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It is the middle of the night. Long past midnight when the Dread Lord is listening for prayers dedicated to him, long till the worshippers of Ilmanter will rise together with the sun. The time when one can hope that even Gods might be sleeping. The perfect time to commit a sin and hope to get away with it.
And it is a sin against their Murder Lord the Dark Urge is committing right now, they have no doubt about it. For He has created them from His own flesh, His divine blood is flowing through their veins, they were crafted to their Lord’s and Father’s image. They must honour all the holy gifts He bestowed upon them - their killer instinct, their urge to slaughter, their desire for murder - that all they need to take pride in and live by.
So, would it not be more than just a sin, would it not be a heresy to wish to take a break from being the one who holds their Urges at bay and give control to someone else? It should be unthinkable that they would let anyone rule over themselves as they are supposed to be indominable. They are not supposed to submit to anyone but their Father as they are just a Bhaal’s tool. It is not within their rights to lend to anyone Bhaal’s daggers or knives and so it should not be in their right to give up themselves to anyone either.
Alas, unfortunately they were burdened with a mortal body with a wretched gift of free will and ignominious desires of flesh and the Dark Urges are not the only ones they lose their fight against sometimes…
And so here they are, in the middle of the night lying naked on their stomach on a spacious bed. It is too soft and comfortable for their taste. The same can be said about the restraints tied about their wrists and arms and legs and tail – fixing them to one place. The rope is strong, yes, and charged with protective magic as well, but it is too soft. Silk that is smothering them tenderly.
“Comfortable, my dear?” their jailor grins, lifting their chin so their eyes meet. He seems finally satisfied enough, done with checking every knot on every rope as he beholds them with eyes full of glee and a smug smile on his face. For once the Dark Urge might not even judge him for it. They might have agreed to this, yes, but in the end, Enver Gortash still managed to restrain a bhaalspawn, tie the scion of Bhaal to his own bed, make them subdued and pliant for his own use. His black Banite heart must be filled with joy.
“If only you could always be so agreeable,” he pats their head and disappears out of their line of vision. He does not really mean it, his words. If he desired an agreeable partner, he would not be so naïve as to ally and to sleep with them.
Gortash takes an awfully long time idling around. Same as he has taken an awful amount of time tying them down. They are already starting to feel impatient and he has barely touched them.
After long minutes that feel like hours, Gortash finally joins them on the bed. The Dark Urge finally feels his presence behind their back. They tense their body in expectation - of a hit or of a touch. It does not matter. Just about anything is fine by them. However, it takes a few more frustrating moments of wanting and waiting before they are granted with contact. Their tyrant’s hands are sliding along their scales. Movement slow and gentle, his golden claws are only braising the surface of their scales, drawing no blood. They hate being treated this gently. Can he really claim to admire the sight of them, to cherish them, when he is leaving them unscathed and unbruised?
They of course have no doubt the actions of their partner are deliberate. Lash of whip, cuts of knives, any violence performed – it is always tainted with an aftertaste of pleasure for them and he knows it. The uncomfortable itch of being known so well burns under their skin. Banite through and through, their tyrant knows unfortunately way too well that sometimes there is no greater torture than gentle touch. And their torture is what seems to be on his agenda tonight.
His right hand moves to their hip, his grip is firm and the edges of his fake sharp claws are flirting with their scales. If their body was not one of dragonborn, their skin would already break, his gold would already be coloured red with their blood. For once they feel a need to curse the form that was chosen for them.
The Dark Urge feels his cock to press to the inner side of their tights. It is fully hard, matching their own erection that hangs between their legs. It is freed from their slit, blue and long and heavy, but otherwise completely neglected, completely untouched. Begging for attention. But their tyrant is as always great at ignoring desperate pleas whether said out loud or not.
“Is there something you want, my dread heart? All you have to do is ask,” Gortash suggests, gentle mockery in honeysweet voice. The Dark Urge carries their pride in different ways that their tyrant, unlike him they would not be above begging. However, it is a bit difficult to do so with a muzzle in their mouth. Because naturally he has not forgotten to restrain their teeth as well - of course he could not miss an opportunity to finally put a muzzle he enjoys to threaten them with in jest so often. The Dark Urge turns their face towards him, displaying all his desperate need and wanting. They chew on the muzzle harder and growl and it proves to be pointless unless the desired result would be making Gortash’s grin even wider. (Which was not.)
