#Durgetash fic

[daemon-in-my-head]

At last, here it is. A while ago, I had the pleasure of commissioning the wonderful @lokorum to portray my beloved idiots in all of their tragic glory.

So without further ado, after months, here's the first chapter of my durgetash-centred, possibly very long, post-canon Genfic (cuz even if he's not featured in the picture, he's very much the one behind it, and yes, I said genfic but they do fuck, there's just also other themes that are more important than whatever it is those guys got going on).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63147115

Rated M; further elaboration, summary etc behind the cut.

As per usual, please mind the tags. This is rated mature and may turn explicit depending on—let's be so fr—nothing but my mood. It IS a tragedy. I know how it ends. Trust me when I stress the tragedy part. I'm writing this story through tears at times. There's fluff, there is hurt comfort, there is true old man yaoi but there is just as much 'doves that aren't simply dead but rotten' and pain.

So to everyone who's not scared shitless yet (which is very valid), here's a summary:

The year is around 1530 DR. The once-revered and reformed Bhaalspawn returns to the city he had both saved and nearly doomed, emerging from his exile in the Underdark. Though he claims to seek only rest, the city's de facto ruler, Archduke Gortash, sees through the monster’s carefully crafted facade. Perhaps if the elf had never saved the Banite all those years ago—when he was little more than a blurred and distant memory—his own fate might have unfolded differently, perhaps even more mercifully. But regrets have long since lost their weight. The past is immutable, and all that remains—all that truly matters to him now—is the purpose that once again draws him into this treacherous den.

And on a personal note; I'm still squealing and shoving this artwork into the face of everyone I meet irl. I absolutely adore it. I'm not sure I'll be stopping with that soon. You will see reblogs.

Again. Tragedy. I mean it. There's fluffy moments, but I will absolutely exploit them to enhance the pain. I'm dead serious about Bhaal being able to learn from me. I caused his kid more agony than he could ever dream of delivering. And I haven't even shared the worst parts yet.

Edit: I also mean the psychological warfare tag. It's my guilty pleasure. And whatever over one year of obsession amounts to.

[elinorbard]

sex and violence, one is just the other (Dark Urge/Enver Gortash)

Stories of the Dark Urge, Ta'avrathim, and her entanglement with Enver Gortash. ✨ Read the series on AO3 ✨ render by @thrawnslawyer ✨ 18+ only; MDNI ✨

I Knew You When (Mature, 8.5k / Act 3) Ta'av, the Dark Urge, confronts Gortash and discovers the truth about their past.

A Banite and A Bhaalist (Mature, 5.1k / pre-canon) Gortash meets a captivating Bhaalist who is nothing like he expected.

Bad Idea (Explicit, 10.7k / Act 3) Ta'av gambles on her newly discovered connection with Gortash and makes things messier than ever.

get in my bed, I wanna kill you (Mature, 7.9k / pre-canon) Gortash tests the boundaries of his alliance with the Dark Urge - and the limits of her temper.

A House, A Home (Explicit, Chapters 3/3/ Act 3) After visiting the House of Hope, Ta'av lets Gortash draw her back into the mystery of their shared past.

our strange duet (Explicit, 8.4k / pre-canon) Gortash hires the Dark Urge to assassinate one of his rivals in a way that happens to require a night at the opera.

what she came for (Explicit, 7.6k / pre-canon) Gortash finds his life disrupted when the Dark Urge decides to bring him three gifts. (Gortoween: A Bloody Mess)

Guilty Pleasure (Explicit, 8.4k / Act 3) One bad decision gets Ta'av arrested. Several more get her brought before Gortash to beg for her freedom.

A Little Prayer (Explicit, 5.8k / pre-canon) Gortash's work is interrupted when Ta'av, the Dark Urge, seeks out his help with a new kind of uncontrollable urge.

Dead Girl Walking (Mature, 8k / Act 3) Ta'av descends into the Undercity for a long overdue reckoning with Orin the Red, and Gortash finds her in the aftermath.

Choice (Mature, 1.8k / Act 3) Ta'av and Gortash confront each other while Baldur's Gate sits on the edge of ruin. (Gortash Week: Ruler/Redemption)

[chronicsolasapologist]

installing BG3 yet again, 630 hours in, and it takes me back to the time I was still no2gortashdefender

rip [*] to my delicious durgetash tiktoks and edits, clockapp banned me bc they can't handle his hairy tits :///

should i reupload my durgetash edits here?

meanwhile im happy to say i edited and re-wrote almost 14k words of "There is a Light That Never Goes Out" already!!! and i'm mid editing a first smut chapter, haaa

[vermilionskiinmorning]

Promises | Durgetash

Pairing: Durgetash

Summary: This is for the “Grieve” prompt from the write November 2024 prompt list

Enver finds out his durge is “dead”.

Words: 1.8 k

————

After a week of hearing nothing from Feravel, it was Orin of all people had turned up in Enver’s office to inform him: she now spoke for the temple of Bhaal.

Enver clenched his fists tightly behind his back with such force that the claws of his gauntlets pricked his palms. The pain of it grounded him -kept him from lashing out and he so wanted to. He should’ve known something was wrong when he hadn’t heard from her for so long, but Enver was always loath to check in on Feravel. The last time he had she’d threatened him in no uncertain terms and disappeared without word for a month. That had been years ago though, before she regularly started staying in his lower city home.

“And what of Feravel?” Enver questioned careful to keep his tone in check.

A wicked smile twisted Orin’s lips.

“My blood kin has been returned to our father.”

Her expression of manic pleasure as she spoke nearly drove him over the edge.

What he wouldn’t do to take the skinny mad bitch by her throat and squeeze, but there was an agreement. One which had been made under a different chosen, but he had no choice but to abide by it nonetheless. All acolytes of Bane were bound to this alliance with the damned temple of Bhaal. Enver could not lay a finger on Orin’s insane head -at least for now. Who bore the title of Bhaal’s chosen was not his business to meddle in.

Despite how much it enraged him to see the smugness in Orin’s eyes. There was no doubt in Enver’s mind Orin had killed Feravel. Now she’d come to gloat.

“Well, I thank you for informing me promptly then of the change.”

Suddenly Orin lunged for him drawing Bloodthirst swiftly from her belt and pressing the flat of the blade to his cheek. Its curved edge was sharp enough that it would only take a twist of her wrist to cut a slash across his face.

“We’ll be working together from now on Banite. But my blade is thirsty . How it longs to hear you scream!”

Enver scowled sharply jerking her from him by the wrist. He would not accept threats from the likes of Orin. She laughed.

“You’re forgetting yourself.” He snapped. “I am Bane’s chosen and we are allies.”

“Allies! Yes, yes, thanks to mine foolish slaughter kin!”

Orin cackled before changing her appearance and disappearing from his office.

Alone, Enver stood stock still for a few moments until he was certain she’d truly gone before crossing the room to his desk and sinking into his chair. Another few seconds passed before the weight of it sank in. His shoulders slumped and he leaned forward to press the heels of his hands over his eyes.

In his mind’s eye he could picture Feravel as he’d last seen her: tucked against his side, tangled up in the black satin sheets of his bed, messy hair, and half asleep. They’d been up late discussing their most recent trip to Moonrise after an evening spent reveling in each other. She’d fallen asleep before him, but he’d still had to be up early for a meeting. He had hoped that she’d be at his home in the lower city that evening. They’d made no such plans, but usually, they didn’t outside of their formal partnership. Things between them just fell into place -they had just fallen into place in truth. Still, his expectation was warranted as it had become Feravel’s habit to return to the lower city house. So he’d been disappointed, but not concerned when Blinky informed him Feravel had not been to the house at all since their return. That had been almost a week ago. And now, she was dead.

What had happened between then and now? He wondered. How long has she been dead?

Enver tasted bile on his tongue.

Feravel was utilitarian and artful when it came to dealing death. She enjoyed it as it was in her nature, but she was not a rabid animal like Orin. Orin who had killed her. Horribly no doubt. Enver pressed the heels of his hands so hard against his eyes that he saw stars.

He slammed his hands onto the desk. No . Feravel couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t. Any moment, he thought, she’d come like a whirlwind into his office teasing him for believing a pitiable creature like Orin could best her. He glanced toward the door, the windows, and even the ceiling. But she wasn’t there. Deep down Enver probably knew she wouldn’t be, but still, he’d had to look. Keeping an eye out for her appearance was second nature.

But Orin had had her ancestral dagger. Feravel would’ve never let Orin get her hands on it -not while she lived. How could she have let this happen? They were partners! More than partners. Anger raced through him elevating his pulse. Enver stood and strode across the room unthinking no destination in mind just feeling compelled to move . How could he be idle now?

Then as he came to a halt in front of his bookshelf, her voice came to him from a memory.

“Promise me.” Feravel whispered. “If one of us dies, the other will see this through to fruition. No matter what happens, you will remain focused on our goals.”

Enver did not meet her eyes. He was busy considering her words as he trailed a finger along her jaw. “Of course, my dear.”

“Promise.” Her tone was colder than he could recall it being in some time . For a moment it caused him a flare of concern. “Swear on the Black Hand of your Lord.”

He frowned. “What’s this about?”

“Insurance.”

Enver looked down at her with an arched w was eyebrow. “Insurance against what?”

“You?” A playful grin flitted onto her lips.

“Me?” He laughed.

“Yes, you going soft without me around. Mortals can get so tied up in their feelings after all.” Her tone was only half joking.

Enver furrowed his brow. Feravel sighed and reached up to card her fingers through his hair in a placating manner. He didn’t buy it. There was more to this.

“Just promise me. Should something happen, you will stay focused.”

He sighed and leaned in to kiss her. “I will.”

“Swear.”

Enver frowned, but he knew she wouldn’t let it go unless he conceded.

“I swear. I will carry out our plan with or without you.”

She smiled in a more relaxed manner than before and leaned in to kiss him.

“Good. And should it come to that, don’t futz around trying to bring me back like Ketheric with his daughter. Alright?”

He’d laughed in the moment, but now Enver couldn’t help wondering if Feravel had known things with Orin had been about to come to a head. Nothing had seemed off though before or since that conversation. It had been months ago. Despite being odd, he’d eventually let it go when nothing came of it.

They had spoken about Orin’s ambitions on occasion, but those too Feravel had been dismissive of the issue. She had it in hand, she’d said.

“Orin is a dog. So long as I keep her close I can control her. Allow her to wander and who knows what she’ll get up to.” Feravel paused, thoughtful. “I keep her leash short.”

“Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer.” Enver tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear.

“Yes. That is the idea. Except in this particular case, I think I’ll make an exception concerning my friends . I’d prefer to keep you closer.” She stifled a giggle. “It would be rather awkward don’t you think.”

Enver choked slightly on his laugh. “Yes, I think I’d prefer it remain just the two of us.”

She nuzzled his cheek. “For these sorts of meetings at least.”

His chest felt tight. He’s seen the signs. Orin was a problem. She had been for a while, but any time he’d tried to broach the topic he’s been rebuffed. It was business within the temple of Bhaal. She did not tell him how to order about his Banites. But would she be here still if he’d neglected to heed her wishes? Her anger might’ve been worth it were she at least alive to be angry. The ‘what if’ felt like a knife in his chest.

Feravel was capable. Whatever had occurred…Orin must’ve been planning longer than they’d known. But Orin didn’t have the capacity for plotting on that sort of scale. Had it come down to chance?

But Feravel was Bhaal’s chosen.

It didn’t make sense.

Unbidden, Enver let out a roar of frustration and hurled a brass bookend across the room. The heavy thwack of it hitting the wood paneling did nothing to quell the storm of emotions building inside him. If anything, he felt compelled to throw something heavier or harder, perhaps even punch the wall. What he really wanted though was to kill Orin.

He’d have to plan it carefully. Even from a practical perspective, she was a liability. Where Feravel was reasonable and thoughtful Orin was simply a bloodthirsty lunatic who’d usurped her. It would not be good for their plans to allow Orin to lead the cult of Bhaal.

He could have his revenge for Feravel and still keep his promise to her. Removing Orin before she caused too much damage would be a necessity. Feravel would agree. And if she would’ve turned her nose up at the idea of him involving himself with Bhaalist temple affairs���well she ought to have handled it herself.

Perhaps once he dealt with Orin and Bauldur’s Gate was securely under his rule…

Then he could find her body. Surely Orin had taken it to the temple if that wasn’t where the murder occurred. The thought made him wrinkle his nose with disgust at the idea of what depraved things Orin might do with Feravel’s body. Well if it wasn’t horribly mutilated then perhaps at that time he could contact a wizard. It wouldn’t be wasting time.

Enver tried to ignore the single tear that rolled down his cheek. Feravel being gone didn’t feel real, but the anger was beginning to wane and he could feel a weight settling on his heart. A heart he’d once thought too damaged to know love, but that had piece by piece begun to love her.

He should mourn her. Let her go. It would be the smart thing to do. He’d always have their memories, but not having her would leave him no weaknesses for an enemy to exploit. Even with that in mind, the thought of never seeing her face -her smile- again was like a physical blow.

And he’d never even told her.

“I love you,” Enver murmured to the empty room.

[astarionmademewriteit]

Make it Hurt

Enver Gortash x f!Durge (pre-tadpole)

Rating: Explicit

MDNI. 18+ only. Minors and blank bios will be blocked.

Wordcount: 1.7k

Tags: Blood play; Knife kink; Mentions of violence and gore; PIV rough sex; Choking; Spitting (in mouth); Act 3 Spoilers; Gortash being a lil' bit submissive but switch-coded.

Summary: Durge and Enver have another council meeting, but it is quickly revealed that Enver was using it as an excuse to see his favorite assassin. The sexual tension had been building up between them for while and Durge finally acts on it, finding quick but mutual gratification in their shared love for pain and blood.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

I grow weary of this cat and mouse game Gortash and I find ourselves playing at. It was no secret that centuries of bad blood bore between Bhaal and Bane. Their respective chosen settling their differences in order to overtake Baldur's Gate. However, the list of differences between Gortash and I happened to be shorter than previously suggested.

He was brilliant, to be sure. His thirst for blood and pain rivaled my own. But I was a seasoned killer, trained in the art of murder and violence. I did not veil the carnal pleasure that ran through my veins at the sight of spilled blood, nor the ferocity of lust that churned deep within me when I was called to dole out executions on his behalf.

Most others saw my duplicitous nature and turned away in quiet disgust, but Enver openly admired me for it. And now we sit at yet another council meeting, carving out our well-laid plans for the city. 

Enver’s hand is splayed out over a letter from General Thorm detailing his work in the Shadowlands and the army he continues to amass. The contents bore me into bouts of restlessness.

I shove away from the table, and in one fluid motion draw my dagger and bury it into the table, right between his fingers.

His unflinching dark gaze meets mine and a smirk plays on his lips.

“Enough with this drivel, Gortash,” I hiss, “This is the second council meeting in one week. If I cared what Ketheric had to say, I'd visit that dreaded place myself. Why am I here?”

Enver chuckles darkly, pulling the dagger from the table and testing its sharpness. He presses his fingertip into the sharpened point, until blood rushes from his finger. Red rivulets flow freely from his wound, splattering on Thorm's forgotten letter.

“Does world domination carve into too much of your precious time?” His rhetorical question was full of condescension, “Perhaps, I just needed to find another excuse to conspire with my favorite assassin.” He cocks an amused eyebrow in my direction and a smug grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

I roll my eyes and yank the dagger from his grasp, hoping it catches against his skin once more so I can watch him bleed so prettily for me.

“There are better excuses than reading letters from that heretic,” I growl with disdain as I gesture towards the letters. Ketheric had his uses, but he never appreciated the finality of death–something I took personally, as his sacrilegious mindset directly conflicted with the tenants of Bhaal.

“Would you rather I prepare some prisoners for torture? Maiming? I understand you are fond of spilling blood,” his gaze never leaving mine, “It's one of the many things I admire about you.”

I circle around to his chair and sit on the edge of the council table beside Enver. I prop my leg over my knee, drawing his attention. He leans back in his chair and watches me closely, his eyes lingering on my form.

“Maiming?” I spit with disgust, “There is art in murder, but maiming is below me,” I grab his wrist and examine his pricked fingertip, “It's about coaxing,” I squeeze the tip of his finger and watch as blood dribbles down his wrist, “It is about taste,” I pull his finger into my mouth unprovoked, sucking and pulling blood from his wound. The coppery taste sends my body into a vibrating thrum of excitement and ecstasy. 

Enver sucks in his breath and something between a sound of approval and a low guttural growl escapes his chest. I slowly let his finger retreat, never breaking our intense gaze. 

“It's about practicality.” I push myself off the table and stand behind him, grabbing a handful of his hair at the crown of his head, pulling him painfully backwards until his eyes are back on me. The sharp edge of my dagger flush against his throat–one swift movement away from nicking his artery.

Gortash’s eyes watched me carefully, but he was neither scared nor nervous. I couldn’t help but feel pleased at this revelation. A look of longing passes between us, and in one fleeting moment I lean down and crush my lips to his. He receives me eagerly despite the steel of my knife threatening to bite into his flesh.

After a moment I bury the dagger into the table and Enver quickly stands and wraps his arms around my waist. I jump off the ground and wrap my legs around his middle, connecting our lips again. Our kiss is messy, filled with teeth, tongue, and lips–molding together with bruising force. His prickly stubble rubs deliciously against my face.

Enver spins and sits me on the edge of the table, hovering over me as his gilded fingers lace through my hair. He sighs deeply into my mouth as our tongues explore one another. I start thumbing the laces of his robes, pulling them open and running my nails through his thick chest hair–not holding back the way my sharp nails bite into his skin.

His golden filigree gloves claw at my scalp and down the back of my neck as he grows more desperate. I bite hard into his bottom lip until I draw blood, smiling against his abrasive kisses. He groans with pleasure as I suck the blood that surfaces from his wound.

I pull back momentarily, panting heavy as I whisper how good he tastes while pulling the last of his laces free. In a flurry of hurried movements, we undress before our lips crush back together, as if our very survival depended on it.

I lay flat on my back in the middle of the council table as he crawls over my body with a predatory gaze. Enver knees my legs open while he trails kisses down my neck. His cock rubbing torturously between my slick folds, teasing my clit and driving me into a lust-filled craze.

