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You have become so accustomed to fitful sleep, entirely sleepless nights, or worse – the nightmares, that it's a blessed relief to find yourself in a regular dream. In the dream you see your reflection, briefly, in a broken window pane. You look younger, somehow, and yet older too. More world-weary.
Lord Gortash is there, leaning against a wall. An odd detail but not horrific so you do not worry.
“Tsk, tsk,” he teases, “Your father will not approve.”
You scowl, but you do not answer.
Then, in a moment that would be jarring were you awake but seems perfectly natural in the way that dreams always do, time skips ahead.
You look down at the body at your feet. At the blood on your knife, and at the halo of red blossoming around the cut throat and sliced stomach of your latest offering.
It's exhilarating in a way you can't explain.
The call of your blood loves the kill but this is something else. Something new. A kill shared. An excitement not borne of the urge but of something more intimate.
You look up.
Gortash has blood on his own knife, and more.
Across his face, aside from a signature grin, a sublime spattering of arterial spray. You cannot help yourself but run your fingers through it, which you follow with your tongue.
You become aware that this is a memory.
Your first time.
Not your first time having sex, although, yes - it is that as well. Something far more special. More personal. The first time you shared a kill with another. The first time that you killed for anyone other than your father. If you hadn't killed this man he would have killed Gortash. And that - you would never admit this to anyone least of all to the little lord himself – but that is something you couldn't allow. He amuses you. He infuriates. He sees you in a way that no one else does. He wants you, yes, but he wants YOU. Not your father.
Emboldened by your daring move he lunges in for a kiss. Your first, though you never told him so. You allow it, but then he reaches his hand for your body and your knife finds itself pressed against his balls before he can make contact.
The grin never leaves his face, and you become aware that you're smiling too.
“Ah ah,” you warn, trailing your free finger along his jaw, “You take much without permission.”
His eyes are lustful, and his toothy smile only widens.
“Usually,” he starts, “I beg for no one.”
Without making contact he traces his hand down the side of your body.
“But,” he concedes after a long moment, heaving a contented sigh, “I might make an exception for you.”
Your breath hitches and the knife trembles in your hand, thrill not fear.
“By all means,” you agree, not the least bit embarrassed to let him see how much you want that.
He moves his body closer to yours, no apparent fear of the present threat to his manhood, and getting his mouth very close to your ear he whispers, “Please?”
It's playful, unserious.
“Please, may I touch you?”
You do not answer, but palm your weapon which he takes as agreement.
His hand lands gently on your waist and his lips find your cheek. He savours this first permitted touch for a long moment before more greedily taking a hold of your body with both hands and burying his face in your neck.
You gasp with delight as his grasping becomes more passionate. He touches you everywhere as though having won your permission he simply cannot wait to make full use of it.
“I want-” you start, and giggle as his teeth find your earlobe. “-more, to hear it more. I want you to beg me more.”
He pushes you heavily against the nearest wall before falling to his knees in front of you, hands reverently placed flat upon your thighs, still grinning like this is the best game he's ever played.
“And so you shall, you sweet thing,” he promises, encouraging you to lift one knee over his shoulder.
“Please,” he pleads, though he makes it sound like a command, “Please I beg of you, please let me have you. Let me worship you. Let me fuck you. Let me make you mine over and over. Let me-” and he bites down hard on your inner thigh making you squeal and gasp with glee, “-let me make you desire my cock over all others, forever.”
It's so good and it's so perfect and it's so infuriating a moment later when you hear something moving nearby.
“Not here,” you hiss, sliding the dagger back into your hand, but you need not have warned him as already he moves in perfect synch with you, ready to stalk down whatever silly bastard's ruined your moment.
Then as you walk through the doorway it's later still. Gortash has retired for the night. He has no idea you've climbed in through his window. He frowns into a mirror over a wash basin and lifts the damp cloth to his face.
“Don't-” you demand, just in time.