“What is it? Apologies, try to speak out, I cannot quite make what you are trying to say,” tone full of sincerity of a well-practiced liar. They know this side of him well, they watched him countless times to talk to his victims, to his slaves. Sweet and apologetic voice announcing that they are simply not trying hard enough, and that he hates to be doing this, he would really prefer not to punish them but they just fail to meet the impossible quota he set up for them, they just failed to perform undoable task so of course the punishment is due but it clearly is not his fault.
They always found it deeply fascinating and strangely arousing. If they did not feel so charmed by this brand of cruelty - the violence wrapped in fake regret and understanding - they would not end here like this. At their tyrant’s mercy. Agreeing to play a role of yet another of his playthings at his disposal.
“My dear assassin, my dread heart, my beautiful nightmare. What a sight you are like this…” there is an undertone of genuine admiration, maybe even genuine affection, in his voice as he keeps gently caressing their body, tenderly brushing the head of his hard cock against their rectum. They try to push themselves against him, impale themselves on his cock. It is a pointless attempt; they already know it. But he would be disappointed if they did not try. He laughs as they manage to amuse him and he slaps their rear, though once again not with his full force they so much desire to taste.
The thing is, it cannot be pleasurable for him either. As much as their tyrant is able to be a gentle lover when the situation demands it, the Dark Urge knows him well enough to be aware that he takes no carnal delight from softly caressing the people he is swooning to further his plans. However, that does not mean he cannot take different kinds of fulfilment out of it - the power, the control he takes can be a source of his satisfaction as much as ruthless fucking. And as much as Enver would find more of pleasure in just taking them, and thrusting inside them mercilessly, he chose to get his enjoyment first from their torment.
What do they know, they do not see inside of his brilliant twisted mind, maybe he is getting more pleasure just from denying them.
“Patience, dear,” he strokes them, gently, still so terribly gently, “let me admire you a bit more,” he sighs and despite his words, he again rubs the head of his own cock against their crack a bit faster, pointing it at their rectum, testing the ring of muscles and almost, just almost, pushing it in. He must be testing his own self-control too right now.
They growl again but it sounds more like a desperate whine. It causes another amused chuckle from their tyrant. And is it not partly a reason why they do so? If they wanted, they could stay perfectly still, show no emotion, hide their displeasure and frustrate their partner by lack of response. They also could get out of their imprisoment if they really wanted, they would not have to even try that hard, one subtle spell and they are free. They wonder if their tyrant suspects as much or if he is really naïve enough to believe he could trap them and tame them and constrict them even though just for whatever short and consensual amount of time. They have not bothered to point it out in case it is the latter. (Maybe they are generous, not wanting to ruin his fantasy. Maybe they are cautious, afraid that he would take it as a challenge and with mind ever so crafty, ever so brilliant, eventually he might succeed.)
“Luckily for you, my dear, I can be merciful,” he finally digs his golden gloves into their flesh. After long minutes stretching to eternity of being only teased, smothered by tenderness, it is such an unexpected contrast. And oh, so welcomed.
They could ponder what a tyrant’s mercy means and whether Enver is really capable of being merciful, but his thrusts cloud their mind. Their tyrant’s cock pushes into their hole and this time he does not stop and withdraw. His golden claws bury deep into their flesh; more and more wounds are created. They are not deep but the blood is drawn, they are marked by him and they sigh in ecstatic joy. He has not bothered to prepare them in any special way. He must have spilled some oil on his own cock for his own bliss but they are completely unprepared for the intrusion making its way into their insides. Stretching them around his dick as he is making a way for himself.
They can control themselves well but after prolonged torment of waiting, a desperate moan of finally receiving the pleasurable pain escapes, they are not able to stop themselves. The sound is yet again muted by their muzzle but Enver can of course recognise it for what it is. They do not try to turn but they would swear they can feel him grin. They feel his childish joy of how much he makes them squirm in the way he digs with his fake golden claws into their sides as he drives his cock in and out of them.