Impatience thrums through my body and I quickly grab Enver’s throat with enough force to cut off his airflow. I pull him up to meet my eyes, his dark gaze boring into me with such frantic intensity.

“Fuck me,” I growl, “Before I change my mind and slit your throat. And make it hurt.”

He chuckles darkly. Clearly amused by my threats, “As you wish, my assassin.”

Without a moment lost, he painfully forces himself inside me, threatening to split me in half. I cry out in pleasure, relishing in the way he fills me completely–his hips snapping into me with newfound ferocity. His golden filigree claws dig into the very wood of the council table, leaving deep splintering grooves.

My nails dig into his back, tracing painful welts into his flesh. The pain only motivates him to rut into me harder, pulling out far enough so that the swollen head of his cock forces me open wider, before snapping back into me with unrelenting force.

I wrap my legs around his waist, lifting my hips up off the table so that he is hitting my pleasure points with devastating precision. His name falls from my lips like a haunted hymn, echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the council room.

Enver’s lips meet mine with such brutality that my skull presses painfully into the table underneath. His back is now spattered in bloody scratch marks, dripping down his back artfully.

I groan in pleasure, my ecstasy building into a dizzying crescendo. Enver’s teeth suddenly dig into the flesh of my lips, and the familiar coppery flavor of my blood spills from the wound. He sucks at my blood, groaning with carnal delight while he continues to thrust relentlessly into my dripping cunt.

He pulls back, reveling in the taste of my blood–savoring it on his tongue. “Open up, dear assassin,” he growls. I comply instantly, opening my mouth wide and letting my tongue fall from my lips seductively.

He hovers over my mouth and allows a mixture of my blood and his saliva to fall back into my waiting mouth. I whimper–elated with our own debauchery. His pace becomes more aggressive–abusive, even, as I chase my release. 

My pleasure peaks and I’m falling victim to the white hot flash of ecstasy that rocks through my body, seizing my muscles until I’m coming undone–completely unraveling under his body. My cries ring through the room, Enver’s name the only prayer I care to recite.

Gortash breathes heavily in my ear, chasing his own release. His thrusts become uneven and sloppy. His eyes are glazed over and his pupils are completely blown out as he watches me while I continue to fall apart as he ruins my cunt with his punishing pace.

As my orgasm starts to subside I pull the dagger from the wooden table and press the sharp edge to the soft flesh of his throat once again. His eyes roll into the back of his head, enjoying the cold steel against his neck–the possibility of death lingering close by only motivating him to fuck me harder–deeper.

“Come inside me, Enver,” I hiss, tightening my legs around his waist as he continues to rut into me, desperately. His golden claws dig into the table, further marring the council table–leaving behind evidence of our violent tryst.

“Yes, my assassin,” he relents, shooting ropes of cum deep in my slick cunt, filling me with his seed. Enver whimpers into my neck, biting viciously at the soft flesh of my throat, leaving bruising evidence of his lusty confessions on my skin. His cock spasming uncontrollably inside of me.

His orgasm begins to subside, our sweat mixes with blood and violent ecstasy as he stills inside of me.

I run my fingers through his dark, bedraggled hair, having discarded my dagger momentarily.

“Regain your strength, Gortash,” I command arrogantly, “We are not done yet.”

He laughs breathily as he tries to regain some semblance of composure, “Whatever my favorite assassin commands, I shall happily deliver.”

I felt momentary relief now that we have finally acted on our building sexual tension. The feeling is quickly replaced with a new kind of hunger–one that rivals the murderous fantasies that occupy my mind. We complement one another, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming together to create a beautifully violent masterpiece. 

I knew at that moment that something incredible would have to pull us away from one another. The impossibility of it amused me greatly.

[shewolfofvilnius]

The Parasite Within (Gortash x Female Durge)

Read on AO3 - Posted complete story! Chapters: 3 Words: 8,799 Relationship: Enver Gortash x Custom Dark Urge (Female Tiefling)

(content warnings for excessive and often comedic violence, sexual scenes and explorations of kinks, pregnancy and the forced termination of it, and did I mention the violence? This might not be new for some of y'all but it is me.) Sample:

The woman, a tiefling of Asmodean heritage a decade or so the man’s junior, wore an elaborate overcoat made of tanned white dragon – or in this case, dragonborn – leather. The insulation had been vital in the frigid hell they’d just returned from. [...]

Referring to her now-discarded coat, he noted “I must say, my dear, I am still not sure what you accomplished by turning your predecessor into that gaudy piece of fashion. If anything, it seems the provenance of your ‘sister’, as she calls herself. It is hardly your style.” The man gave the woman an affectionate kiss on the hand as he stared hungrily into her black-and-turquoise eyes.

“Simple, Enver. It’s a statement that I’ll suffer no pretenders to my birthright. To think that this fraud thought he was going to lead my father’s cult into this glorious new age? Hardly.” A malicious laugh escaped from her tightly pursed lips. “I knew what his fate was to be years ago, when I first came here. He might have thought himself a proficient killer, might have once left this city in terror, but none can match the true gifts for murder held by little old me.”

She playfully let herself be twirled in a momentary dance with the man before he paused to chastise her.

“You are neither little nor old. But you are most certainly gifted and deadly. Be careful, Tavaria, that your own hubris does not outstep your own abilities. You are most certainly known to have a blind spot or two. I do not trust Orin, not even remotely, and she is becoming more and more adamant that she be included in our discussions even despite that she would never credibly be Bhaal’s Chosen. You need to deal with her.”

“Perhaps, Lord Gortash, but tonight...tonight Enver I’d just like to show you why they call me the Lash of Bhaal.”

=========== Enver Gortash and Tavaria, the Chosen of Bhaal celebrate a successful heist upon Mephistopheles' vault and icy fortress of Mephistar the only way they know how. Gortash, in his own commanding way, gets Tavaria to explore one of her kinks - however, the experimentation backfires when she gets a surprise announcement from a cleric a few weeks later.

Undaunted, they - and Orin - proceed to Moonrise Towers to formulate their plan to conquer the world and tame the Illithid Elder Brain in the depths below. The Dark Urge even uses her condition to develop a strategy to delay ceremorphosis.

After crowning the brain, however, Orin learns the truth of her sister's recent erratic behavior.

This is a three chapter origin fic front-loaded with some Durgetash smut. We get to see exactly who my BG3 OC Tavaria was in her time as Bhaal's Chosen and yes, both how depraved Tavaria had become in her time as the queen of murder as well as how much of a role she had grown to take in Gortash' life. Plus, answers as to the origin of delayed ceremorphosis AND why Orin betrayed (this) Durge, bc I still love me some lore even when I'm being a freak.

[shadows-aflame]

making villains (out of lovers)

chapter four

Savita tensed a little where she stood off to the side, grimacing. “Orin will no doubt be waiting for us as soon as she learns what we’ve done here,” came her quiet reasoning, but there was a faint hint of uncertainty within her tone. “I believe it would be wiser to focus on some of our other unfinished business before taking the fight to her.” Frowning, Cress rose to her feet, bloodied hands clutching the worn page and strange green dagger within them. Her fingers played over the strange hilt, feeling the grip that seemed ever so perfectly tailored to her hand. “Why wait?” she gazed up at the Paladin. “As soon as we defeat her, we can focus on ending this crisis-” “We do have other pressing matters beyond your crazed and envious sister, Cress,” Astarion cut in, snatching the corpse's coin purse to begin counting its contents. “Convenient as it would be, I highly doubt Cazador is planning to kill himself.” “Not to mention the matter of my parents being imprisoned at the moment,” Shadowheart cut in, offering him a pointed look. “Who knows what they’re enduring right now.” Their suggestions earned a nod from Savita, who reached back to sheathe her sword over one shoulder. “Exactly. Orin is a danger to us and this city, but we shouldn’t run to face her head-on.” As she glanced between Cress and the strange green knife, a look of apprehension lingered in her eyes. “Oh, and I’m sure she’d love the extra time to keep scheming and plotting every one of our deaths,” Cress retorted, frustration bubbling from deep within her chest. A swift slice of the dagger through the air, and she pointed it towards the Boutique’s staff talking among themselves in the next room. “Hell, she could be one of them for all we know. Hiding in plain sight, just waiting for someone to drop their guard.” “Which is exactly why we’ll stay vigilant and keep our weapons to ourselves,” came Savita’s stern response, eyes narrowing at the brandished blade. “She’s not the only person in this city who wants to kill us, and certainly won’t be the last.”

A conflict of interest between the tadfools arises after the solving of a murder case.

For those new, feel free to start at chapter one here!

[archduchessgortash]

Replying to a post from @adorablebanite here

I know you prefer dom Gortash, but he's a switch in my fics... my AU redemption Durge (the halfling bard that I call D) is more dominant than he is. And he likes that. A lot.

These shots were too perfect NOT to use in a conversation between them. So ofc I added D.

Gortash: Mercy is for the weak!

D: That's not what you said last night...

Gortash: I was tied up, and you'd already edged me three times. I nearly passed out!

D: So... you're saying I should have gagged you, too?

Gortash: Yes, dear.

[keepingclover57]

Chapter 1: The Gala

Click here for the introduction

1477 DR

Solanine's eyes carefully preview the intake of guests attending this gala while her fingers swiftly glide on the strings of her lute. As a relatively well-known bard, the tiefling stands alone in front of everyone; being on a modestly elevated stage gives her a fair view of the whole room. Nina knows she is in the optimal position to find the best of her prey. The spree killings she performed with her butler were fun; especially murdering that bright investigator who was following her tracks.

But tonight marks something new. Something Important.

It has been far too long, in Solanine's opinion, since the elite and powerful members of Baldur's Gate had something to fear. And if she's learned anything from her Father, all lives are equal in the eyes of slaughter. In death's embrace. So why should the rich feel safe from the terror she delivers? The tiefling's Urge wants nothing more than to find the closest person to disembowel, but her hands simply transition to the next chord in her song.

They can't be too powerful, not yet. No need to set the whole aristocracy into a full-blown panic, when she can sow seeds of terror much more carefully. Someone with some influence, but not fully integrated with the politics of the city. The death needs to be shocking, not groundbreaking. After all, this is more of a trial run for Nina, if anything.

With the last few guests drifting in, the Bhaalspawn receives the go-ahead from the organizer. A smile flashes on her lips before she opens her mouth to begin her first verse.  The introduction of the main entertainment causes the majority of the guests to shift their investments toward Solanine, she unaffectedly soaks up the attention. Her focus glides across the unremarkable faces watching her. She does, however, settle her gaze on a young man with no interest in her performance.

For the first time, Nina doesn't feel like the only hunter attending this gala. The man walks with absolute purpose, his smile saccharine. But no amount of charisma can conceal the cold calculation in his eyes, not to Solanine. Against her training, the tiefling continues to watch the raven-haired man. The confidence in his stride, the swiftness of his motions. He seems perfectly natural in this setting. So why is her Urge screaming at her to mutilate him where he stands?

The song continues, but the excitement causes her blood to boil. Nina wants to meet him, wants to hear his voice, feel his heart beating. She wants to explore his innards, the workings of his mind. A murder so lovely to fill her up. But as Solanine continues her performance, a blond, middle-aged elf approaches her person of interest.

Seeing her target's expression tense at the moment of meeting, her interest is piqued. With the flick of her eyes, Nina sends Sceleritas to listen in. This could give her insight into the man, and see if his blood can be on her skin tonight. But, with her butler taking care of the conversation, Solanine focuses fully on her performance. She can't have her reputation suffer, not when she finally has legitimate contact with the city's elite.

Her introductory set has finished, and, after storing her lute carefully, Nina makes her way off the stage. She needs to find her target. Having been updated by her butler, the Bhaalspawn has a wonderful idea. She only has to confirm it. Even without the additional knowledge, Solanine had seen the key detail- that flare of hatred, the want to cause harm. It's intoxicating to her. And, if she can, maybe she can intensify that feeling.

Solanine admits that while her original thought was to kill the dark-haired man, the one who ignored her performance and seemed to focus solely on his mission. But having seen him, and hearing how Sceleritas describes him, the woman wonders how much cruelty is in his heart. Of course, with her curiosity showing through, Nina decides to make the elf, an arms dealer by the name of Ellisar, tonight's prey. To kill a man whose entire livelihood is based on the security of others; would be fun. But even more fun is seeing how her calculating stranger will react to her actions.

The crowd slows the tiefling down- the smiles and handshakes. Compliments and conversations. All boring, a routine to her over the years of performing. Usually, she'd allow the praise and attention to fuel her desire to disappear for the more intimate part of her show. But Solanine simply doesn't have the time for such things, and after a few short moments, she finds herself free of the bulk of guests.

The jewels and ornamentation decorating her hair and body make her noticeable at any angle. And, having already caught the eye of the elf, Solanine makes her way to the refreshments. As anticipated, Ellisar follows her at a distance.

Just as the bard takes up her glass, the man leans in- a bit too close for a first engagement- and speaks in a hushed tone. “Your voice,” He starts, “has such a captivating power. I have a hard time deciding what’s more beautiful, your looks or your talent.”

“Through my experience, I work to have all aspects of my presentation be symbiotic. Being unable to choose only speaks to the performance. I am honored by your words, sir.” Solanine replies politely. Being sought by her target is not quite what she expected. But there isn't a surprise too much for her to adapt to.

The man chuckles, reaching out his hand in greeting. “The honor is all mine, Miss…?”

“Achan."

The tiefling returns the handshake. Her target is too soft in his grip. Nina will enjoy peeling away the layers of his hand. "Miss Achan, I'm surprised that I hadn't heard you playing before now. Seems like you should be attending events all the time."

As he speaks, the Bhaalspawn moves her eyes over to the dark-haired stranger who caught her eye originally. Seeing the hateful stare she is met with before the man quickly looks away, a wicked idea comes to mind. Solanine gives a smile, shaking her head at his remark. "I don't expect for many to know me. While it's true that Baldur's Gate is my home, I spent many years traveling Toril, learning my trade. I've just recently returned. But I truly appreciate your words, mister…"

"Oh, I'm Ellisar Harrele. While I hope you will never have need of my services, know that I have only the best selection of weapons and armors available."

"Is this an introduction, or business marketing?" Nina's question is lighthearted and joking.

The elf responds well, shaking his head as he talks. "No, not marketing. I already know what you do, it seemed only fair that you know the same."

Solanine doesn't add anything, just continues to smile politely. She can't seem invested, lest others take note of it. This man will be dead in a few hours, and Nina doesn't want to be remarkable when people are questioned about it.

As the performer begins to look around at the crowd, the elf takes a step closer to establish his grip on the conversation. "I know that you must get asked this all the time, but is there anyone you're going home to when the party's over? Or do I have a chance to extend this meeting for after this event?"

"Thank you, sir, but I must say no to your question. While I don't have another I'm seeing, I really want to take my time settling back into the city. I hope you understand." She gives a small head nod, trying to appear meek.

Ellisar's brows furrow at her decline, his voice dropping low as, Nina can only assume, to pressure her. "Leaving with me will only increase your desirability, my dear. To refuse me is to ruin yourself right when you are starting." Her target puts a hand around her back, gliding his fingers down Solanine's back. "You'll have a good time, let me show you."

The Urge bubbles at the contact. In these moments, Nina is thankful to have had all those years with Sceleritas. Instead, the bard tries to remove his arm and take a step back. "I want my performance to aid me in building connections with others, not… this." She hopes that luck is on her side as she looks back to her person of interest. Was he watching this issue take place?

Emerald green irises lock onto her crimson ones. This time, however, the man doesn't look away. Solanine recognizes her idea could become a reality and shoots a pleading, panicked expression before refocusing on her toy.

"Come on, now. Don't be so difficult. A bard can't get far on talent alone. You need someone to help get you there. Outfits, instruments, invitations; I can get that for you. I have more power than you could imagine."

The man's composure is faltering. The woman highly doubts this stranger will resort to anything more than coercion, especially at an event. But this is getting irritating. His words sound like pleas, ones that are given before death. His death will be glorious and she can bathe in his blood, the warm liquid pouring-

The man's arm is forced off her, held by the raven-haired stranger. When did he get here? Was the Bhaalspawn too deep in her Urge to notice his approach? Rookie mistake.

"I'd personally love to see this power and money you so confidently flaunt. After all, I've heard that your clients all seem to be leaving you for younger, fresher offers." The human's voice is calm and collected, enjoying the position he's in.

"At what point in my conversation with Miss Achan did you feel it included you, Gortash?" Ellisar snaps, tearing himself out of the other man's grip.

The stranger, Gortash, hums softly at his declarative, a slight grin appearing on his face. "Seeing as this is a public setting, with an entertainer who doesn't seem to be enjoying your presence; I don't think this is the place for private discussions. Or… desperate propositions."

The elf begins to shy away, but his opponent continues, still just as composed as before. "Did you finally catch your wife in that evident affair she's been having? It's been lasting for a year now, and with your brother? Seems someone is about to end up washed up and alone."

Solanine wants this to continue, wants to see this man who acted so bold be ground into dust by words alone. But she'll have that fun later. The tiefling reaches forward, gingerly taking the man- Gortash's forearm in her hand. "Please don't make it a scene. I don't to cause an issue for the others."

Gortash stops, allowing her prey to escape, and turns to Nina as if nothing had happened. He smiles at her with a slight bow of his head. "Apologies, I must have gotten carried away. I hope that Ellisar hasn't ruined your night, he is not an example of the rest of us, I assure you."

"I'm glad to know that he is the exception, not the expectation. " Solanine responds with earnest. "Thank you for your aid, sir."

Deftly taking her hand from his forearm, he waits politely for a moment before kissing the back of it. "Gortash. Enver Gortash. It is a pleasure to have heard your performance, Miss Achan."

"Solanine."

The human looks back up at her, confusion laced in his expression.

"I've been told I should use my last name more often, but 'Miss Achan' just doesn't have the same ring to it. So I use it when being polite, or when I'd rather not give my first. But for you, it's Solanine."

"I'm honored, Miss Solanine. I only did what any person should do in a situation like this." Letting go of the Bhaalspawn's hand, he offers her his arm as an escort.

She accepts it, the contact once again setting her blood in a frenzy. What is it with this seemingly normal man to have such a deep-seated hatred by her Urge? She is but a divine tool- has this man blasphemed against her Father? Solanine isn't sure. But until she knows, she decides to enjoy this while it lasts.