He's only a little surprised, and turns to face you with a smug grin. The cloth drops back into the water and he lifts his hands in mock surrender, face still pleasingly smeared in red.
He's more handsome like this, you think. Not playing pretend at politics. A true bare faced tyrant.
Time presses forwards still and now you're lying on his bed and he knelt on the floor with his head buried between your legs. You've never experienced anything like it. You've been pursued before but you never enjoyed it. Hollow eyed devotees to your father every one. To be close to you is to be close to death. Gortash makes you feel like you are the prize, and not just a stepping stone. He's enthusiastic, working his mouth on you like it's all he ever wanted and sultry eyes watching carefully for your smallest reaction.
You're close, and he takes immediate advantage, climbing onto the bed and draping his body over yours. There's something heady, masculine, and powerful about his weight on top of you. You know he's well aware you could kill him even like this with your bare hand if you so chose, and knowing he deems that risk both acceptable and worth the possible cost is intoxicating.
“Please,” he begs again, around the smile of a man who's certain he's in control here, “Please, do me the honour of allowing me to fuck you.”
He knows. He knows what he's doing. You're so close. As if you'd deny him now?
You grab his face in both hands and kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“Do it right.” You demand, playing along.
And then he's in you, and it's perfect. He's gentle at first, but when he sees the frustration in your posture he takes you a little harder and you moan and grab lustfully at his buttock and he throws all softness out of the window and fucks you as hard as he can manage.
He's groaning and shuddering, his expression almost pained and you think how beautiful he looks like this – taking what's rightfully his. Taking what he's conquered.
“Do it-” you insist, playfully, raking your nails down his back to hear him gasp, “-better.”
He laughs heartily and rises up onto his knees, pulling your body towards him, lifting your hips off the bed to continue fucking you. He has extra leverage like this, though it's visibly harder work, and he fucks you harder, faster, deeper than before. He shows no sign of stopping, or tiring, though his brow is clearly beaded with perspiration.
“As you wish,” he agrees, his eyes mirthful and adoring, “My dearest.”
You throw your head back and lose yourself in the moment. Your whole world narrowed down to his cock in you and his hands on you and the wild look in his eye. Your body knifes upward, the tension as you reach completion making you twist your hands into the sheets so hard you can feel them tearing.
Gortash chuckles and buries himself in you deeply one last time. He groans as he unloads himself, his fingers pressing bruises into your hips.
A long sensual moment passes just like that, neither of you moving except to breathe heavily through the afterglow.
Then he pulls his softening cock out of you and flops down onto the bed next to you, resting heavily on his side, his hand either accidentally or purposefully landing on top of yours. You're pleased with him right now so you weave your fingers together, and he brings your hand to his mouth for a kiss.
“I hope my efforts have satisfied you, my dear,” he purrs, knowing full well that they have.
“I suppose,” you agree, as casually as you can manage, “You may beg for my favour again in the future.”
He smiles deeply, and you can feel his teeth against your knuckles still held to his mouth.
“I can hardly wait,” he says, and pushes himself up to lean over you so he can kiss your mouth and you growl and bite his lip.
You shove him hard over onto his back and straddle his waist one hand grasping his throat and the other holding a knife he'll never know where you were concealing against his stomach.
“You can start right now,” you say, your whole body humming with excitement. You feel his cock twitch with interest under your arse, and he licks his bloody lip carefully.
“Please,” he says again, his voice deep and thick with lust.
You waken groggily, confused, lying on hard earth not plush sheets.
Your sleep shirt is soaked with sweat, and an uncomfortable stickiness between your legs suggests you may have been dreaming more viscerally than normal. You look around camp. One of your companions, on watch, is sitting at the far side of the clearing with their back to you in a way that makes you pray you weren't making any noises.
You touch a hand to your face, and think about what you've remembered.
“Gortash,” you whisper, as quietly as possible.
Then you lay yourself back down and accept that you won't sleep again this night.