He draws blood, they can feel their thick scales being penetrated as they themselves are. Their pain is as welcomed as pleasure. Enver is rough with them. His thrusts are quick and cruel; he is chasing only his own satisfaction without a care for theirs. They do not matter; they are there just for him, to be used to chase his own bliss.
“The terrifying creature of murder, the perfect bhaalspawn reduced to my little fucktoy. How does it feel? Still nothing to say to that?” he laughs only slightly out of breath and they should gut him for those words alone. They should not relish in humiliation caused by what he says; they should not arch their back in pleasure in response… Yet that is what they do. Offering themselves more to him for abuse.
They have no say in how they are getting fucked. The contrast of the emptiness of waiting with now receiving both pain and gratification at once makes them build up to their peak much faster. Despite the carelessness of their partner… no, because of it, they keep getting closer to the rapture of their coitus.
They are struggling to breath properly because of the hurried relentless movement and because their mouth is still blocked, but who need air when they are being ravished by his dick. The breathing is overrated anyway, another pathetic need of the mortal body. They can survive for a bit without air as long as they are getting properly fucked by his cock. Their sides are bleeding and their insides are stretched and it feels almost as good as the bliss of killing someone. Maybe even better, though they would never admit it out loud.
And so they reach their peak, sweet bliss of their release floods them. But they cannot really enjoy their own orgasm as Enver shows not care for it, he keeps fucking them through it, pushing them deeper in his soft cushions as keeps thrusting inside them. They do not recognise their own voice in the wanton moans escaping their mouth.
He keeps railing into them and they keep taking it because what else is there to do. And they feel too much, too much pleasure, too much pain, too much stimulation and no time to process it. They do not even realise they fight their restraints; they trash and tug and for now the ropes hold but who knows how long they can last. Gortash is holding the Dark Urge strong, pressing them into the mattress and then finally, finally he too lets out a gasp filled with bliss. He tears into their flesh, delightfully deep and his movements finally stop as he fills them with his seed.
And for a moment everything is still. The mind of the Dark Urge feels pleasantly blank, white space leaving no place for their Gods, not his, not theirs. For now, this one moment belongs only to the two of them. For a few fleeing seconds their alignments and their duties and their deities - it all is forgotten. For blasphemous few minutes they get to be just two people driven by their wants and needs and satisfaction. It is just the two of them and nothing else matters.
But this world like that cannot exist for long.
And so it passes and time resumes. The Dark Urge feels their restraints being undone, their muzzle being taken out. Reflexively they try to bite the hand that is freeing them and they get smack on their snout for that. They growl but they do not fight anymore. They allow themselves appreciate the softness around them and they close their eyes, calm, exhausted.
“Take it.” An object is dangled in front of their eyes. The Dark Urge blinks, Enver is handing them a small bottle with red liquid. Ah, healing potion. It takes them a bit to come back to their senses to remember how to move their jaw in a way so it creates words again.
“My body is stronger than yours, I do not need healing for your pathetic scratches,” they scoff, offended. They like the stinging feeling from their wounds. They do not want them gone yet; they would like to keep them for a bit longer.
“Suit yourself, but if you intend to join me in my bed, you will clean yourself and stop the bleeding. You are not destroying my sheets today,” Gortash retreats, putting the vial aside.
“I am already in your bed. Do you expect me to stay here?”
“Certainly not if you are covered in blood…”
“Blood you draw…” it is a sin, the way they let him treat them. And, oh, what a bigger sacrilege it would be if they decided to stay…
Their mind still feels a bit dull. Pleasure and pain and submission still cloud their mind and they do not wish to gain clarity yet. They do not wish to deal with the guilt that will soon flood them yet. They want to stay at his mercy for a bit longer, they wish to remain his plaything a bit longer. But every second spent in their tyrant embrace will require a blood sacrifice. (But there are always plenty of victims on every corner and could one more embrace, one kiss, be really the thing that damns them after all of this?)
Before they can make their mind for sure Enver pulls them on his chest. His heart is starting to beat slower. The Dark Urge lets him. Intimate gesture that might be more of a transgression against everything they stand for than the entirety of their intercourse.
But they are too tired, too blissfully fucked, to care for now.