"So, Mister Enver Gortash, what has brought you to the gala? Is it for business or pleasure?"

Gortash grins a little, and the two begin to walk the ballroom's outer area. "I find that business can be pleasurable, depending on the endeavors. My visit here was originally for business. But that is on hold while you have me."

"No proposals to offer or propositions to try and convince me of? Whatever will we talk about, then?" Solanine glances over at him, his emerald eyes giving her full attention.

"That is difficult, I must admit. How have you enjoyed your return to Baldur's Gate?"

Nodding along to the question, the tiefling quickly works to lead the conversation to what she wants. "It's been going well. I love seeing in what ways it's changed, but how it always feels the same. Although, the popularity of my name has now made interactions like Mr. Harrele much more common. And I don't always have someone kind enough to step in." She bites her lip as her tail wraps around her leg sheepishly. "If you don't mind my mentioning, the two of you seem to have a slight history. I didn't add a new topic in a lifelong feud, did I?"

Gortash laughs lightly. "No, no. Nothing that important, I assure you. Ellisar is a competitor of mine, a rather brutal one. He makes it a point to crush anyone trying to start a company with any similarities to his." The familiar look of bloodlust in the man's eyes betrays his nonchalant demeanor. "Much like his approach towards you, Ellisar is rather heavy-handed in his tactics. Made it easy to work around his obstacles. So, I am a particular eyesore to him, which I am sure to exploit."

"Oh," Nina starts, "Then you're an arms dealer, like he is. Have you become more influential in your time than him?"

The raven-haired man shakes his head. "No, not yet." Gortash extends his free hand in front of him, closing his fingers into a firm fist. "But he's within my reach now. It won't be long now."

Solanine gives a smile, a little too harsh for the personality she's given off to the man, but her excitement can hardly be contained. The blood she can already feel on her hands, and watching the soul beside her slowly corrupt into the man she knows he can be... how can she not be ecstatic?

"It'll happen. You don't look like the type of man to be hindered by something for long. Just how many ideas brew in the head of you, Enver?"

His brows raise for a moment, but a smug grin soon follows. "More than I'd ever admit to. How did a bard learn to gain such insight on others?"

The tiefling shrugs, her enjoyment still tugging at the corners of her lips. "I have no choice but to read people. Find the difference between a good gig from a bad one. Or a bad man and… someone like you."

The two look at each other for a moment, reading one another. A spark of realization hits Solanine. "Say, did you ever-"

An attendant approaches the pair, a look of urgency in her eyes. Solanine's eyes turn harsh for the smallest fraction of a second, having her conversation interrupted, but she recomposes faster than anyone would notice.

"Excuse me, Miss Achan, you are requested for your next performance of the evening." the Bhaalspawn nods and dismisses the young man before turning back to Gortash with a tinge of disappointment.

Gortash smiles, seemingly understanding her current obligation. "Duty calls, I see. And I much change back to the business side of this event. If you'd be inclined, perhaps we could continue our conversation after the gala?"

"My, Enver, are you asking to spend more time with me?"

"I am, but unlike the brute earlier, I will respect your decision."

The want to say yes is so pressing. But if she does this, her Urge will surely take over and this human would be nothing more than a stain of blood. And she has so much more fun planned. "I'm afraid that I do have an engagement later that night. But, we definitely will be united again- sooner than you may think. Call it a premonition.

Gortash goes to open his mouth, but the man before calls for the performer again, more pressingly. Without time to prolong the encounter, Solanine leans closer to him, kissing his cheek. She relishes his heat, the pulsing of his heart that seems to pound this close. She would taste his blood. Leave him inside out on the floor… But not yet. Squeezing his hand, Nina pulls away and begins walking to the stage.

"Don't let anything get in your way, Gortash." The Bhaalspawn gives a cheeky smile before ascending to the stage. With a renewed vigor, Solanine starts her second set.

| | |

Gortash stands still, watching the tiefling as she begins performing. Having his offer rejected stings, but hearing the confidence in Solanine's voice when she said they'd meet again. He can't help but feel like she is telling the truth, as ominous as that may be. He smiles.

What is going on in that head of hers? How could that kiss could be so sincere, yet make him feel that he was no longer the hunter, but the hunted? Gortash recalls the lethal glare in her eyes for a flash of a second. Maybe she would be a good follower of Bane with some guidance. Maybe she doesn't even need any.

Regardless, he allows himself to enjoy her show for a song or two. But he has a job to do. They both do.

[baldursgrave69]

Hands

Listen folks, I have been trying to write this fic for two months and it's finally done.

Rating: NSFW - MATURE, MDNI

Pairing: Enver Gortash x fem!durge (named)

Word count: 2.1K

Tags: MDNI, afab!durge, unprotected sex, piv, vaginal fingering, feelings, oral sex,

While writing this I was listening to: Pork Soda by Glass Animals

Agnes sat with her hands folded in her lap, leaning back in her chair as Ketheric Thorm droned on about his plans to build an army for the Absolute. Enver Gortash sat across from her a quill in his hand as he jotted down notes on parchment. Every time Ketheric opened his mouth Agnes would immediately tune out, she couldn’t stand his tendency for verbosity when it wasn’t necessary, and the way he could go on a tangent for 30 minutes about a painfully specific frontline strategy.

Agnes looked around the room trying to find anything to distract her from the general’s droning. Her eyes landed on Enver’s hands, the golden gauntlet he often wore tapping against the table as his other hand continued to scribble on parchment. She always told him how much she hated the unnecessary, gaudy accessory he insisted on wearing. And she did. He always insisted on embellishments and accents on his clothing that Agnes didn’t feel were necessary. She did perfectly fine flashing a blade to get her way. But he insisted that sometimes it was better to simply “talk” to people rather than threatening them. And apparently appearance meant everything when “talking” was involved.

As Agnes eyed the man’s hands, she couldn’t help but think about what the cool metal of his gauntlet might feel like on her body, the sting of the metal against her bare skin would feel so delicious. She wondered how it might feel for him to wrap his hands around her throat, the tips of his gauntlets digging into her flesh as he squeezed.

Agnes felt heat rip through her, desire burning inside as she fantasized about what Enver might do if he knew she was having these thoughts about him. She could feel her pulse flutter, her face felt flushed and her body felt warm. Agnes bit her lip as she extended her foot, grazing it up Enver’s pant leg across from her. She watched his face, his even expression wavering ever so slightly as she ran her foot up his leg. She felt him rub his leg against hers as he asked Ketheric a question, his hand continuing to drum on the table.

Agnes watched his fingers tap the table, the voices of Enver and Ketheric a drone in the background as she imagined Enver Gortash pounding into her, his hand wrapped around her throat.

Agnes felt a kick under the table, her eyes shooting up to meet Enver’s who widened his gaze at her, subtly tilting his head in Ketheric’s direction.

“What?” She said without thinking, straightening up to look at the general. Ketheric pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, taking a deep breath before addressing Agnes.

“I was asking your thoughts. On all of this,” Ketheric said with a sigh, knowing very well Agnes had no idea what they had been talking about.

“Oh, right. I’d rather hear Gortash’s thoughts,” she redirected, looking in the Baneite’s direction.

“If you’d been listening, my dearest, you would have already heard my thoughts on the matter,” he said with a confident smile, nudging her foot with his. Agnes huffed, kicking his shin and standing from the table.

“I trust you will make the right decision, then. Are we done here?” Agnes grumbled, looking in Ketheric’s direction.

“Just be here tomorrow for our meeting,” Ketheric sighed, waving his hand at her to dismiss her. Agnes spun on her heel, exiting the room and heading for her office.

As Agnes made her way towards her office, she could hear the all too familiar click of Enver’s boots following her down the hall. She kept her pace steady and her head down, entering their shared work space and heading towards her desk. She heard the office door close and lock behind her, a smile crossing her face. Agnes braced her hands on her desk as he came up behind her. Her breath hitched as she felt Enver’s hand wrap around the column of her neck, the metal gauntlet digging into her flesh.

“You little brat, distracting me during our meeting” He growled, his tongue tracing the tip of her ear. Agnes leaned back against him, she could feel that he was already hard, his erection pressing against her ass. She let out a low chuckle, grinding against his crotch. Agnes felt him tighten his grip on her throat, his other hand sliding down her front and dipping into her pants. He pressed his fingers to her cunt, groaning at how wet she was.

“So wet already,” he hissed, biting down on her shoulder as he teased her entrance with his fingers.

“You can’t even make it through a meeting without wanting me to fuck you, can you?” He said, continuing his teasing causing Agnes to moan loudly.

“I just can’t stand listening to Ketheric. I had to keep my mind occupied somehow,” she breathed, his hand still wrapped around her throat.

“Don’t lie,” he growled, shoving two fingers inside her. Agnes yelped at the sudden sting of his fingers in her cunt, breathing heavily as he pistoned in and out of her.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered in her ear, his thumb rubbing her clit as he continued to fuck her with his fingers.

“Gods, yes,” she moaned, his fingers hitting that sweet spot inside of her that made her tremble. Enver squeezed her throat as he quickly pulled his fingers from inside her. Agnes groaned at the emptiness, needily grinding against him. Enver spun her around to face him, walking towards her and backing her up against her desk. He pried her mouth open, shoving his fingers inside.

“I want you to taste just how needy you are,” he growled as she swirled her tongue around his fingers, spit dribbling down her chin. With his other hand he dragged his fingers down her neck and chest, the cool metal scratching her skin.

Agnes took a deep breath as he removed his fingers from her mouth, the feeling of his hands touching her body was exhilarating, she craved his touch. She couldn’t help the smile on her face, she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You make it so easy for me to get what I want, Enver,” Agnes purred, hopping up onto the desk and wrapping her legs around his waist. She placed her arms around his neck, tangling her hands in his hair.

“You’re insufferable,” he huffed, pressing his lips to hers. Agnes pulled him closer with her legs as she kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth.

Enver dug his fingers into her, the sharp claws on his gauntlet ripping into her clothing. She moaned into his mouth at the sting of the metal against her skin. She could feel him break skin as he clawed at her, his teeth clacking against hers as he kissed her roughly.

“Clothes off, now,” he hissed as he pulled away, pointing at her with his gauntleted hand.

“Hah. Or what?” Agnes smirked, crossing her legs.

Enver wrapped his hand around Agnes’ neck, squeezing so that the metal claws dug into her skin. Her breath hitched as he pulled her closer, hovering his lips over hers.

“You distract me in an important meeting and then act like this? Who do you think you are?” He hissed, squeezing harder as he bit her lip. Agnes could feel blood drip from her mouth as Enver bit down harder.

Agnes let out a laugh, pulling away to press her fingers to her lips, feeling the blood begin to drip down her chin. She swiftly kneed Enver in the groin, causing him to fall to his knees before the bhaalspawn. She pulled a dagger out from behind her, toying with the dull edge of it.

“You forget who you’re messing with, Baneite,” she said as she tangled her free hand through the man’s dark, messy hair. Agnes pulled Enver’s head back so that he was looking up at her, pressing the dull edge of the dagger against the man’s neck.

“Now, be a good boy and I may give you what you want,” she said with a smile, leaning down and softly pressing her lips to his. Enver let out a huff, giving in and leaning into her kiss. Agnes threaded her hands into his hair, pulling him up onto his feet towards her. She hopped up on the desk, beckoning him towards her with her finger.

“You want my clothes off? Do it yourself,” she smirked, spreading her legs slightly and leaning back on her hands. Enver narrowed his gaze as he approached her, quickly tugging her shirt up and over her head. His eyes trailed her chest as he unhooked her bralette, allowing it to slide off of her shoulders. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers as he cupped her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple. Agnes felt his thumbs hook into the band of her trousers and small clothes, yanking them down in a swift motion. He pulled away, sliding his hand down her leg and gently removing her pants and boots one leg at a time.

“Very good,” Agnes purred, watching Enver’s gaze darken as he looked her over. He rolled his eyes, closing the gap between them and leaning in to press his lips to hers.

“Ah ah,” she said with a tut, pushing him away from her. “Your turn,” Agnes smirked at Enver, gesturing for him to remove his clothing. He huffed at her, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You think you can just order me around like some dog?” His body betrayed his words as Agnes watched his erection strain against his trousers, his breathing heavy and gaze darkened.

“Yes,” she said, cocking her head to the side as she dragged her fingers through her folds, a moan escaping her lips. Enver watched as she traced circles on her clit, her head falling back as she pleasured herself.

“Hells below,” he breathed, a hand palming his hard cock through his pants. Agnes looked up at Enver, locking eyes with him as she pushed two fingers inside of her cunt, her breath hitching as she languidly fingered herself.

“Fuck it,” Enver hissed, hurriedly pulling his shirt up over his head and tossing it to the side. Agnes watched, continuing to piston her fingers in and out of her cunt as Enver quickly undressed, his length springing free from his pants. He kicked his trousers to the side, one hand pumping his impossibly hard cock as he walked towards her. Agnes groaned as she watched him spit into his hand, lubricating his length, resting his free hand on the desk.

“Let me fuck you,” Enver breathed, pressing his forehead to hears as he watched her fingers trace circles over her clit. “Please,” he added, bringing the head of his cock to her entrance, teasing her with the tip. Agnes bit her lip, nodding as she felt him nudge the head of his cock inside her. Enver slowly pushed himself inside of her, bring his gauntleted hand up to cup her face.

“You drive me mad,” he groaned, burying himself inside her. He could feel her tighten around him as he languidly fucked into her, grunts escaping from his lips.

“Gods,” Agnes moaned, her mouth hanging slightly open as he increased his pace, pulling her as close as he could with his free hand. Agnes brought her hands up to his neck, wrapping her arms around him as he fucked her. Enver brought his hand to her throat, wrapping around it and squeezing.

“Yes, please don’t stop,” Agnes breathed, his hips pounding against her. Agnes felt the air being punched from her lungs, growing dizzy from the bruising pace and his hand wrapped around her throat. She could feel waves of pleasure ripping through her as her orgasm rapidly approached with his cock pounding into her.

“Come for me Agnes, I know you can,” Enver growled, loosening the grip on her throat as he pressed his lips to hers. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, his thrust becoming more erratic as his own climax began to build. Agnes pulled away from the kiss, burying her head in the crook of his neck as she came, obscenities falling from her lips. Enver held her close, fucking her through her orgasm, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own.

“Gods I- I’m,” Enver grunted, biting down on her shoulder as he spilled into her. Agnes could feel him throb inside of her, his teeth still buried in her neck. Enver pulled out of her, breathing heavily as he rested his hands on either side of her on the surface of the desk. Agnes smiled at him, caressing his cheek as she caught her breath.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Enver huffed, still trying to catch his breath.

“I hope so, my dear tyrant,” Agnes whispered against his lips.

[fkitwebhaal]

Full Fic Tumblr Version: Sleep With Dead

Ship: Past Durge/Gortash, Current Durge/Astarion but not the focus

Fandom: BG3

Warnings: A wide assortment including but not limited to implied/referenced/past suicide, suicidal ideation, toxic relationships, manipulation, dubious consent, just all the stuff to expect from Durgetash

Rating: M

Word Count: 22k

AO3

Summary: 

“You grant the semblance of life and intelligence to a corpse of your choice within range, allowing it to answer up to 5 questions you pose. Answers are usually brief, cryptic, or repetitive. “You are as likely to open wounds as you are to close them. The night after the assassination of Evner Gortash, the Dark Urge takes to Wyrm's rock with five questions. This story is about what they ask. This story is about what Gortash's corpse answered. And this story is about the five memories behind those answers that the corpse of Enver Gortash cannot speak to.

Notes: IT'S FINALLY DONE I DID IT EXCUSE ME WHILE I RUN AROUND SCREAMING. Anyway the whole thing is under the cut if you don't wanna go over to AO3

CHAPTER 1: WHEN DID WE MEET

NOW

Rune considered themselves rather adept at planning, which was how they knew their current plan was a bad one.

They groaned as they pulled themselves up the embankment outside of Wyrm’s Rock, wishing they had brought a fly spell scroll. A misty step had gotten them over to the fortress easy enough, but it hadn’t saved them from the task of climbing vines and loose stones to scale the hill and later the building itself. They’d brewed a few potions of spider climb for the journey, but that didn’t mean it still wasn’t an effort to scale so much distance for the second time in one day. 

At least the spider climb potion would keep them from falling and smashing their head open on the rocks. It couldn’t hurt more than their head hurt already but it would be an unfortunate way to go. Their companions wouldn’t even know about their fate until the morning, given the note Rune left on the inside of their door. Rune had hesitated writing it, worried the group would spot it before they got back and doom Rune to a lecture on “recklessness.” But then they’d considered how their friends would react if they went missing without a word in the middle of the night and decided the lecture was worth the risk. 

This was also worth the risk, they thought as they pulled themselves up another outcrop. The body that remained at the top of Wyrm’s Rock had information they needed, and Rune had the means of asking about it. If they’d thought of this earlier, they would have come to the fight prepared with a scroll, but they hadn’t, and thus they had to double their tracks. There wasn’t a guarantee it would work, but for the chance alone-

A crunch. Rune turned on their heel towards the sound, drew on what little of their magical energy they had left and fired off two rays of frost in the direction of the noise. They felt a trickle of blood run down their nose from the effort; they really shouldn’t be sculpting spells when they’d used most of their power for the day. But a little blood loss was worth it if it meant keeping alive.

There was a beat of silence. Rune cast dancing lights on a bush in front of them, cursing their lack of dark vision and peered into the shadows for a corpse or an injured enemy. They saw nothing, merely the imprint in the mud of a pair of boots heading sideways and-

“Giving me the cold shoulder, darling,” a voice drawled from behind Rune. They turned on their heel, electricity sparking from their fingertips, but a chill pale hand caught their hand before they could continue to cast. It was for the best that they didn’t finish the spell, Rune recognized that voice, but they scowled at Astarion’s face anyway.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

Astarion grinned at them, far too smug for a man who just got caught sneaking in the shadows. “My sincere apologies. I didn’t mean to reveal my presence until we were closer to the fortress.” He reached forward with his free hand and swiped away the blood under Rune’s nose before appraising it on his index finger.  He licked it clean before tilting his head to look at them. “Bleeding without me, hmm?” His voice was wry, but Rune could see the tension in his face, a slight crinkle to his eyes that gave away his frustration. 

It appeared they weren’t going to avoid that lecture on recklessness then. Shame. 

