lips, and it does nothing to alleviate the warmth in his chest. “I don’t want to,” he whispers, like a secret, as if he said it quietly enough his father wouldn’t hear. It feels like blasphemy. It feels like freedom. It feels warm.
Gortash kisses him, slow, gentle, as if he’s a coy young maiden and not the true heir to the God of Murder. It makes him ache . Not only the gentle touches the likes of which he’d never been the recipient, but the knowledge that he is receiving such treatment from the chosen of Bane, who was never soft , not with anyone.
Anyone except him .
The thought pools possessively in the back of his mind, the Urge screaming MINE over and over like an already mad dog gone rabid.
“I stand corrected,” Gortash says when they part, an exceedingly rare genuine smile in those endlessly dark eyes, “ that is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Is this love?” He asks, and that seems to finally get the Tyrant to fluster, his cheeks turning a charming shade of pink. He pictures the blood, so close to the surface, so easily spilled. And yet… he finds himself more intoxicated by the notion of getting the ever-composed Lord Enver Gortash to blush . He rocks back against Gortash’s cock and sure enough he’s hardened fully, “Do I love you, Enver Gortash?”
“I’m afraid that’s not something I can answer for you, my dear,” he says, and he’s trying desperately to seem composed but Kazaran knows him too well, can hear the frayed edges of his speech.
And that’s it, isn’t it? They know each other. He isn’t sure anyone else has really ever known him before. Not outside of his bloodlust, his parentage, his role as a leader.
Kazaran hums, low and thoughtful, reaches back and guides Gortash’s cock back inside his already slick, used hole. They both groan loudly as he does. He sits back up, leaning himself back so that the cock is seated as far inside him as it will go and his eyes roll up, fluttering closed. He feels his tail flicking tellingly from side-to-side, like a dog pleased to see its master. “You have poisoned me,” he says, choked and desperate, “Bewitched me. You’ve tainted my killer's blood with care . I don’t know if a thousand murders could even begin to serve as penance.”
He lifts himself and drops back down and once again they moan in unison. “And worst of all,” he continues as he grinds, slow and savouring, “I like it.”
That seems to be the straw that breaks the camel's back for Gortash. He all but snarls, a deep, possessive sound that goes directly to Kazaran’s loins, and flips them abruptly. He presses a hand to each of Kazaran’s thighs and forces them apart as far as they will go, they will ache in the morning, the idea makes Kazaran sigh blissfully.
He’s so exposed, speared open on a thick cock, legs wide, head thrown back. It would take nothing to kill him now. But Gortash can’t, their pact forbids it, and more importantly, the thing that sends electricity through his body, Gortash wouldn’t. He realises with disturbing clarity that despite everything, despite who they both are, evil, cruel, unlovable bastards, he… trusts him. With his body, with his mind… with whatever remains of a heart.
That is almost a more jarring realisation than the first.
He sucks in a hard breath and curls his tail around Gortash’s thigh, his hands reaching up to tear lines in the meat of his shoulders with sharpened claws. Gortash will scold him afterward, say something about staining the sheets, but Kazaran had noticed his sheets change from a regal blue to a deep red around the time they’d started sleeping together. And that’s something as well, isn’t it? Changing his sheets so the blood stains won’t show? A sign he wants Kazaran around, wants him to keep coming back, keep sleeping there, keep drawing blood.
He has enough control of himself to stop himself marking Gortash anywhere that the city’s patriars would be able to see. Which is an infuriatingly large amount of him truth be told, but at least his back is fair game. He’d noticed some of the scratches sticking as of late, light, new scar tissue snaking up over his shoulder blades toward the meat of his shoulders. It spoke of him not using healing magic, leaving them to heal by themselves, letting Kazaran place marks on him permanently. It feels heady and intense, causing a surge of possessive lust through him that makes him tug on Gortash’s shoulders to drag him closer.
