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"Eat."
The command spoken in his ear sends a shudder through Enver's body. Another handful of dripping red viscera is held up to his face, its exact shape indiscernible through the teary haze of his vision.
The body — bodies? — below them is mangled beyond recognition, spread out across the stone floor of the small prison cell. Dark blood coats his bare legs where he kneels amidst the carnage, seated in Durge's lap. With every shuddering breath he takes, Gortash can feel himself twitch around the dragonborn's cock, motionlessly buried inside him.
Slippery flesh slides against his face, pressing against his closed lips insistently. Blood — lukewarm, by now — stains his chin.
"En~ver," comes the threatening singsong of Durge's voice, "eat."
A shaky breath leaves him as he yields, opening his mouth; Durge wastes no time stuffing it.
The cloying metallic taste has gotten no less repulsive, despite Enver having experienced it over and over again in the past hour or so; knowing the source of the meat certainly doesn't make it easier. How Durge genuinely enjoys this is beyond him.
Gortash swallows back his bile and begins to chew, manually grinding his teeth together as he pushes past his disgust. The tough muscle is a struggle to bite through, strands of sinewy meat sticking between his teeth.
He forces himself to swallow, sending a shock of pain through his already overfull stomach. It's agony — he can barely move, unable to do anything but sit in Durge's lap as the dragonborn stuffs him full from both ends.
A clawed hand cards through his sweat-drenched hair, deceivingly soothing.
"One last bite, then you'll have your reward."
A shiver runs through Enver, his throat closing up at the mere thought of forcing more 'food' into his body. He shakes his head weakly, feeling the dragonborn's claws scrape against his scalp.
"Durge, I... don't think I can-"
"You can," the Bhaalspawn coos, pressing Gortash closer to him; the movement jostles Durge's cock inside him, causing Enver to squirm in his grip. "You're so close. Just one more, alright?"
A hand appears in his vision again, holding yet another piece of meat between two fingers. This one is darker — and, mercifully, smaller.
Gortash takes a deep breath, trying to ignore his pain and nausea. He can do this. Once again, he opens his mouth, accepting the flesh into it.
He begins chewing immediately, eager to just get it over with — only to gag at the unexpected consistency, much softer and mushier than he expected. Gritting his teeth, Gortash tries not to think about which internal organ this might be, focusing only on the task at hand. He inhales deeply before swallowing — the feeling of slick flesh sliding down his throat makes him cringe, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut as it tickles the walls of his esophagus.
His stomach aches, so full it hurts; every limb feels heavy, immovable, sending pangs of pain through his body any time he tries to move. Even breathing feels difficult, as if the overfullness is constricting his very lungs.
A cold, wet tongue sweeps across the nape of Enver's neck — lapping at the layer of sweat coating his overheated skin, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Mmh, well done," Durge mumbles against his neck; despite being unable to see the dragonborn's face, Enver can feel the sadistically gleeful grin against his skin. "How do you feel?"
A few seconds pass before Gortash manages to speak, his voice strained through the tightness in his throat. "Full... obviously. Hurts. Hells, I can't... can't move."
"Perfect," Durge purrs. Fine-scaled fingers slide down to his groin, carding through a layer of thick hair; Enver practically sobs in relief as they finally wrap around his cock, still achingly hard despite his extreme discomfort.
"Helpless little lord." The mocking pity in Durge's tone goes straight to his cock, twitching in the Bhaalspawn's grasp; his other hand moves to rub Gortash's belly, poking and prodding at the taut skin.
"So glutted he can't move, can't escape me. Bursting with the flesh of his loyal subjects."
Enver groans, "And whose... whose fault is that?"
Durge laughs, a rumbling sensation against his back. "Mhm, but you agreed to this." He lightly presses a claw against Enver's glans, causing the man to flinch. "Oh, Enver, you indulge me so. You deserve a reward."
"Is that so?" He wriggles a bit in Durge's embrace, earning him a groan from the Bhaalspawn. "Get on with it, then."
"As you wish."
The mischievous undertone in Durge's voice is all the warning Enver gets before he finds himself falling forward — he barely manages to catch himself, palms landing in the gore below with a disgusting squelch. The sudden motion sends a shockwave of pain through his heavy body; his arms give out immediately, too weak to support him in his debilitated state.
The sickening stench of iron is much stronger, this close to its source. Enver's forearms are the only thing keeping him up, planted in the pulped mass of flesh beneath him — he tries his hardest not to look at it, preferring not to see the crushed organs and bits of bone.
He barely has time to catch his breath before Durge starts moving, slamming into Gortash with no preamble; despite the Bhaalspawn's control over their situation, the impatience and near-desperation in his movements are obvious. He's not the only one; their prolonged foreplay — or torture, depending on who you ask — has left Enver's body hot and sensitive and so, so full, feeling like he's about to burst in more ways than one.