Rune pulled their hand from Astarion’s grasp and walked past him, back towards Wyrm’s rock. Astarion followed behind them, and Rune resisted the urge to kick a rock in frustration. Knowing their luck, they’d break their foot. Usually they’d be thrilled to see him, they rarely weren’t, but this was the one time they wanted him as far away as possible. They focused on his previous comment, crossing their arms as they stared at the fortress. “Why wait on your reveal until then?”

“Because then we’d be too close to our destination for you to talk me into turning around.” Astarion strode faster so he surpassed Rune, turning so he could look at Rune’s face. Even though Rune refused to look at him directly, they could make out the irritation in his expression by the too sharp angle of his smile. “Seriously, love, sneaking out in the middle of the night to break and enter all by your lonesome? I thought you liked me.”

“You’re a bastard,” Rune said, but there was no heat to it. If they’d caught Astarion doing the same thing, they would have followed him too. Sure, they would have gotten busted far sooner without an invisibility spell, but they would have done it. Their irritability now had very little to do with Astarion himself, and more to do with being caught in the first place. 

“And you’re a liar who said you wanted to sleep alone tonight because of a headache. Rather underhanded, I have to say.” 

Rune cringed. They had said that. In their defense, that was their plan until they remembered the amulet in the storage chest and the questions only one man had an answer to. “I wasn’t lying about the headache.” Their head throbbed as they spoke, as if to remind them of its presence. 

Astarion didn’t look appeased by the confession. He stepped closer to Rune, eyes narrowing. “Oh, so you decided to break and enter an enemy fortress full of people who want to kill you with a migraine then? My sincere apologies: you’re not underhanded, merely stupid.” The last word came out as a hiss. “Now tell me, what’s so important that you decided to embark on this current adventure alone?”

Rune wanted to object to his tone, they could take care of themselves just fine, but Astarion had good reason to be furious. Ever since Halsin got captured by Orin, everyone agreed that being alone was best avoided as much as possible, especially outside of camp. Rune had been overtly stringent about the rule and they knew it; the combination of the Urge, their headaches, the revelations about their heritage and the task before them made them more irritable than they preferred. Rune was being a hypocrite and they both knew it.

It was just-

What if you were entirely in control before?  What if what Gortash said was true? What if you were as depraved as he was? From what little memory you have, it seems likely. What if your promise to Astarion in the Graveyard was dooming him to another cruel companion? Maybe you were the one who egged on Gortash’s worst qualities; you have such a talent for influence. If you bring him with you to speak to the corpse, he might try to soften the blow of what you truly are. You might believe him enough that you won’t see it coming when you scoop out his eyes with your fingernails-

“I have to talk to someone,” Rune said, trying to ignore the buzz of thoughts in the back of their head. It wouldn’t work, they knew that, but they had to try. 

Astarion shot him a flat look. “Alone?”

“That was the plan.”

“And who is this person who is so worthy of your attention that they require your presence alone?”

Well, might as well come out with it, Rune thought. “They don’t require it.” Rune reached down and pulled the amulet from their belt, holding it up in front of Astarion’s face. It swung back and forth, glowing softly in the moonlight. “But I thought it might be more successful if only one of his murderers attempted to talk to him, rather than the whole lot.”

Astarion hadn’t been present at Gortash’s assassination, but Rune knew Gortash knew who the man was. He’d seen Astarion stand next to Rune when they entered the main hall. If Gortash had bothered to remember him, it wouldn’t be as an ally.

Rune doubted he remembered Rune as an ally either, but at least there’d been a period where Rune’s face had inspired feelings other than loathing in Enver Gortash. It was far from a guarantee for the spell to work, but it was better than nothing. 

“You plan to speak to Gortash,” Astarion said, voice flat. 

“His corpse, actually.”

The attempt at levity didn’t work. Astarion watched them for a long moment and Rune resisted the urge to twitch under his gaze. When he spoke next, Rune could hear the hurt in his voice.

“Nothing he can say is going to make me run. Do you really think so little of me?”

Oh Gods. “Of course not,” Rune said, voice far too loud for someone trying to be stealthy. Their planned secrecy didn’t seem to matter much, compared to that pained look on Astarion’s face. “No, it’s not that I’m worried about.” That was true; if Gortash said something that would make Astarion want to leave, it was probably something Astarion deserved to know. “It’s just…”

Every time Rune had learned something terrible about themselves, Astarion had been standing in the corner, acting as if the revelations weren’t worthy of horror. He was the one who had never shied away from Rune’s more bloody traits, he was the one who thought Rune worth saving, despite the ruin of their past. It was a balm, one Rune hoped they provided in turn when it came to Astarion’s own nightmares. But after the last few days of witnessing the Gondian’s plight, the cult’s trail of bodies and Karlach’s sobs of agony over her inevitable death, Rune desired no such comfort. They wanted nothing more than to let the harsh truths hidden on Gortash’s tongue rip them open and leave them to bleed. 

Astarion probably wouldn’t appreciate that impulse, Rune thought. So they shrugged instead of telling the truth and accepted having a companion for the dreadful conversation. “Alright, you can come with me.”

They made it back up to where Gortash was slain in good time, the spider climb potions making the task easier than it was previously. Gortash’s body was right where he’d originally fallen, and after ensuring the doors to the room were locked so they couldn’t be interrupted, both Rune and Astarion looked down at the corpse. 

“I’m almost surprised he’s right where we left him.” Astarion said, looking down at the corpse of what was once Enver Gortash. As far as dead bodies went, he was mostly intact. He was covered in blood, cuts, burns and soot, but all his limbs were still attached, which given Karlach’s skill with a greataxe was somewhat surprising. A crossbow bolt had taken him out in the end, Karlach firing directly into his heart, and the arrow still stuck from the dictator’s chest.

The Urge was delighted at the sight, and Rune ignored the desire to dip their hands in the still drying blood and paint the room with it. There was also an urge to dismember the man, but since Rune didn’t carry around knives on purpose, it was somewhat easier to resist.

“I doubt anyone comes up here but Gortash’s men. And we probably killed them all,” Rune said, circling the body. They pulled out their journal, flipping to a page they’d marked with a ribbon. On it were a list of questions, with five of them circled. It had taken them a while to narrow down their questions to just five, but it was worth the effort to avoid asking something pointless. 

“This place will smell vile if it stays here,” Astarion said, his nose wrinkling.”Not that I’m complaining: the entire fortress is in need of a deep clean after these fools resided in it.”

“Hm.” Rune reached for the amulet and held it over the body. “Time to get on with it.” Before they could speak the incantation, Astarion reached over Gortash’s body to grip their shoulder with a gentle touch. It was a wonder, Rune thought, how a man touched by so many cruel hands, could still be so kind without intending to.

“He might not answer,” Astarion said. “You did murder him.”

Rune had. Normally, they’d say the same thing. But this was different. Most corpses refused to answer their killers because they were hostile to them in life. Even with their souls long gone, the bodies knew better than to give their enemies anything more than they’d already taken.

Rune had a feeling Gortash’s body would answer for one reason alone: giving Rune answers would hurt them far worse than its silence could. 

“He’ll answer,” Rune whispered. “He’ll answer if it’s me.”

With that, Rune spoke the incantation, watched as the body below them began to float and asked their first question.

“When did we first meet?”

_______

THEN

It was rather difficult to track down the Chosen of Bhaal.

Gortash supposed that made sense. Unlike Banites who could disguise their admiration for control and order under the names of different gods, acts benefiting the God of Murder were harder to launder under a more palatable name. That didn’t mean he appreciated the effort it took to track down the leader of Bhaal’s cult. It had taken weeks of peering at dead murder victims,speaking to various assassins and walking the city streets to find enough information to track down something related to the cult. It was only a few days ago he’d finally found his way to the Murder Tribunal to ask for an audience with the cult’s leader. 

At least he’d gotten to meet the infamous Sarevok out of the ordeal. Gortash held no affection for the man, but it was good to know names that had weight in this city, even if they were supposed to be dead ones. 

Sarevok had obliged his request, because a few days later he received a note written in blood with an address and a time. It was in the slums of the lower city, and so Gortash took care to dress so he could blend in properly before he headed out with some of his security in tow and a teleportation scroll, should the meeting go poorly.

He was dealing with Bhaalspawn, after all. Best to cover his bases. 

The address led to a small abandoned house, with two figures answering the door. He was rather surprised when they allowed both his guards in with no objections, but he put aside his curiosity as they led him to a rug. Pulling aside the rug revealed a trapdoor and after gesturing to his security to follow him, Gortash stepped down the ladder to enter the cellar.

The smell of rot and decay greeted him. The cellar was a small space, maybe three rooms, with one of the walls breaking open to expose a route to the sewers if the smell was any indication. The other room featured a shrine with a corpse impaled on a stake in the center. It had to be the source of the revolting smell surely. The last contained another Banite, along with a desk where a figure was seated, writing in a simple leather journal. 

Gortash wasn’t quite sure what he expected the Chosen Bhaalspawn to look like. All he had to go off of was rumors and his brief conversation with Sarevok. The rumors were deeply unhelpful, some describing the assassin as a sturdy looking white Dragonborn with flecks of red accenting their scales. Others told him of a tiefling woman with horns that spiraled out of her head and a great axe on her hip. Gortash doubted either was the truth. Sarevok hadn’t given him much either, other than the use of “they” so Gortash could only wonder if Bhaal’s latest chosen looked similar to his last one.

As Gortash set his eyes on the figure at the desk, it became abundantly clear that this Bhaalspawn had very little in common with their undead sibling besides being human.

The human sitting at the desk in front of hmm was as thin as a rail, almost gaunt looking. If Sarevok was a great hammer of a man, their kin was a rapier. They had pale skin, but unlike Sarevok it seemed almost washed out, like the sun had never touched it. Their hair was gray, tied back in a tight high ponytail with a sharp silver hairpin keeping it in place. Gortash wouldn’t be surprised if that hairpin had been used in some of the murders he’d stumbled upon while seeking them out, They didn’t look up at him as he entered, instead scrawling notes with a quill. A robe rested on the chair behind them- a caster then- and they wore standard breeches and a long buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up.the only finery about them was a circlet, crafted from fine silver, with a ruby gemstone hanging from the center.

They clearly had put little concern into dressing up for his visit. That wasn’t surprising; respect was something one earned by force, favor or fear. Gortash excelled at all three.

“Herald, a visitor. Enver Gortash of Baulder’s Gate, the Chosen of Bane,” the Banite who led him inside said, taking a step back. That Bhaalspawn said nothing, merely glancing up at him looking somewhat bored. Gortash took note of the dark circles under their brown eyes which looked to be the result of little sleep and copious makeup.

“Lord Gortash,” they said. “Sarevok told me to expect you.” They didn’t give their name in turn, despite Gortash waiting on them to provide it. Taking the hint, Gortash instead moved right to business. 

“Did he say what I wished to speak to you about?”

“If he did, I wasn’t listening. I don’t tolerate that wretch more than I have to.” So the Chosen was not on good terms with their sibling. It wasn’t uncommon for Bhaalspawn from what Gortash had read, but he was surprised both of them were still alive if that was the case. 

“Then I apologize for forcing you to endure more of his company than usual.” He reached into his pocket to pull out his notes that he prepared for the occasion and placed them on the desk.  “I come with a proposal. A partnership of sorts.”

The Bhaalspawn reached for the notes and appraised them, raising one eyebrow. Their voice was dry. “A partnership between the dead three. Because those work out historically well.”

What an absolute shit, Gortash thought. He kind of liked it. 

They went over his proposal together. Gortash was encouraged to see them ask questions about his planned heist, clearly more interested that they pretended to be. When discussions were over, the Bhaalspawn agreed to reach out to him regarding further planning which Gortash agreed to, given he was the one with an actual address 

“What should I call you?” The Bhaalspawn didn’t turn to look at him, waving their hand dismissively. Like they were the aspiring politician and him the nobody. It was both infuriating and intriguing. Their other hand continued to scribble in their journal. Gortash couldn’t see what they were writing, only that it looked to be well organized into tiny boxes and lists. 

He didn’t think Bhaalspawn could plan. Fascinating. 

“Pick one,” the Bhalspawn said, not bothering to look up at him. 

Gortash thought he misheard. “Pardon me?”

The Bhaalspawn glanced up at him, expression tired, almost bored. “You asked for my name. I don’t have one. So pick one.”

“You don’t have a name?”

The Bhaalist tore their gaze from their notes and sneered at him, like Gortash was asking something deeply foolish. They put down their quill and instead picked up one of their daggers. Gortash watched as spun it around in one hand, movement almost lazy. “Does a magister name their gavel? Does a surgeon name their scalpel? I am but my father’s instrument. If you want something to call me by, pick it yourself.”

Gortash considered that for a moment. He thought of Raphael and his damned House, the various trinkets the cambion forced him to polish and clean. One in particular came to mind: a small silver statue of a shrike, a songbird found up North on the material plane. Raphael had spoken about it once when he found Gortash polishing its wings. 

“Interesting, aren’t they?” The Cambion had said, reaching forward to tap a claw on the bird’s beak. “Lively songbirds, but full of surprises. Do you know what mortals call them?” He didn’t wait for Gortash to answer. “Butcher birds. You see, they impale their prey on thorns. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Gortash looked at the Bhaalspawn in front of him, and the impaled body in the other room. Alluring but savage. Shrike seemed fitting enough. 

“Shrike then. For now at least.” The Bhaalspawn, Shrike, nodded. They then folded their hands on the desk and took a look at Gortash and his two bodyguards.

“I will say, I would appreciate a tribute for my time,” they said, glancing between the two men behind Gortash. They tapped their fingers on the table, the sound rapid like a pulse. When they spoke again, they only looked to Gortash. “Something suitable for my father.” 

Ah. Gortash had considered this a possibility. He could hear his bodyguards shuffle behind him, clearly uneasy at the change in topic, but still oblivious to what exactly was being discussed. “Do you have a preference?” 

For the first time since Gortash entered the cellar, Shrike smiled. 

“Pick one.”

Hm. Reaching inside his pocket, Gortash pulled out the teleportation scroll. He could feel the Guards behind him tense, likely readying themselves for the spell to pull them with. He’d told them about the scroll, after all. They probably thought he intended to bail with them in tow.

Rather foolish. Gortash had only brought two bodyguards for a reason. After all, it was best to step with one’s best foot forward when making new alliances. 

“You can have both,” Gortash said, unraveling the scroll. “My treat.” And with that, he spoke the incantation and vanished, leaving his tributes behind for the slaughter.

He landed back in his room as he intended. After a stretch, he walked over to the window that overlooked the city and glanced down below. 

Well, this meeting had turned out far more interesting than Gortash originally anticipated. He thought he might encounter a feral creature in this abandoned building, someone fueled entirely by violent instincts who he’d have to train to sic on the right people. Whoever this Shrike was, they were not that. Violent? Oh, absolutely, of that Gortash had no doubt. But they weren’t mindless about it.

This partnership might be less of an ordeal than he originally anticipated. It could even be fun. 

Gortash couldn’t wait to find out.

CHAPTER 2: DID I KNOW ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO KARLACH

NOW  “1482”

“1482,” Rune said, looking down at the corpse still floating in front of them. It wasn’t a pretty sight but it was better than looking at their journal, where the next question awaited them. Unlike their first question, their second was a follow up depending on Gortash’s answer. Rune had hoped they wouldn’t need to actually ask it, that Gortash would tell them they met any date after 1482.

They finally glanced to their journal, hoping they remembered incorrectly. Life, as per usual, was not kind to them. Written on the page was the following:

If Gortash says 1482 or before: did I know about Karlach?

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Astarion said. Rune couldn’t think of words to explain the sinking sensation in their gut, so they merely turned their journal to Astarion and pointed with their finger at the question so he could see what was written there. He scanned the words and his face fell. “Well, shit.”

Rune turned their journal back towards them and wished they could hide within its pages. That was the risk of doing this in the first place. If they hadn’t come out here, they could tell themselves that Karlach and their time with Gortash had never overlapped, that no version of Rune could look at the tiefling with a bright smile and a love for dirty bar tunes and think it acceptable to cast her into Avernus. But now that they were here, that kind ignorance had crumpled. There was still a chance they had never known of another, a year was plenty of time for two people to barely miss awareness of the other, but Rune knew better than to hope for such a kindness. They’d never gotten mercy before from their past self: why would they start now? 

Gods, what if they had known Karlach and what Gortash did to her? How would they go back to camp and face her, were that to be the case? Rune would have to tell her of course, keeping that a secret would be wrong otherwise, but how? How did you tell a close friend you were a part of the worst thing that ever happened to them? Maybe Rune could offer for her to rip out their heart? They rest could afford the 200 gold for Wither’s fee, if they decided it they wanted Rune back in the first place. After all, who could blame them if they decided to strike down the last architect of the Absolute? Slayers of Bhaalspawn were heroes-

“Stop.” Two cold hands grabbed Rune’s cheeks and Rune snapped out of their thought spiral to see Astarion staring at them intently, face tight with worry, Gortash’s corpse still hovering beneath them. When Rune met his gaze, his expression relaxed slightly, but not entirely. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but I know that face well enough to know you shouldn’t be entertaining it.”

Rune took a deep breath through their nose and tried to ground themselves back in the present. It was difficult, their guilt howling in the back of their mind like a wretched beast, but they tried their best. 

“I might have known,” they said, voice wavering more than they would like. They thought to their own reflection, the image they saw in mirror sometimes when the Urge was bad. A version of themselves that watched them with dead eyes and a sharp cruel smile. “I might have come up with the idea.”

“That’s absurd.” Rune opened their mouth to interrupt him, but Astarion pressed forward. “Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Our main suspects responsible for Karlach’s ordeal are either a man who outfitted this entire office with enough firepower to kill an ogre, or you, who didn’t know how watches worked until three days ago.”

Rune couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of their voice. “How was I supposed to know you could fit that many gears in such a small space?”

“Karlach suspects she was chosen partially because she was an ideal test subject for the engine, correct?” Rune thought about that and nodded. “Given your lack of expertise on the subject and the fact she doesn’t recognize you, I think it’s fair to say you played a minor part, if one at all.”

He had a point, though Rune was reluctant to accept it, afraid the words sounded convincing because Rune wanted them to be. “I could have forgotten the engineering stuff.”