“Since we’re on the subject of blasphemous confession,” Gortash says as he obliges and lays over him. Kazaran’s dick gets trapped against his abdomen, and he moans pathetically as the continued movement of Gortash’s hips provides some much-needed stimulation. “I’ve never met anyone I didn’t look down on,” he rumbles breathlessly in Kazaran’s ear, his teeth catching on the lobe, “Everyone in this city is below me, beneath me, worth nothing more than the service they can provide me. Banites do not have equals , we do not share , certainly not power at least, but…”
Kazaran holds his breath, tugs Gortash’s hair so they are face-to-face. He holds Gortash’s eyes as he prompts him on, just as Gortash had done to him earlier, “But?”
“I want to share it with you,” he says softly, and Kazaran sincerely hopes their gods are not paying attention, because if they are then the both of them are in heaps of trouble. When Kazaran doesn’t speak Gortash takes it upon himself to do so, pressing in close, their noses slotted side-by-side, “I want to rule over the world with you by my side, my bloody right hand, my other half, my beloved, my…”
There’s a beat of silence where the final word goes unsaid, too blasphemous to be spoken aloud. Kazaran knows though, he knows how Gortash feels, flayed open and bare, far more vulnerable than either of them should be, can be.
Kazaran shows Gortash the most mercy he’s ever shown anyone by tugging him into a kiss, allowing him to leave the words unsaid. They have said enough today, the both of them.
If one thing is clear, after their mutual blasphemy, they are both as utterly gone as each other. When had using each other turned into this ? When had barely tolerating the tyrant god’s chosen become enjoying his company? When had enjoying his company turned into yearning for his presence? When had he come to care ? And most importantly, how had the wretched flow of fate allowed for Enver Gortash to feel the same?
They cum together, not long after, kisses having turned into messy licking and panting into each others mouths. Kazaran bites hard into Gortash’s lip, drawing just enough blood to send him over and the tightness that results is enough to have Gortash follow. His new load joins with the spend from their round earlier in the night, and Kazaran can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the obscene sloppy noise that results from Gortash pulling out.
He grins, wide and unhidden, “My father will be so upset with me,” he laughs, and idly he notes Gortash rolling his eyes and collapsing to the side so as not to crush his slighter frame. “Not only will my beloved not bear me more Bhaalspawn but he is also a different god’s chosen. Bane’s chosen. A Bhaalspawn in love with Bane’s chosen. Ha!”
Gortash huffs, half amused, half annoyed. “I would really prefer you mentioned your father less when we have sex, my beloved,” he says, reaching down to Kazaran’s loose hole that is currently leaking spend on his expensive red sheets. Kazaran thinks he will never tire of hearing Gortash call him that. “And anyway,” he continues, his voice rough and gravelly like it only gets after some particularly good sex, “You weren’t born from a womb either, I’m sure if I tried hard enough I could knock you up.”
Kazaran finds himself rumbling a feral growl, rolling to the side to capture his tyrant’s lips in a hungry kiss. He sucks more blood from the still leaking split and all but whines, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Banite.”
“Then don’t give me ideas, Bhaalspawn,” he retorts.
Kazaran takes a moment, revels in the shine of mischief in Gortash’s dark eyes. Gods and duties be damned, he’d kill millions, spend decades committing mindless slaughter, just to be able to look into those eyes for a second.
He falls asleep that night wrapped in strong arms, smelling musk and mahogany rather than iron and decay. He wishes he could say he sleeps badly, that such sweetness is above him but in truth he sleeps soundly, uninterrupted by the Urge which seems to be curled up contentedly in his chest like a stray kitten.
Maybe he’s handed Gortash too much power. Maybe he’s willingly handed over his leash and muzzle to someone who would use them to control him. But he doesn’t think so. He thinks they have both surrendered something today, he thinks they both fear what that means. He hopes that as their plans unfold and their destinies are realized that they will stand through it together.
He hopes to see Gortash with him at the end, when the earth is nothing but fire and rubble and mountains of rotting flesh. And when it happens he hopes for nothing more than for Bane and Bhaal to allow them to stay with each other in the eternity that lays beyond.
A Bhaalspawn who fell in love with a Banite. Ha! The concept is ridiculous.
And yet, despite all odds, the Banite loves him back.