He gasps as Durge adjusts the angle, hitting Gortash's prostate with each brutal thrust — his hands instinctively grab onto whatever they can reach, uselessly clinging to the fleshy surface below. The squishing of meat beneath his fingers meld with the wet sounds of their coupling.
"We should do this every day," Durge pants behind him. "Fatten you up for the butcher's block. Oh, you'd make a delectable meal."
Gortash lets out a shuddering laugh. "Hah- how would you... prepare me?"
A hand roughly kneads the soft meat of Enver's thigh, claws digging into his skin. "Mmm.... your legs, I would carve and roast over an open fire... and your liver would make the finest pâté..." Durge shivers in excitement, evidently enjoying his own vile depictions.
Scaled fingers wrap around Enver's throat, pulling him upright; his back pressed against Durge's chest, so close he can feel the dragonborn's cool breath against the side of his neck. Claws rake down his chest, stopping right above Gortash's racing heart.
"But your heart, I would eat raw — still beating, freshly ripped from the open cavity of your chest." The words are breathy and low and oh-so-devoted; like a declaration of love, in the Bhaalspawn's twisted way.
The hand on his chest slides down further, etching red lines into Enver's skin until it wraps around his weeping cock once more, still painfully hard. A groan of frustration leaves his throat as the touch disappears almost immediately — he feels, rather than hears, the amused chuckle Durge responds with. The dragonborn reaches down, though Gortash can't quite see what he's doing, with his head forcibly upturned by Durge's other hand.
Something slick and wet envelops his cock. Bile rises in Enver's throat as he realises what's happening — but he can't stop himself from instinctively thrusting into the handful of carnage, desperate for relief. It feels good, as long as he doesn't think too hard about what it is; Durge's fingers squeeze around the material, sliding it against Gortash in time with the Bhaalspawn's unerring thrusts.
He doesn't expect to come, not from this — taking pleasure from dead flesh is Durge's thing — but no amount of disgust seems to stop the spiking pleasure in Enver's body. A strangled sound leaves his throat as the dragonborn's fingers tighten around it, restricting his breathing — and he comes without warning, coating the mangled remains and Durge's bloodied hand with his spend.
Exhaustion hits him like a fireball; the only thing that stops Gortash from keeling over is the arm that quickly wraps around his waist, keeping him upright. The gore-covered hand on his softening cock strokes him to the point of pain, though he barely has the energy to protest.
He sighs in relief as the overstimulating touch goes away, but his gratefulness is exceedingly short-lived as the hand rises to his face — Gortash has but a moment to look at the chunks of meat, stained by his own seed, which has mixed with the blood to create a pinkish slurry — before they're being shoved into his half-open mouth.
He tries to pull back from the intrusion, but Durge's fingers follow his movements, forcing the flesh deeper into his mouth — he gags as it hits the back of his throat, eyes watering instinctively. The Bhaalspawn gives a pleased growl, keeping his fingers in place, possessively tightening his grasp on Enver as he continues slamming his cock into the man.
It's all too much; the arm squeezing his stomach, the pressure at the back of his throat, the nauseating and inescapable smell of carnage.
Enver retches, his body convulsing in Durge's tight embrace. Acid burns his throat as half-digested meat spews out the corners of his mouth; dribbling down his chin, down Durge's arm, and landing in a pile of reddish mush on the floor — nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the mess.
His muscles clench around Durge, the Bhaalspawn only spurred on by his pain and discomfort, unsurprisingly. The sudden stretch and sharp pain of teeth clamping down on his shoulder are the only warnings he get before Durge is coming, finishing inside Enver with a satisfied growl.
The moment Durge's hold on him loosens, Gortash slumps, barely catching himself with his arms in time; the swelling at the base of the dragonborn's cock keeps it from slipping out of him, even as he leans forward and empties the contents of his stomach onto the cell floor.
Once he's done, Durge helps him sit back up, rubbing his back with surprising tenderness. A hand — a relatively clean one, thankfully — tilts his head towards the Bhaalspawn, who pulls him into a kiss; though it's more of an excuse to lick the regurgitated meat and fresh tears from his face, he'd assume.
Enver allows it, too tired and fucked-out to stop him, though that doesn't keep him from complaining. "You're disgusting."
"You like it." The dragonborn grins, nuzzling his cheek like a cat. A big, terrifying, reptilian cat. "And you took it well. We should do this again sometime."
Gortash playfully swats at his shoulder. "Don't get ahead of yourself, dear. You still have to follow through with your part of the deal, remember?" He hears Durge grumble in annoyance, but he says nothing.
A smirk creeps over Enver's face. Oh, he'll certainly have his revenge.