“Like you forgot how to use a dagger,” Astarion countered and Rune sucked in a sharp breath, the memory of Alfira’s corpse flashing in their brain. Afterwards, they were reluctant to carry around daggers, an apprehension that had intensified after an incident in Shar’s temple involving silence. Despite relying on spellwork as much as possible, Rune knew they could pick up a dagger now and know exactly where to drive it into a body to sever tendons and ligaments. 

“Alright,” Rune said. “But I’m going to ask him anyway.”

“I figured as much. Just remember; corpses can lie.” The party had figured that one out when they’d used the spell to ask a goblin about the hidden entrance to the underdark and it had responded with “up your mom skirts” 

Rune focused back on the corpse. Might as well get this over with.

“Did I have anything to do with what happened to Karlach?”

---------------

THEN

Gortash found his new business partner was averse to using doors.

It was six months into their partnership when Crow came misty stepping through the window of Gortash’s office. After their successful heist months previous, the Chosen of Bhaal and Bane had continued working together, establishing a working agreement that suited them both. For Crow, Gortash served as a source of gold (serial murder didn’t pay), supplies (the Black Market was best for occurring rare poisons) and steady work (for there were plenty of Lord and Ladies who needed people to disappear). In exchange, Gortash received detailed information about the undercity (Crow knew how to get anywhere around the gate without stepping onto the surface), and the Knights of Shield (who Crow used their followers to spy on in exchange for promised discounts from Gortash) as well as having a capable assassin at his beck and call when some situations couldn’t be resolved otherwise. 

It was going rather swimmingly, all things considered. And that wasn’t even factoring in one of the most unexpected bonuses of his most recent business arrangement: Crow was good company. 

Even when they entered his room via a window instead of using his door like a normal person. 

“Does Bhaal have a rule about doors,” Gortash drawled as Crow misty stepped into his office. Gortash was sitting by his desk, looking over some blueprints he’d worked up about construct guards. It was still in sketching stages, the engine to power the things was still a prototype after all, but it served as something to work on when he didn’t have an immediate task at hand. “Or do you just find them distasteful?”

Crow was dressed like they normally did, wearing simple trousers, a long sleeved shirt, a vest, and a plain casters robe over the ensemble. Gortash had tried to encourage them to expand their tastes, but they were resistant given how often their clothing got ruined in their line of work. Apparently prestidigitation didn’t always work for bloodstains. Gortash was somewhat convinced that their entire wardrobe was looted from people they’d killed, down to their collection of earrings. 

“The less people who recognize me the better, Crow said, closing the window behind them. The sound of the city streets became muffled through the glass, though not by much. They leaned back against the wall and began snapping their fingers on their right hand, little sparks of electricity flying off with each snap. A sign of either impatience, bloodlust or both. Regardless, it wasn’t something Gortash wanted to encourage.

“How can I help you, Crow?” Gortash asked, opening the drawer of his desk and placing his blueprints inside. The automatic magical lock he’d installed clicked as he shut the drawer and placed his hands on the desk, fingers twined together.

“Another new name? Really?” Crow said, pointing to themselves with their pinkie finger. Gortash leaned back in his chair, noting the creak it made. He should fix that. He’d been meaning to infuse some defensive spells in his office furniture and the chair would be a good test case.

“Do you not like it?”

Crow raised a single eyebrow at him. “You are the only person I know who changes what they decide to call me on a bi-monthly basis. Everyone else just picks one and is done with it.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” It was fun, changing up what he called them on a whim. He kept using Shrike for two weeks before he realized he was underutilizing the power Crow had given him. The names Drake and Castor had followed but he’d decided to go back to birds today after reading an engaging book on messenger pigeons.

Crow rolled their eyes, turning away from him to fumble through their bag. They pulled out a pair of rings and threw them in Gortash’s direction. He caught them easily enough. So he could see them better, he got out of his chair and held them up to the light of the windows behind his desk. Two golden bands gleamed back at him, each covered in dry blood. “Are you trying to play into your new name by giving me some shiny trinkets?”

Crow looked actually irritated as they walked up to him. “No, you dolt.” With a wave of their hand, they cast prestidigitation, and the blood vanished. Now clean, Gortash could see engravings in dwarvish inside each ring, promising fidelity, courage and love, along with a pair of separate initials on each. “This is proof of a job done.”

Right, he’d almost forgotten with his blueprints. Gortash clicked his tongue. “I’m heartened to see that you’ve brought me the Lady and her Husband’s rings without their fingers still attached. Far less messy.” He put the rings on top of his desk and looked at Crow, who was holding out their hand, palm face up. 

“Ahem.”

It was Gortash’s turn to roll his eyes. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a bag with the pre agreed amount of gold pieces and deposited it into the Bhalspawn’s waiting hand. They tucked it into their own pockets and gave him a bow, a wry smile on their face that undercut the respect the gesture was meant to convey. 

“The Temple of Bhaal thanks you for your fine contribution.”

Ah, this back and forth. All of their meetings were an ongoing debate in a way about who was truly in charge of this partnership. It was a good practice, one that kept Gortash from forgetting his true loyalties. His Bhalspawn would crow to him about how Gortash enriched their own temple, and in turn, Gortash would remind them who truly held their jess. 

“And the Iron Fist of Bane is happy to oblige for those who submit as requested.”

Crow’s returning scowl was a delight, as per usual. They rankled at the mention of Gortash’s God.

“What do you even need all that gold for? Is the thrill of the kill not enough of its own reward?”

“Yes, but the thrill of the kill doesn’t pay for food and supplies. If you want to cut costs, Enver, just keep sending me your bodyguards who want a raise.”

Speaking of his guards, there was the sound of footsteps coming up the hall. By the time someone knocked on his door, Crow was out of sight. 

“Come in.”

A bodyguard, a dwarf with a strong gait and a thick beard stepped into the room. He was relatively new to Gortash’s men, but not new to the world of smuggling, which meant he knew better than to ask who Gortash was talking to if he overheard. He handed Gortash a letter with a crimson wax seal and the slightest smell of perfume. 

“A message from Lady Jannath, Sir,” the man said. Gortash closed his eyes and breathed in deep, taking in the smell of roses and oak. When he opened his eyes, he saw the guard was still there, and dismissed him. When the doors shut behind the man, the door to the wardrobe where he kept his jackets and scarves opened and Crow crawled out. Their hair was a mess from their time in the space and they grumbled, trying to fix it with their fingers.

“I don’t understand why you hide when you can simply turn invisible,” Gortash said, opening the letter. Inside was an invitation to dine at the Lady’s request that afternoon, though Gortash knew there would be far greater delights than dining were he to show. 

“I’ve told you, my magic is unpredictable,” Crow said, finishing whatever they were doing with their hair and moving to shake out their robes. Gortash placed the opened letter on his desk.

“The unpredictable aspects I’ve seen are rather useful.” Gortash had seen Crow’s magic strike their enemies with lightning unprompted and transport them across the battlefield at will. The worst effect he’d seen so far was the spike growth, which while somewhat obnoxious, also hurt their enemies. 

“That’s because you haven’t seen the sheep yet,” Crow muttered under their breath. Gortash pushed past then to look inside his wardrobe for a scarf that would suit his current outfit best. Perhaps something with gold trim. Or green: Jannath liked green. 

“That guard is new.”

Gortash looked away from his wardrobe, hands still buried in some of his favorite kerchiefs. Over the months he’d known Crow, they rarely commented on any of his personnel except when Gortash wanted them to kill one. 

“Since when did you start paying attention to my staff?”

Crow shrugged, walking over to his desk and pushing themselves up on it to sit. They crossed their legs and leaned back, scattering some of his papers to the ground like a fickle cat. “Since you started asking me to trim your payroll.” They picked up the letter from Jannath, looked disgusted, and dropped it. “Anyway, where’s the tiefling? Red, muscular, not bad to look at.”

Ah yes, Karlach. He supposed Crow finding her striking wasn’t too surprising; she had that effect on people. Truly one of a kind. It was a shame he had to trade her to Zariel, truly, but she was the only one qualified for the job. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made. 

“Reassigned, sadly,” Gortash said, pulling out a bright red piece of cloth with his initials embroidered on it. That would work nicely. He tucked it into the front of his jacket so the initials were visible. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you have an interest in athletic pursuits outside of murder.”

Crow gave him a dirty look. “Athletic pursuits? Just call it fucking like a normal person, Enver.”

“This is why I’m the one receiving missives from paramores and you’re the one rutting with strangers in alleys,” Gortash said primly. He turned to Crow and gestured towards his outfit. “How do I look?”

“Like an Upper City twat,” Crow said, lifting themselves off the desk. They headed back towards the window and opened it.  “Let me know when you’re doing something other than getting under Lady Jannath’s skirts.”

“Jealous I’m not getting under yours, hm?”

He didn’t intend to mean it. It was best to not mix business and pleasure should one help it. So he was surprised when his teasing remark was not met with a witty rebuttal but a sudden stillness, Crow’s fingers gripping the wood of the window tighter.

“There’s a reason I stick to ‘rutting in alleys,” Crow said, not even bothering to mimic Gortash as they repeated his words. When they looked up at him, Gortash could see a hint of resentment on their face, along with a deep abiding hatred that he doubted was directed at him. “I am to put Bhaal above all else. Anything else that attempts to attract my regard is quickly disposed of.”

Gortash almost commented that he didn’t love Lady Janneth merely her large purse, but held his tongue. Instead, he merely cocked his head.

“By yourself or by your father?”

Crow snorted. When they replied, their tone was dark and wry. 

“Both.”

And with that they misty stepped away, leaving Gotash with his papers, an open letter, and the lingering scent of Lady Janneth’s perfume. Gortash picked up the letter and thought about how he seduced the women in the first place, picking up on her need for attention that other suitors were unwilling to give her. That’s how most relationships worked for Gortash; figure out what strings to pull and then tangle them to his favor. 

He wondered if the Chosen of Bhaal had some strings he could play with as well. 

CHAPTER 3: WAS IT YOUR PLAN OR MINE?

NOW

“No. You only asked."

Rune did not take Gortash’s answer well. Which frankly was to be expected.

“No, but you didn’t ask!?” Rune threw their hands up into the air, exasperated. “What the fuck does that-“ Gortash corpse twitched, mouth opening a fraction. Turning on their heel, Rune reached forward to slam the corpse’s mouth shut. Their face was red with rage.“That was not one of my questions, don’t answer that.”

“Darling,” Astarion said, in a tone of voice Rune recognized whenever they were in a proper snit. He was still standing across from the corpse, straightening out the sleeves of his shirt. “You have considered he’s only answering to vex you, right?”

“Of course he is.” Rune tapped their foot impatiently, thinking over the answer, like if they spent enough time considering it, they’d know every meaning Gortash might have intended. No, but never asked. The most logical read of that answer was that they knew about the infernal engine but had never asked about its testing or procurement. Rune supposed ignorance was better than involvement. But wasn’t willfully ignorance complicity as well? Just because someone didn’t torture someone on the rack, didn’t mean they were innocent when they heard the screams and did nothing. Was Rune willfully ignorant or just ignorant? It couldn’t be the latter, they had to know about the Godians, after all, and Gods-

“We’re leaving.”

Rune’s head snapped up to meet Astarion’s gaze. He had crossed his arms, slouching back on his right foot like he did when he was prepared to have an argument. It was a stance Rune saw more of as they traveled, which they rather liked, even when they were the one being argued with. “What?”

“We’re leaving. Let’s leave this corpse to rot and head out.”

Rune glanced at Gortash’s corpse, which was still radiating green light from its mouth and eyes. They held up the amulet, letting it swing between the pair. “I still have three more questions to ask.”

“No,” Astarion reached forward to pluck the chain the amulet hung from out of Rune’s grasp. The spell held, once it was cast it was cast, and he twirled it until the chain wrapped around the amulet. “You have three more ways to torture yourself while I watch.”

Rune bristled, much like a cat they sometimes turned into on accident. “I’m not torturing myself, I’m gaining information-“

Astarion cut them off, raising a singular eyebrow. “Yes, from the corpse of a man who is answering solely to spite you. That would be like asking Cazador’s corpse about my own history in terms of accuracy.” He pocketed the amulet and shook his head. “Save the self flagellation for the bedroom, sweetheart.”

Rune bit their tongue, wanting to object. Astarion was forced into his relationship with Cazador; as far as Rune knew, their relationship with Gortash was entirely of their own power. Rune could have walked away from Gortash and his crimes at any moment. But they hadn’t. They’d spent 10 years in close company of a tyrant and an enslaver. Sure, Cazador would likely also only answer Astarion’s questions out of spite but Astarion didn’t deserve any more cruelty from that monster of a man. He’d never deserved any of it in the first place. Rune however-

“You have that face again.”

Gods damn it . Rune blamed their headache for the loss of their ability to keep a poker face. And the lack of sleep. And the Urge, which currently was fixated on cutting off one of Gortash’s hands to carry around like a token. This is why they hadn’t wanted Astarion to come with them; not for what he might learn from Gortash, but what he might see in Rune when the corpse answered. They waved their hand towards the window where they’d entered. Some vines still hung though the opening. “You can leave if you don’t want to watch.”

Astarion shook his head, walking away from the corpse but not towards the window. “Nice try, but I’m staying. I just wanted it noted that I know what you’re doing and I don’t approve.”  He headed towards one of the walls. One of Gortash’s mechanical devices was sticking out of a hidden panel, slightly warped from the firepower during the fight earlier today. He pulled out his thieves tools, and poked the device once. When nothing happened, he snuck his fingers behind the device, fishing for something. “Now, if you want to continue listening to bullshit, I’m going to raid this room for everything Gortash has.”

“Didn’t you already loot this office?” Rune could see the evidence of their previous raid in the open drawers in Gortash’s desk, and the lack of armor from some of his bodyguards. They’d even scooped all the mail Gortash had in his desk into a spare bag Karlach found downstairs. Most of it would probably be garbage, of this Rune was sure, but they hadn’t been willing to risk overlooking something important, especially if it might help them locate Halsin.

Astarion turned his head away from the wall, tucking his thieves' tools tucked behind his ear. With a flick of his wrist, he yanked his hand out of the wall. It was hard to see in the low light, but Rune could see metallic strands grasped in his fingers. “I didn’t bother to strip the copper wiring last time. If I collect enough, I might be able to afford something to spite him, like I don’t know, shampoo.”

Rune watched him stick his hand back in and looked back to the corpse. Astarion was absolutely still paying attention to the conversation, this they knew. They didn’t bother to open up their journal again before they asked their next question. It was one of largest on their mind after Gortash had revealed their role in everything.

------------

THEN: 1485

It should be noted that when Enver Gortash found himself shaken awake by not only a Bhaalspawn, but the current chosen Bhaalspawn, that his first impulse was to comment on how they’d ruined his pajamas.

His line of work was clearly ruining his sense of self preservation. Why had he thought it a good idea to give a Bhaalspawn the passcode to his arcane lock.

“Could you truly not take a second to use prestidigitation on your hands, Onyx?” He said, blearily gazing up at said Bhaalspawn. They’d bothered to cast magelight at the very least, which allowed him to properly take in their state. Onyx looked like they’d come from a murder, the front of their robes, along with their sleeves and hands drenched in blood. It dripped from their fingers onto the stone. The same blood was now smeared across the shoulder of Gortash’s sleepwear.

Maybe this was why Onyx never wore anything fine unless Gortash got it for them. Prestidigitation had its limits when it came to cleaning up messes. The amount of blood currently covering the sorcerer was likely past the spell’s power to clean.

Onyx didn’t seem to acknowledge his comment, standing by the side of his bed with a manic expression on their face. The blood they got on Gortash’s shirt was beginning to soak through the silk, so he pulled off the nightshirt and threw it at Onyx, who dodged by leaning slightly to the side. If they hadn’t bothered to evade the garment, Gortash would have thought them oblivious to the action entirely. He’d seen that happen before and was not in the mood to coax them back to reality.

“Your plan,” Onyx said, gaze  The one with the brain. Where is it?”

A part of Gortash’s brain recalled what they were talking about, but the part that was irate for being woken up overpowered it.  “It is four in the morning,” he said, wondering once again about his lack of judgment when it came to security. He’d have to redo the code and add some more traps. Maybe a tripwire or two? It should be illegal to think about tripwires at this hour.

Onyx began to pace. They continued to drip blood and Gortash added a pressure plate to his list of traps to install. Maybe something that activated silence? Or hold person? He’d have to recruit some beggars off the street to test out variants. There was a lot they were willing to endure for enough coin. Onyx, as if sensing his distraction, ceased pacing. Instead, they reached forward and with a sharp yank, tore the sheets off his bed. Gortash did his best to glower at him despite wearing nothing but his silk pajama bottoms. 

“Do your plans need sleep too?” Onyx said, throwing the sheets into a corner. Some of the blood and viscera smeared off their hands onto the beautiful fabric. Did they have any idea how hard it would be to get the filth they dragged in off the sheets? Smuggling made Gortash a hefty sum of money, but it didn’t mean he could replace his linens every week.  “I can read while you indulge in your delicate needs.”

“What in the Gods’ name has possessed you?” Gortash said, finally sitting up just in time to watch Onyx puke on his fine antique carpet. He scrambled forward to gaze over the bed to see a large swatch of red vomit sinking into the fibers. 

“That rug cost four gold pieces!” He said, gaping at them. This visitation was starting to cross the line from mild amusement to being an actual bother. Onyx wiped spittle from their face with the hem of their robes, the only part of their outfit that wasn’t drenched in blood. 

“Buy cheaper rugs,” they rasped. Gortash watched as they walked over to one of his walls and began to use the blood on their hands to draw a large circle. They cast another magelight as they labeled the circle with “The Gate” and then drew a squiggly line nearby it, then a square with a skull under it. 

“Is that supposed to be the Storm Coast?” By Gods, they were truly terrible when it came to drawing. There was a reason Gortash usually made their maps. Onyx ignored them, drawing an arrow from what Gortash assumed was supposed to be Moonrise towers to the city. ”You need a better angle than a random goblin horde. The lords need a bigger threat than that.”

Gortash thought to his plan he’d presented to Onyx earlier that week, the one the assassin had called “insane.” He’d told them of the mindflayer colony lurking under Moonrise, how they, with Ketheric’s assistance, could use a crown to use its power. He’s shown them his plans to rob Methostopolies, how they could use the tadpoles to craft a Goblin army that would terrorize the gentry into handing him and his future construct army power of the Gate. From there, Gortash’s plan was to expand his territory with the Gate as a central hub. “The idea is to expand over time.”

Onyx nodded, movements almost frantic. Despite the state of his wall, Gortash found himself rather engaged with their manic presentation. “Yes. Yes, but a goblin horde and random murders aren’t enough. They need connective tissue. They need to be something bigger.” 

“What’s bigger than an outside invasion and internal chaos.”

Onyx turned back to the wall. After squeezing their robe for more blood, they pressed their hand to the wall, then snubbed away three sections in the palm before running their fingers down where the handprint landed. Then, with a shaky hand, they drew an upside down triangle under the display. Gortash got out of bed and took in the mixture of Bhaal, Myrkul and Bane’s symbol in front of him.

“A new God,” Onyx said, eyes wide. They reached forward and grasped Gortash’s shoulders. “A cult under one banner invading from the outside. Murders in their new Gods name from the inside. And us the mockery of the Gods behind it all.” Their nailed began to dig into Gortash’s skin.

Well that was enough. Using his bulk, he wrestled himself out of their grip and shoved his elbow into their stomach. They folded instantly, and before they could cast a spell or take out a dagger, he shoved them against the wall they’d ruined. With a snap of his fingers, his favored gauntlet flew to encase his right hand and he pressed the claw of his pointer finger against their throat. His left held them in place by their torso.

“Listen here,” he hissed, digging in the talon just enough to draw blood. “I tolerate your eccentricities because I find them  amusing but I am not amused at present.” He added more pressure to their chest, enjoying the wheeze they made from the force. A demigod made almost useless in seconds. “Bring yourself to heel or I will.”

Onyx sneered at him. “You think you could kill me?”

“Kill you?” Gortash chose that moment to let them go. They fell in a sprawl to the floor, the blood from their robes leaving a smear from where they’d scraped against the wall. “Why in the Gods’ name would I give you what you want?”

Onyx didn’t look up for a long moment. They were breathing heavily now, trembling all over. When they spoke next, their voice was rough. “Fuck you.”

Gortash wasn’t interested in their tantrum. He stood above them and looked down, crossing his arms. “Last time we spoke, you told me such a plan was foolish. What changed?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. But if we are to be partners in this endeavor, I would like to know your motivations. What changed? Last time we spoke, you told me this was a fool's errand.”

They’d meant it too, that Gortash knew. Onyx called him a fool for thinking he could control an elder brain, even with help, told him he “was not his God, no matter how much he wanted to be.” They stormed out of his office after that and Gortash had resigned himself to adjusting his pitch to get them to agree. He never thought they’d change their mind without his prompting.

“The Devil’s fee,” Onyx said, stumbling to their feet. “A beggar who wanted some coins, only some coins. A few copper. The smallest of tokens, not even my regard. So I did, and I went to bed and I woke-“ They closed their eyes and drew back like they were in pain. It was like Gortash wasn’t even there, like they were talking to themselves. Gortash had heard them talk to themselves sometimes, it wasn’t unheard of, but it rarely had lasted this long. “Fell said he was horrified but I didn’t think-“ They turned towards the wall, clawing their hand down their face. It left a bloody smear down their eyes and jaw. “I didn’t recognize their face after, just their shoes.”

Gortash watched them pace back and forth, then glanced at what was left of his rug. He considered calling for his bodyguards, but it seemed unwise with Onyx in this state. Instead, he walked over to his closet and pulled out a robe to throw over himself so he looked somewhat more respectable. He grabbed one he’d been meaning to throw out as well. Onyx was still rambling when that was done, speaking faster and faster. 

“It’s everyone. Everyone. It’s blood, rot and more blood, who I choose and who I don’t, the craving for it never ends. Even my own won’t sate it. It never has.” They gasped for breath, wrapping their arms around themselves. “I’ve tried, but he won’t let me rest-“

Gortash had heard enough. “That much is obvious,” Gortash drawled. He threw Onyx the older robe and they caught it, staring at it dumbly. “I fail to see what this has to do with my plan and your changed opinion on it.”

That seemed to help them recover themselves. Gortash heard them whisper the incantation for prestidigitation under their breath. Their robes were still drenched, but it was dry blood now, and their skin was clean. He watched as they peeled their way out of their ruined clothing until they were in their smallclothes, throwing the robe over that.  When they spoke to Enver next, they seemed to be in more control of themselves. “You never take your eyes off your goals, do you Enver?”

“Did you expect anything else of me? Don’t tell me you came here for a shoulder to cry on,” Gortash crooned, pouting at Onyx. “What do you want me to tell you? That it’s not your fault? That you’re not a monster? That you don’t deserve this?” He rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as getting what you deserve; it’s about how much you can take. And the only thing you’re taking up right now is my time.”

He had no shoulder to cry on within Raphael’s halls. His father was no God, merely a shoemaker who decided him worth coin before he was even born. He’d learned the cruel truth of the world at a young age, just like Onyx had. Except Onyx kept clinging to the hope of a kinder place instead of the real way the world was run.

Onyx’s face shuttered. They looked so old despite their years in the magelight of Gortash’s room, so tired. Gortash walked up to them and clucked his tongue, reaching out to grab their shoulder. They made a single feeble attempt to shove off his grasp, but no more than that. So desperate for comfort, even when said comfort declared itself poisonous. Sometimes Gortash truly felt sorry for them. 

“Tell me,” Gortash said, no commanded. He rubbed his thumb with the hand on their shoulder, almost soothing. “What’s changed your mind?”

“I will never be free of him,” Onyx whispered. “My life is his because I can have no other, my love is his because he will let me love no one else. I will not cease until I murder the world in his name or prove myself unworthy in the attempt.”

Ah, that explained it. “You seek an end.”

Brown eyes met his gaze. “Either we lose and it ends, or we succeed and I end it all.”

That wouldn’t do. He shook his head, keeping his voice soft. “What about a third option: we succeed and I keep both the world and you at my feet.”

An emotion crossed Onyx’s face, something other than that hollow empty look. Anger perhaps? Grief? Or, maybe…oh well that was interesting. 

“I’m not something you can control, Enver,” They whispered. Going off a hunch, Gortash took another step forward, removing his hand from their shoulder. They let him step closer regardless. He lifted a finger and pressed it into their chest, enjoying how they didn’t flinch away from his touch. So desperate. When he stepped even further into their personal space, he couldn’t help the satisfaction that tinted his voice as he whispered in their ear.

“But wouldn’t you like to be? I think I’m a far better master than your dread Father.”

He leaned back to take in their expression. They looked terrible, their face still covered in blood, tear streaks ruining their makeup. They turned up their nose slightly, but it appeared to be mostly for show. “Why should I prefer one tyrant over another?”

Gortash smirked, taking his free hand to cup their chin. When he caressed his thumb against their skin, they shivered, the blood smearing with it. With his other hand, he grabbed their own and brought it up to his throat, letting their fingers wrap around it. Giving them control to end him, if they so choese. They squeezed just hard enough to bruise, but didn’t keep up the pressure. 

Oh, it was so very nice, to command something that wanted to be controlled. 

“Because this one you can kill,” Gortash purred, meeting their gaze. Onyx looked at him, then his mouth, then back at him. The hand around his throat moved, instead grabbing the front of his robes. When they pulled him in for a kiss, he could taste the blood on their tongue. 

“I’ll kill you,” they said between kisses. Their hands had moved to his sides, grasping the flesh there so hard there would be marks. “I kill everything that I love.” 

Gortash grinned, nipping at their lower lip. 

“Not if I kill you first.”

After that, he was glad they’d already ruined his sheets.

CHAPTER 4: DID I ENJOY IT?

NOW

“Mine but the Absolute? That was yours.” 

It was odd, how information could both relieve devastation and add to it.

The fact Rune had not thought up the entire plan was a relief. They’d suspected as much-that level of complexity revolving the Steel Watch seemed a bit much for any version of Rune-but it was good to have it confirmed. They were likely still complicit in the horrors that Gortash had brought upon the Gondian’s, that much was sure, but at least they hadn’t actively planned to subjugate them. 

It said something about Rune’s life, they thought, that being complicit in the Godian’s shackles of servitude  rather than the orchestrator of it, was a slight relief. Said relief, Rune thought thankfully, didn’t last long, followed by the feeling of wanting to hurl. How dare they feel even the smallest amount of respite from an equally unforgivable crime? What did that say about them, to gain comfort from something horrific all the same. Were they that self absorbed to care more about their own guilt than the suffering they’d brought down on the people of the Sword Coast? Gods, maybe they would hurl. They deserved as much. Though, thinking about what punishment they were due wasn't their decision to make. That would be up to the Gondians. How dare they assume what punishment was worthy of them? 

You are such a fucking monster, they thought, their stomach churning. You look upon the trail of your own destruction and think only of how to lick your own wounds. Like a rabid dog. No matter what you do for the Gondian’s, it will always be in the interests of soothing your own guilt. Miserly. Depraved. Wretched. Unlov-

“Bullshit.”

Rune tore their gaze away from Gortash’s corpse. They found they were shaking somewhat and they hoped they hadn’t gotten lost in their thoughts for too long. Given the intensity of Astarion’s gaze on them, they doubted it. He was watching them closely as the placed some more copper wire onto Gortash’s desk.

“What?” They weren’t sure what exactly he was referring to. Rune watched as Astarion’s walked back to the wall. 

“The part about the Absolute. That’s bullshit.” He wiggled his hand in the opening the turret came out of and stuck out his tongue as he fished for more wire. It was cute, Rune thought, before they forced their mind back to the conversation.

“You don’t think the Absolute was my idea?”

Astarion leaned forward a bit, and a delighted smile crossed his countenance as he ripped out another handful of wire. Maybe he would be able to sell it for somewhat of a profit. He strided back over to the desk to add to his bounty, speaking as he did so. “No, that might be true; you told me you suspected as much yourself. But there’s no way any version of you named the Absolute, “The Absolute.”

Rune had suspected as much when it came to the Absolute. Such a plan, to make a farce of the Gods, did strike them as something they might be responsible for. Rune hadn’t remembered much after the Nataloid crash, but their contempt of all things divine was there from the beginning. “Why not?”

“You hate naming things. If you named it, we’d be stuck calling it “Big Brain” or “Doom” or whatever inane thing you saw first. If Scratch didn’t come pre-named, poor thing would be walking around with some horrific title like “fluffy.” 

Rune opened their mouth as if to argue, then closed it. Frantically they tried to think of a name that would prove Astarion wrong and came up empty. Flayer? No, too obvious. Dread? No, too close to the Dread Three. Scalpel? Gods, who named a God Scalpel. 

Astarion smirked like a cat who got the cream. Rune raised a finger as he began to open his mouth.

“I uh- maybe I was better at it before.” A weak defense and Rune knew it. Astarion leveled his gaze at them and leaned against the wall, his arm once again deep into the wall. 

“Well? What would you name this then?” He kicked one leg forward, knocking the ruin of a Steel Watcher with his boot. Rune took a look at it, the faceplate just as lifeless as the rest of the Watch and struggled for a name.

Steel? No, that was already in the name. Statue? No, that wasn’t something you could name a thing. Kyle? Kyle was a name, wasn’t it?

Astarion’s smile grew and Rune grumbled. 

“Stop trying to distract me.” He was good at that, leading Rune out of their own head. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Astarion said primly, before pulling out some more wire. “Go on, ask the corpse your hideous questions. For example, what poor soul embroidered his outfit? Because I’d like to ask them where they got that shade of thread.”

Rune looked back at Gortash’s corpse. They had a handful of questions they could ask that might be tactically useful, but they doubted Gortash would actually give them an answer. So instead they asked something that had gnawed at them since they woke up to Alfira’s blood on their hands, the rapture they felt in the moments before it became obvious where the visera came from. 

“Did I like it?”

THEN

“Control your beast before I put it down myself,” Ketheric hissed as Gortash walked into the main hall of Moonrise Towers. Given Gortash had left the man and Fox to work without him as a buffer for over a month, it was one of the better introductions he could have hoped for. 

Gortash had hoped they’d perhaps get lucky, when he introduced Fox to Ketheric. Despite the reputation the Dead Three’s followers had for loathing each other, Fox and Gortash got on well enough. He’d hoped the same would go for the General and the Assassin. 

(Well, not exactly the same. Gortash didn’t like to share. But Ketheric was so hung up on his wife that it probably wasn’t an issue).

Gortash’s hopes were quickly dashed when upon Fox telling Ketheric to pick a name, the General remarked “I thought you named your dogs, Gortash.” To which Fox had grinned, smile almost manic and said “Cute from a man who whored himself out to three Gods. Jealous you can’t keep a master, hm?” And well, Gortash was lucky it hadn’t devolved from violence from there. 

In retrospect, he should have known better than to expect Fox to play nice with a man sworn three Gods over. For a leader of a cult, they bristled at any mention of religion besides their own.

“It’s good to see you as well my friend,” Gortash said, bowing low. He hated bending the knee, even when it was for show, but such things needed to be tolerated should he ever obtain enough power to never bow again. “Though your hospitality could use some improvement.”

“You can have my hospitality when you don’t leave me with a maniac for a month.”

Gortash could ask what Fox had done to so stoke the General’s ire but frankly, he has no interest of hearing it. He was sure Ketheric would tell him about it later regardless, begging Gortash to reconsider the Bhaalist as an ally. And Gortash would remind him of their other options when it came to children of Bhaal and the General would shut his mouth because he had enough sense to not want Orin as a potential partner. 

Fox could be unpredictable and contrary, but for the most part, they followed orders when it pleased their interests. Orin appeared to detest taking orders on principle, regardless where they fell with her own inclinations. Gortash would take Fox over their kin any day for that alone.

Plus, unlike Orin and Ketheric, Gortash actually liked Fox.

“And where is said maniac?” Gortash asked, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. His traveling cloak clung to his outfit and he loosened the tie around his neck so he could take it off and fold it in his arms. 

“My office” Ketheric said, lip curling. 

Now that was a surprise. The General kept his office and his parody of a room for his daughter, under lock and key. Not that a lock would stop Gortash or Fox. “You let them in your office?”

“I allowed them into my office so they stopped presenting me with documents covered in various fluids. It’s a high price to pay but I am occasionally willing to pay it.” 

Fox’s workspace in the bowels of the tower, was not the cleanest space. It wasn’t Fox’s fault mostly: a mind flayer colony was not the tidiest working space regardless of how clean one kept their personal space. 

Fox was the one who wanted to work down there. Gortash understood why; the amount of blood and gore was soothing for them. But it did mean anything they worked on often carried a touch of the detritus from their work space with it. 

“Then I think I shall see how they’ve progressing,” Gortash said, heading towards the stairs. He watched as Ketheric stood out of his mockery of a throne, his movements as slow as the skeletons he commanded. 

“I still can’t believe you consort with it,” Ketheric remarked as Gortash headed up the steps. Gortash pretended not to hear him. It was a shame the general was so obsessed with the dead; there was so much to gain from the living.

Gortash made it two steps into Ketheric’s office before he was pushed against the wall and there was a mouth was on his throat. Normally, he’d respond to such an act with efficient violence, but the dark chuckle voiced into his skin made him relax and allow himself to be manhandled. Fox. They bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise. Gortash barely had a moment to process that before Fox’s knee slotted itself in between his legs, the pressure impossible not to grind into. Gortash clung to them. one hand grabbing the back of their robes, the other reaching under the opening in the front to place his hand on their chest. His palm met bare skin, my Gods the cut to their top was obscene, and he couldn’t help but groan. When they stopped creating what was likely a magnificent bruise on his neck, they titled their head up to whisper in his ear.

“The desk.” Their lips were close enough to touch the shell of his ear. Gortash wondered if he might see the purple of their lipstick there later. “Bend over it, won’t you? And lose the trousers.”

Well, this greeting was much better than the reception he got downstairs. Still, he didn’t want to be too receptive to taking orders. He reached forward to tangle his fingers in Fox’s hair, and yanked it back. They looked delectable today, makeup applied with hands skilled enough to render skin from flesh, their long hair pulled back into a half ponytail. The Bhaalspawn was panting as they were forced to meet his gaze, pupils blown wide. Gortash leaned forward so his lips were centimeters from theirs. 

“And why should I comply with orders from a Bhaalspawn?” 

Fox grinned like their current namesake. They jutted their head forward to bite at his collarbone again. The movement was so rapid some of their hair tore from the motion, various strands ending up in Gortash’s fingers. It had to sting. Fox growled as they licked the bite mark, before sucking a bruise into the pale skin of his neck. Gortash wondered if they broke the skin this time. Not that he cared. He was rather caught up on their leg pressed between his groin and the two hands grasping his ass.

“Because after,” Fox purred, tilting their head to lick his jawline. They were trying to place another mark there, something Gortash could not hide with a well placed shirt collar. “You can give whatever orders you want on Ketheric’s bed.”

And well, Gortash knew a good business deal when he heard one.

Much later, spread out on Ketheric’s bed, the sheets a wreck on the floor, Gortash breathed in, running his fingers through Fox’s hair. It looked good when it was down, and he twirled a silver strand around a finger as he peered down at them. Fox was using his chest as a pillow, tracing circles on his thigh with their right pointer finger. 

It was quiet compared to their previous activities. Fox in particular had been quite loud, their moans a touch performative when Gortash had them upon Ketheric’s bed. Gortash wondered if Ketheric had considered coming up to stop them from defiling his chambers, or if he’d stepped out and missed the show entirely. Either way, he’d find out eventually, given the evidence they’d left on his desk and bed per Fox’s request. 

His filthy Bhaalspawn. 

“What did our dear general do to provoke such petty ire,” he said, letting the strands of Fox’s hair fall through his fingers. Fox hummed, their right finger starting to trace his thigh counterclockwise. 

“His continued existence.” Their voice was throaty and a little hoarse from their previous activities.

“I don’t doubt that but I suspect there is more to it, given that you’re not bending me over his desk whenever I visit.” Gortash glanced over at the desk. He’d insisted on removing the actual important paperwork to their plans before they defiled it, but Ketheric’s personal notes and correspondence were now scattered both on the table and floor. Ketheric would likely take issue with Gortash going along with such a task on his personal effects, but Gortash was sure he could pass it off as his way of keeping Fox from murdering them by getting out some excess energy. 

It would be more convenient if the two got along but since they didn’t, he didn’t see any issue in ensuring they wouldn’t plot against him by feeding their worst suspicions about one another. If Ketheric asked him, Fox was feral and only controlled by Gortash’s leash. If Fox asked him, Ketheric was a dullard best for the land he controlled and little else. 

“He said some things.”

“Ah. Is this about the rabid comment?”

Fox snapped their head up to him, eyes narrowing. “What rabid comment?”

There was no rabid comment though Gortash wouldn’t be shocked if Ketheric voiced such a thing. “Nevermind. Don’t concern yourself with it. What did the General say?”

“Wanted a dress I found. Said some shit about his daughter needing it or other when she comes here.”

“You fought him about a dress?” That was a surprise. Fox wore dresses on occasion, Gortash had them accompany him to a few galas in formal wear, but it was more because it was convenient rather than any enjoyment of formal wear. The same went with suits. 

“It’s for Orin.”

Ugh, Orin. Despite how much she and Fox fought, the Sorcerer occasionally doted on her like she was a flighty teenager rather than a grown woman.  “Orin can shapeshift into any dress she wants.”

Fox glared at him, tilting their head towards the locked side room. It was for Ketheric’s daughter, this Gortash knew, though he’d never been inside it. Frankly, he had no desire to. “And his brat is going to be living in a locked room for the rest of her miserable experience. A dress will serve as a mockery, not as a gift.”

Gortash thought himself rather shrewd from his years in politics. Fox was harder to read than the gentry of the Gate, but he’d gotten better at understanding them as time passed. Fox told him the Urge desired the Cleric’s blood, the wreckage it could enact should it take the women’s life. They’d promised to hold off on that Urge for the sake of their alliance, but Gortash could see them justifying her death as their own desire now, trying to make their own desires match what the Urge howled at them to crave. 

Fox could tell themselves all they wanted that killing Isobel would save her from a lifetime of captivity, but Gortash knew better. If they truly wished to save her of that fate, they could free her themselves when the time came. They just needed an excuse to justify the glee they’d enjoy as they tore out the cleric’s heart. 

“You know you can’t kill her if we wish for the General’s continued assistance.”

Fox ceased circling with their right finger, instead pressing down with the tip of their nails over where a major vein lay. For all their brutality, they knew how manipulate a body perfectly. It was only their fondness for Gortash that meant he received pleasure instead of main. “I’m not stupid, Enver.” 

He shook his leg slightly to offset their hand. “Obviously. I merely wished to remind you, that’s all.” They hummed, somewhat appeased, and he reached down to up their chin so they were looking up at him. Fox attempted to lick his thumb but he held firm, squeezing slightly. “Now how can I convince you to play nice with our undying general?”

Fox moved so they were lying on top of Gortash now, their arms crossed over his chest, their face above his. He let go of their chin to accommodate the motion. “Remind me why we need him again?”

Gortash gestured to the crumbling tower around them. It smelled like a crypt most days, which was to Fox’s liking. Gortash, however, could do without. “He controls Moonrise.”

“I could control Moonrise”

They could, though Gortash doubted they’d enjoy running two cults given how little they enjoyed the one they were born to. “And then what would we do with the General?”

Fox gave him a flash of white teeth.  “Kill him.”

“And how do you suggest we kill the General given his tenacity to staying alive?”

Fox rolled their eyes like the question was a simple matter that people hadn’t spent decades trying to find an answer to. “Separate his head and his limbs from his torso and  secure each in secure locations around the sword coast. “

Gortash considered that for a moment. He’d heard of people attempting to burn the General alive before for him to simply reform from ash. If his respective parts were kept away from rejoining, however-

“You have given this far more thought than I like.”

Fox hummed, looking up with a thoughtful look on their face which boded poorly for their continued alliance. “Orin could use a new present. She likes hands.”

Gortash grabbed their chin again. “Fox, you cannot dismember our ally.” He paused, thinking about what they would do should they succeed in this mad plan. ”At least not yet.” Before they opened their mouth to debate them, he rubbed his thumb across their chin, a caress he’d practiced over years of charming the gentry. Fox’s mouth closed along with their eyes and they leaned into the touch, like a plant seeking out a ray of sun.

Ketheric was so very wrong about their Bhaalspawn. They were no beast, as humanoid as the rest of them. They could easily be reasoned with, were one willing to give them what they want. For just a pantomime of affection, and they could be convinced to stay their blades.

Gortash suspected they knew how he sought to control them. As Fox said, they weren’t stupid. But for some reason they allowed it, and for that Gortash was willing to take advantage.

CHAPTER 5: WHAT WAS I TO YOU?

NOW  “The sex? Absolutely.”

The confirmation of what Rune long suspected echoed in the room. 

Rune wasn’t exactly sure how someone was supposed to react to this information. Horrified might be a good response, but frankly, given everything their former self had done, bedding Gortash was at least a normal bad decision for someone to make, compared to the cult, the murder, and the likely cannibalism oh Gods, they didn’t want to think too hard about that one. Sleeping with someone vile? Now that was at least a mistake people made on the regular. Maybe that was why, instead of being horrified, they found themselves consumed by an entirely different emotion.

“Gross,” Rune said, nose wrinkling like they smelled something rotten. The mental image of their tongue anywhere near Gortash’s mouth let alone- Gods. “And petty. That’s not what I meant and he knows it.”

“I have to say it was a rather slimy response from an already slimy man.” Astarion said, looking rather disgusted himself. He wasn’t watching them too closely, instead focused on the wall and Rune was glad for it. They watched as he twisted his arm that was still embedded in the wall and pulled out another long string of copper wire. Astarion held it out in Rune’s direction. “You have that thinking look about you. A copper wire for your thoughts?”

Rune actually wasn’t thinking about much. Anything that involved their relationship with Gortash that involved sex wasn’t something they wanted to examine too closely. They doubted they’d find anything there of use, except for some shame and maybe regret. 

There was a small thought in the back of their head that did want to examine the matter much more closely. A voice that said something about why Gortash had not looked for them, were they truly lovers. What it said about that relationship, that he hadn’t bothered to even find their corpse, disposed of in a heap under Moonrise. Rune ignored it. It didn’t matter. And if they kept telling themselves that, it would continue not to matter.

No one looked for you. No one even bothered to try to find your corpse. You are just as disposable as every other wretched Bhalspawn. A tool to be used and discarded-

Instead of thinking more about that, Rune snorted, louder than was probably natural. Keep away from those thoughts. “I mean the sex couldn’t have been that good. I don’t remember any of it.”

Did they? There were things they didn’t like in bed, actions that felt off in a way they could place. Was it preference? Or-

“You have one question left,” Astarion said. Rune could have kissed him for the interruption from that train of thought. He peeled away from the wall and pulled out a bag from his pocket. With a sweeping gesture, he shoved all the copper wire off the desk inside before walking back over to Rune. Rune kept their gaze on his face, trying not to pay any mind to the corpse before them.

“I do.” Just one question. There were so many things they could still ask. The most obvious was to clarify their previous question: did they like being…whatever the fuck they were before. The Chosen of Bhaal. A mass murderer. A cult leader. All would suffice yet each potential label held its own connotations. Or they could ask something else entirely, maybe something that might help them fix the mess they made. But if they were to ask something actually useful, they doubted Gortash would actually answer. Maybe they could ask about how they looked before all this and actually, no, bad idea, terrible idea, absolutely not-

“May I make a suggestion?” Astarion’s voice cut off the panic threatening to boil over in Rune’s chest. Rune found themselves terribly thankful he’d followed them here, regardless of their earlier protests. As horrific as it was to hear this laid plain, it was more tolerable with trusted company. 

“I thought you didn’t approve.” Rune glanced down at the corpse, then back at at Astarion. He was looking at them across from Gortash’s corpse, eying his nails like he was worried for the state of them even after his entire hand was buried in the wall. 

“Oh, I don’t.” He put his hand down and met their gaze. “But if you’re determined to see this exercise in self-flagellation all the way through, I would ask you to consider my feedback.”

Rune wanted to object to the term “self flagellation” but it fit, and after four questions, they weren’t sure if they could pretend otherwise. “Which is?”

Astarion glanced down at Gortash’s corpse, then walked around it. Rune took a step back as he inserted himself in the space between the sorcerer and the dead Duke. His body blocked Rune from seeing Gortash’s face, but the green glow from the spell shined behind him. When he reached up to grab their chin, Rune let him.

 “Don’t ask him how you felt about anything. Like your question before.” Rune raised an eyebrow as a silent plea for elaboration and he continued. “He had no way of knowing what was going on in your head. He can make guesses, and I’m sure he did, but that doesn’t mean he was right.”

Astarion had a point, Rune hated to admit it. But Rune barely knew what was going on in their own head most days. How much did they actually crave violence and how much was the Urge? Did they really want to be better, or was that just a lie they told themselves to sleep at night? What thoughts were their own, and which were the Urge whispering in their ear? That was part of the whole problem. 

“Look.” Despite the echo of unanswered questions in their head, Rune pulled their focus to the man in front of them. “How would you feel if I asked Cazador’s corpse the same question you just asked?”

Rune flinched at the idea. They’d managed to ignore the hypothetical when Astarion brought it up earlier, but now their brain was less kind. Their direct experience with Cazador was thankfully limited, but in the brief period the man dared to exist in Rune’s space gave them plenty of ideas what he might say to the same question. All of the potential answers made Rune want to cut the man’s vocal cords, if to spare Astarion the wounds those words could inflict. 

“It’s not the same-“ they began but Astarion cut them off before they could finish. 

“It’s not, but the intent behind asking the question is.” Rune closed their mouth, unable to find a counter argument to the accusation.  The only reason they could think of Astarion asking such a thing to Cazador was if he wanted to marinate in his own self loathing. And while Rune wanted to again argue that this information was tactical, they could find no tactical reason that they’d need to know if they used to like their role in the world. 

Astarion picked up on their hesitation and reached forward, sweeping back their hair with his hand. His placed a kiss to their forehead before he left his hand there. The cold palm on their skull was a balm for their headache and they couldn’t help but lean into it a little.

“You already have a headache,” he said, the cutting edge that often accompanied his voice blunted by affection and care. “Don’t make me watch you hurt yourself further.”

Rune closed their eyes, enjoying the cold hand on their brow. For a moment, they imagined they were somewhere else, anywhere else, that they had never heard the name Enver Gortash. That their friends were close by, that the Urge was quieter than usual, and there was nothing but the peaceful companionship of the people they now called home. 

“What was I to you?” Rune whispered, opening their eyes. Astarion startled slightly, looking rather perplexed. 

“Do you truly want me to shower you in compliments here?” He asked, before the green light behind him flared brighter. Still holding his hand with their own, Rune gently pushed him aside to look down at the corpse of Enver Gortash.

Astarion was right: every answer Gortash gave would be from his perspective, his own thoughts. So why bother asking him for objectivity in the first place? Might as well get straight to the point and ask something Gortash would know the truth of, even if he refused to tell it.

What did a monster think of a monster?

---------

THEN

It was after the hour of Midnight, when he tracked Hex down to a building in Rivington

Tracking them was easy, when he needed to do so: he had a “locate object” spell on their shared sending stones that made him capable of seeking them out, when he truly needed to. This was one of those times: Hex had not responded to any of his missives for at least an hour, and given the urgency of the task Gortash had for them, he couldn’t wait for them to reply to him. So he cast a locate object spell and after some walking in the dark, come across a small path leaving to a building somewhere in Rivington.

What business Hex had here was not something he knew about. That wasn’t unusual, Hex had plenty of murder and cult politics to deal with. They could be here for a multitude of reasons, ranging from satisfying their own blood lust to doing some freelance assisination work. Gortash knew he shouldn’t be bothered by his ignorance of what they were up to,  but still. He so hated to be lacking information. It was such a useful thing to have to avoid unexpected complications. 

Hex wouldn’t be pleased he tracked them down, either. They tended to chafe at the reminder he could locate them around the city. Gortash thought the ire rather childish. They should get used to it now, given how this would be his city soon enough, should things go according to plan. Complaining about such a minor thing now was like a child throwing a tantrum.

He pulled himself from his thoughts and started down the path to a three story building with brick walls and a firm foundation. Rather well built, he thought, given the location, According to the sign near the road, there were several businesses housed here: a tailor for “silk garnets” and a gardener for hire. The gardener appeared to have applied their profession to the land surrounding the building; long garden paths lined the path to the entrance, showcasing an amount of greenery only a skilled hand could coax from the earth of the Gate.

Gortash continued towards the building and looked down at the garden paths that ran from the stairs to the connection to the main road.  Closer to the main road, flowers bloomed and long grass leaned over the brick road. It should smell rather lovely as a large collection of flowers did at this time of the year, but instead the overwhelming smell of rot and decay filled Gortash’s nose. As he got closer to the entrance of the building, the source of the stench was obvious. All the plants within a six foot diameter around the front of the building were dead. The tall green grass laid flat on the ground, the color now brown, while the smaller strands turned yellow and appeared sharp to the touch. The flowers were drooping, the bright colors grayed, the petals wrinkled. The bushes lost half their leaves, the remaining foliage merely hanging on to the branches like they didn’t know what else to do in death except cling to where there was once life. The trees were the only things that still looked alive, though from the smattering of leaves that covered the road, Gortash knew their appearance was merely an illusion of life. 

There was one spell that could cause this: Circle of death. Gortash saw Hex cast it once or twice, one of the occasions being their heist in Avernus. Given how loath they were to rely on their magic, there had to be good reason to use such a massive spell. 

The door was unlocked and opened slowly so as to not make extra noise. Upon entry, there were already two corpses in sight, seated at two chairs facing the other, a lit lantern between them along with a chess board. At both of their sides were a crossbow and a staff leaning against the wall: neither had been holding them. As expected, both were dead, a half elf and a Dragonborn slumped in their respective seats. The Dragonborn faced away from him but he could see the shock in the  half elf’s face, mouth parted slightly open. Purple Black veins were visible under their brown skin, the necrotic damage obvious. 

Gortash approached the table and looked down at the board. Given their seating arrangements, he assumed they were on watch, though if they were playing chess, he doubted it was a very good effort. They’d almost been done with the game too, if the Dragonborn realized how close he was to checkmate. Given the pieces already captured off the board, neither was skilled tactically. Despite knowing it was silly, Gortash reached for one of the Black bishops, and moved it into position so it properly locked the White King in checkmate.

After that he moved to the second floor. Here too, were a handful of corpses, around three or so if he had to guess. They appeared to also be armed; curious. This likely wasn’t simply satisfying bloodlust then, He started up the third set of stairs but stopped when he heard a voice.

“Disgrace.”

Orin. Damn it. Gortash hadn’t expected Orin. Why couldn’t she be busy making a sculpture out of femur bones or something? Gortash hadn’t considered her presence even as an opinion: the two Bhaalspawn tended to work alone, only appearing together when it was a matter of significant importance. For them both to be out on the same mission was rather rare. Unless she’d stolen Hex’s sending stone-

“Quit whining, Orin,” that was Hex, their voice snappish. Well, at least they were there. That didn’t improve Gortash’s situation much; Orin would react poorly to Gortash’s unexpected presence regardless. While he was sure Hex would intervene before she did too much damage, he wasn’t in the mood to be stabbed. He considered retreating and returning at a later point, but he was loathe to walk back across the city if he didn’t have to. So instead, he reached for his gold ring on his pinky finger, turned it three times counterclockwise and felt the shroud of an invisibility spell fall over him.

He would have to reapply the spell to the ring later, he thought with irritation. But he supposed the cost of materials and hours spent re-infusing the ring with the spell was less expensive than buying a potion for a stab wound. With that, he crept up the stairs until he made it to the landing of the third floor, walked through the door that was left thrown open, and took in the scene before him.

Unlike the other rooms, there was the echo of violence here. A corpse laid in the center of the room, but unlike the others, their throat was slit, and they appeared to also be disemboweled. Blood drenched the floorboards, Gortash was surprised it hadn’t dripped through the cracks and into the second floor. The corpse was that of an elf, well armed with a sword and a shield, though neither seemed to have provided them much luck,. His eyes stared blankly into the distance, his mouth parted in the memory of a scream.

Orin stood above the body, her arms drenched in blood up to her elbows. She ran her fingers across her arms, further smearing the blood, but she didn’t seem to be enjoying it, as she usually would. Every few seconds she mumbled a different word under her breath, growing louder as her sibling continued to ignore her. Hex was crouched near the body on their knees, digging through the corpse’s pockets, ignoring Orin’s grunts. Gortash didn’t know what they were looking for, but they appeared to find it, snatching something small and placing it within their own robes. They were less bloodstained than their kin, but there was a smear of blood across their face that stained their mouth like cheap lipstick. 

“Mindless,” Orin hissed, dipping her foot in the blood pool and smearing it across the floor. Gortash wondered if she might try to paint with it, the wretched creature. “The blood split sings. Contained in flesh chests, deprive father of its shine. Disgrace.”

Hex rolled their eyes as they got to their feet. They walked over to a wall and began tapping against the wood there, taking a moment to listen to the echo. “Your complaining is a disgrace,” They said between knocks. “This is at least half a dozen murders for Father’s altar. Are you not happy for his bounty?”

Orin bristled like a cat. Her hair almost puffed out like one too. “No blood-“

“No blood? You’re covered in it.”

“Not enough. Only a tease of red split upon the floor. Many corpses but only one has flesh cut open. A farce of a sacrifice.”

Hex knocked on another part of the wall and paused with the echo came off dulled. They pried their fingernails into the wood and Gortash watched as they leveraged up a section of the board to reveal a keyhole. The force tore at their nails, and blood ran through their fingers from the new injuries. 

“Your need for showboating is the farce,” they said, digging into their pocket and pulling out a shiny silver item that they pressed into the keyhole, then discarded it onto the floor. With a creak, a large section of the wall lowered into the floor, revealing a small office with a desk, maps, a closet and a few chests. Once they took in the space, they turned around to look at Orin, contempt obvious. “Father wants murders: he cares not for how they are made. It doesn’t matter how carefully you rend flesh from bone: it means nothing when I’ve delivered him multiple souls in merely an instant.”

Orin’s shoulders raised and she stalked towards them, getting up in their face. Gortash reached for his hand crossbow: if she attacked it would give him a great excuse to shoot her. “It thinks it knows,” she sang in a childish tune. “What father wants-“

She cut off with a strangling laugh as Hex grasped her chin in their right hand, electricity sparking off their fingers. Her body jerked from the pain of the spell, and a small dribble of blood fell from her lips as she bit her own tongue. Hex leaned in, smile wild and unhinged in a way Gortash knew to respond to with caution.

“I know what he wants,” they said and Gortash was sure he could hear another voice rumble under their own, the echo of the divine  joy brought from such petty violence.  “I am made of his flesh incarnate, I am the one molded from his darkest impulses, I am the hand of the Murder Lord made mortal to bring about his reign. You are of his blood but you are not an extension of him. Your own desires can pollute your own worship.” They let go of her chin and kicked out at her ankle. Orin dodged, taking a step back, but it didn’t look as graceful as her movements usually looked. Hex, meanwhile, snapped their fingers, a font of electricity sparking as a warning before vanishing entirely.  “It serves you to remember that.”

Orin hissed, her expression tight, her teeth bared. Both her and Gortash watched as Hex walked into the small office space, and reached for one of the maps hung on the wall. 

“Gortash will want to see this,” they said to themselves. Gortash watched as they ripped it down, and shoved it into their robes. Their habit of taking every scrap of paper and parchment reminded him of a bird sometimes, collecting material for a nest.

Orin appeared to have recovered from her electrocution. Gortash watched as she shook herself, almost like a dog shaking off water, and her face changed. Her hair transformed into a long ponytail, her skin gained some color, and her clothing turned into the same robes Hex was wearing now. When Hex glanced over and saw their own reflection staring back at them, they groaned out loud.

“Really, Orin? You’re acting like a child.”

“Better a child than a precocious pet,” Orin said. Gortash found it fascinating, how she could so perfectly mimic how other people talked given how she refused to speak clearly in her true form. Was most of her madness simply for show, to fit the role Bhaal had assigned her? Or was she truly as mad as she appeared to be, just skilled at appearing sane, when required?

“Stop talking in riddles Orin,” Hex said, posture becoming loser, dragging their words out with a hiss. “Just say what you mean.”

Gortash looked at the two Hexes. Orin had copied them perfectly, down to mannerisms. In response, Hex had taken on Orin’s usual posture, shoulders back, looking a mix of bored and disgusted. They mirrored people when they were annoyed with them; Gortash had seen them replicate Ketheric’s tone and lazy hand wave at more than one meeting when the General said something they found particularly irritating. 

Perhaps Orin was the origin of that habit. Whenever she turned into the Chosen to mock them, the Chosen did the same back in their physicality and tone. 

Having siblings must be exhausting.

“Why must you waste your time with the Banite?”

Hex rolled their eyes with a relish that would be at home on Orin’s face. Walking purposefully slow, like a sulking cat, they bent back down next to the corpse. With care, they trailed a finger through the gore of the man’s slit throat and shuddered in pleasure. Gortash wasn’t sure if the latter but was part of their Orin impression, or their own delight they tried to keep on a leash when he was around.

For some reason, the idea of Hex hiding something about themselves from his own eyes, filled him with irritation. The idea that Orin of all people, might know parts of Hex better than himself was infuriating. 

Hex wiped their blood stained finger across their own throat, smiling wide. When Orin smiled in response, more pleased by their mockery than irate, their expression returned to a deadpan that was all Hex. They turned back to the dead man’s pockets and began to pull out coins. Their left hand was deep in his pocket and Gortash watched as they pulled out blood soaked coins one by one to stack in a pile on the wooden floor. He’d taken note of their habit for penny pinching shortly into their acquaintance. It was a habit he often saw in his own men, once street urchins used to emptying drunkard’s pockets for change whenever they passed out in a gutter. 

“He’s useful.”

Orin blew her, well Hex’s, bangs to the side of her face. Unlike Hex, she seemed uninterested in scrounging the dead man’s room for anything of use. Gortash wouldn’t be surprised if the only thing that actually interested her was the dead body itself. “Useful?  For what? Whetting your appetites? Lesser hungers? ”

Hex looked up at her, appearing to have pilfered the last of the man’s belongings, shoving them into a bag. They placed the bag into one of their oversized pockets and got up, wiping the dust off their robes like they weren’t already saturated in blood. “That’s merely a bonus.” Soon they walked over to the main wardrobe of the room and with a snap of their fingers, opened it to reveal a colorful assortment of gowns and shirts. Gortash was somewhat surprised to see them eye the clothes with interest; when he’d requested their service at any upper crust event, they’d always disguised themselves as the help, refusing his offers to acquire them suitable dress for the occasion. He’d thought them adverse to silk as a concept. Given how they were eying a rather fine doublet, he’d been wrong. “Anyway, you don’t have to deal with him: why bother complaining.”

“A starving pet. A dog he has brought to heel. What commands do you answer to Bloodkin? Bark? Bite? Roll over?”

Hex turned to look at her, then theatrically placed their hand over they heart, their eyes going wide. “Oh Orin, don’t tell me you suddenly care about my honor,” they cooed, tone sickeningly sweet. Orin visibly gaged before she replied.

“Your blade cuts, cuts, cuts. Bites at his command. Blood pours, rich blood. Our father’s name at a Banite’s call. Bhaal’s chosen, a pup on a leash.”

“And?”

Orin turned back into herself, her eyes going back to the voidless pupils that Gortash found unsettling. “Sickening.”

“Good thing it’s none of your concern then.” Hex dragged a dress out of the wardrobe, appraised it, then threw it to Orin who catched it in one go. It was a rather plain frock, but the buttons were a lovely ruby red that Orin ran her thumb over. “A reward.” At that, her expression soured, and she dropped the dress on the floor.

“I am not a pitiful pet in need of treats,” she hissed, stepping on the dress and grinding it into the blood. Hex leaned back against the dresser.

“Then act like one. You’re dismissed.”

Orin appeared like she might linger just to spite them before she headed for the window, flinging herself out of it like the dramatic music she was. 

It was curious, Gortash thought, how Hex treated their fellow kin. When he first learned of Orin, he assumed Hex kept her around because they were forced to, much like Sarvok. But as time passed, it became clear Orin’s continued existence was based, at least in part, from a place of affection. They were harsh on their sister, and at times cruel, but they were also deeply protective when anyone dared to question her place in Hex’s ranks. 

Gortash wouldn’t think about this much if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that he despised the women. Where Hex was a blade that could be aimed and directed, Orin was as precise as a storm of daggers. Where Hex planned their next movements unless their father forced their hand, Orin acted almost entirely on impulse. Where Hex was starved of affection that they enjoyed Gortash’s pantomime of it, Orin found it demeaning at best. 

She’d threatened to gut him like a fish at least a dozen times. To be fair, so had Hex, but Gortash was confident they would abstain until the plan was complete. 

Once he was sure Orin was gone, Gortash cleared his throat, letting the invisibility spell fall. Hex, who was back to looking at the documents on the desk, swirled around ready to cast, before they took him in. Their battle stance fell, replaced by irritation. 

“Family can be so trying, can’t they?” He said, leaning against the doorframe. Hex’s eyes narrowed and they turned back to the documents they were inspecting previously.

“How long were you listening?” They said, voice curt. They were not  pleased with his presence. He expected as much. Orin never put them in a good mood. 

“Merely a few minutes. I didn’t mean to spy, but it seemed unwise to alert Orin of my presence.” He walked up to the secret panel on the wall and took a look at what Hex had used to activate it. Now that he was closer, he could see a shiny silver pin pressed into a keyholel, the harp design a familiar irritant. “Ah, a den of Harpers. Good to see you dealing with pests.”

Hex didn’t respond to his comment, instead going over to the hidden desk. They lit a candle with a snap of their fingers and began to rifle through the collected papers in the first drawer. 

“I must say, I thought they were supposed to be made of stronger stuff,” Gortash continued, plucking the pin from the panels. He should melt it down and turn it into a mechanism for one of his traps. It would provide some satisfaction to know some Harper’s might fall to their own symbol. 

“These were mostly rookies,” Hex said, holding one of the pieces of paper over the candle to burn while they read another. “If this was a proper outpost, we’d have more trouble.”

“Why bother with the rookies? Strike at a larger fish and some might simply run on their own.”

“Needed to teach Orin a lesson.” They pulled at the next drawer in the desk and grumbled when it did not open. “Do you have your skeleton key? I need to open this.”

“I wasn’t aware she was capable of that.”

“What do you want, Enver?” The dismissal was clear and irritating. If Hex wanted to keep some of their business to themselves, so be it, but Orin could ruin their whole operation. That made her Gortash’s concern. 

Gortash decided against pressing the matter, at least not now. He had some theories at least, from his own research. He placed his hands behind his back and stood up straighter. 

“I need you at Moonrise. The tadpoles might be ready.”

Hex grabbed another handful of papers, and flipped through them. Gortash watched as they pulled one out from the stack and shoved it in their own pockets. It was hard to read with the low light and distance, but it looked to be a report on a supply stash. “Took long enough. I assume the sooner the better?

“Correct.” Hex stashed a full more papers into their crumpled pockets before turning to look at Gortash properly.

“I can leave within a few hours. Once I torch this place, I’ll inform Orin and head out.”

Gortash tried very hard not to twitch. He felt a headache beginning to brew behind his temples. Orin, Orin Orin; when would he be free of hearing of that godforsaken liability. “Why must you inform that madwoman of anything?”

“Because I plan to drag her with me as punishment for her insolence. 

Gortash stiffened, his former resolve to not push the matter dissolving like sand against the tide. This was too much. The last thing he needed was Orin’s presence at Moonrise. “You could simply kill her instead of trying to tame her. It would save you time and significant stress.”

Hex didn’t look up at him, instead reaching into the drawers to pull out any leftover parchment. As they crumpled it up into balls, they spoke in a steady voice. It was a tone that reminded Gortash of a boxer, preparing to take a hit. Fitting; this was to be a fight after all. “That would be a waste of a useful resource.”

Liar. “She’s not a resource, she’s a liability. You know as well as I do that she wants you dead.”

Hex rolled their eyes. They placed a few balls of paper near the drapes of the window, then some more near a hay cot in the corner. Setting up the funeral pyre this building would be. 

“So do you.” They said it like it was a certainty.

That wasn’t exactly the case. Gortash was prepared to kill Hex, should he have to. Should Hex bow under the fist of Bane, should Hex decide to submit to his command rather than their Father, he would have no need to kill them. It was unlikely, this Gortash knew, but he could at least entertain such a possibility. 

He liked Hex. Maybe even loved them, the same way a king loved a prized caged bird. A cruel type of love, but no less cruel than Hex’s own affections. Hex, who if they loved him, loved him like a hound loved a slab of fresh meat.

If the children of the Dead Three loved at all, they loved just as cruelly as their masters. 

“Eventually,” Gortash said, not willing to critique an assumption that likely brought Hex some comfort. “But not anytime soon, less you decide our arrangement is not to your liking.” He winked at Hex who responded by scowling at him. “Orin, I fear, may be more rash.” 

“She commands the respect of the dopplegangers,” Hex said, taking a seat in the chair that once held the fallen Harper. They crossed their legs and took out one of their daggers, spinning it in their hand. Gortash knew they were talented enough to avoid cutting themselves, so when their dagger sliced their thumb, he knew he had them somewhat rattled. Good.

“Respect you could easily command yourself as a child of Bhaal.”

Hex turned their gaze from the bead of blood now trailing down their thumb, their dagger still in their hand. Brown eyes met his own. Their voice had a hiss to it. “Since when has it been your business to meddle in the matters of the temple of Bhaal?”

Gortash walked over to them and titled his chin down to look at them properly. They were tense, possibly from the argument he’d overheard, possibly from his own line of questioning. He reached forward and tucked a stray lock of their hair behind their ear. Gortash didn’t miss how they twitched at the gesture. “Since we have joined together in a venture that concerns us both.” Hex’s frown deepened but he decided to push the matter further regardless. “Hex, you know as well as I do that she seeks to take your place. And while she has plenty of skill with a blade, she lacks any capability for planning.” With the same hand he’d used to tuck back their hair, he threaded his fingers through their long locks. Pulling his hand away from their skull only a fraction caused the strands to catch slightly on his gauntlets, and they tilted their head back in response. How lovely. “Plus, I would miss the pleasure of your company.”

Hex’s yanked their head away from his hand, the same strands of hair tearing away from their scalp from the harsh movement. When their gaze meet Gortash’s next, their eyes were narrow and their expression was cold. After placing their dagger back in its sheath, they pushed him backward, blood smearing onto his tunic. “You’d miss the pleasure of something alright. Stay out of my affairs, Enver.”

Hex got up, striding away from him and Gortash ground his foot against the floorboards. Maybe it was the late hour, or the fact they were so close to their goal, or the fact he rather liked this shirt that made him itch for a fight. 

“You’re usually much more reasonable than this,” he said, seizing Hex’s wrist with his gauntleted hand. He dug in his fingers, not afraid to leave bruises, to make it clear on Hex’s skin that he had some claim to them. “If you didn’t have a need for him, I know you would have killed Sarvok. So why not Orin? What inspires mercy from someone who is supposed to have none?”

Gortash suspected he knew the reason why. It was on the tip of his tongue, a piece of information he gleaned from years of digging and placing gold into the right palms. He’d kept it to himself, like all good information, knowing that should he reveal his knowledge, it might lose all its power like a spell scroll opened and consumed. 

But he also knew that information would cut far deeper than his gauntlets ever could. And the thought of Orin so close to the heart of what would allow him true control, control for the rest of his days, enough control that he could make even Raphael bend to kiss his ring, made him want to cut deep.

“Do not excuse my practicality for mercy, Banite,” Hex said, sparks flying off the hand of the wrist he’d seized. A warning. A threat. You are not in control here.

Time to cut through that illusion.

“And do not mistake my restraint for ignorance ████.”

Hex stopped pulling away from him. The sparks from their fingers sputtered out. Their brown eyes widened, and he could see the slightest flinch.

“…excuse me?” Gortash had never heard them sound like this before. Unmoored in a way only a mortal could be. He smiled, making sure it was all teeth. 

“Why?” He sang, letting a bit of the infuriating naive tone he’d heard from years of parties and galas. The “him? The son of shoemakers can you believe it?” tone. “Do you not like it?”

Some of the shock faded from Hex’s expression, replaced by anger. “Don’t play dumb.”

Fair enough. “That is your name, is it not?████? You appeared to have used it for almost two decades at least. I assume you picked it yourself once you were old enough to realize it needed changing.”

Hex was silent, looking straight at him. Gortash supposed he could leave it there, but it had taken quite a bit of work to track down this information. He’d spent hours looking over old newspapers in the basement of Baluldur’s Mouth, his fingers becoming stained with ink from the effort. It was a task he would have usually hired someone for, but when it came to matters regarding Hex, he’d rather keep that information to himself.

He let go off their wrist and began to pace. 

“It took me a while to narrow down, I will admit. There were a few options, and I wasn’t entirely certain. It wasn’t like you left a lot of clues. But eventually I got enough to piece some things together. Your knowledge of the Harpers, the fact you’re from the Gate..And when your butler mentioned such a grisly murder at such a young age, well, I thought it couldn’t hurt to check the papers.”

He looked at Hex. They were still staring at him. Were they paler than usual or was it just the darkness of the claustrophobic room?

“An unsolved double homicide and a missing human child around the age of…11? Rather interesting case, actually: two parents and their two adoptive children: a tiefling and a human. The gnome was in the Harper’s records actually, as was the elder child who happened to not be at home during the original massacre: a promising young woman-“

“Stop-“ Hex whispered, voice unsteady. 

“She was a rather talented in the Bardic arts.”

“Stop.” This time their voice was a little louder. He pressed on. 

“The tiefling was murdered too, though I’m sure you know that. Not until almost a decade later, curious enough. Disemboweled looking for her missing sibling-“

“Stop!” Hex shouted, loud enough to be heard down the street. They were shaking like trying to cast off a fever, like if they shook hard enough they could shake the memory with it. Sickened by their own history. He understood that well enough. He felt similar when he saw a polishing rag when the temperature was just high enough to echo that of Avernus.

Gortash felt a moment of pity for them. Poor thing; too much a monster to be mortal, too much a mortal to be a monster. Clinging to the echo of a feeling for a dead sister, and etching it onto another who had no desire for the regard. He’d been similar once, seeking out older mortals under Raphael’s service and hoping to see parental affection in their eyes. He’d learned soon enough there was none to be found. 

Safety was not found through others. Safety was thing you took by force. How silly that Bhaal’s favorite child still refused to admit otherwise. 

Clucking his tongue, Gortash walked towards them. When they didn’t move, even when he was chest to chest with them, he reached up with his gauntlet to cradle their cheek with his palm. One of his claws left a scratch near their eye in the same place they had a thin scar. As gently as he could, he tilted their head up to look at them, trying to sound soothing.

“Orin is not Aria, he said, voice low, the sharp edge gone. “It would serve you to remember that.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to their clammy brow, holding their chin firmly with his hand. 

And with that blow delivered, he turned around and began to walk out of the room.

CHAPTER 6: WHY?

NOW

“An asset.”

Rune peered past Astarion and watched as the green light faded from Gortash’s eyes and mouth. His body fell back to the floor with a soft thud, the spell far more gentle to Gortash’s corpse than the man ever was in life. 

It was over. Five questions and five answers, no second attempts. Unless they could extract more information from Gortash’s own notes, this was the most information Rune was ever going to get about their previous self. 

Before they left for this endeavor, Rune knew the results would likely be deeply unsatisfying. But they didn’t anticipate how empty it would make them feel, to reach out for some clarity and only find more questions than answers. 

“Well, that was rather pointless,” Astarion said, glancing at the corpse over his shoulder. Rune dragged their hand down their face-they loved this man, but sometimes he really needed to think before he spoke- and groaned.

“Please don’t rub it in.”

Astarion started, paused then had the good sense to look abashed. “I wasn’t-“ 

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, nothing was, but Rune’s head hurt too much to make a fuss about it. “Look, let’s get out of here.”

Astarion opened his mouth as if to speak again then shut it. Rune watched as he headed towards the window they entered through and followed. On the way, their eyes lingered on a small mirror Gortash had hanging on the wall. It was somewhat cracked from the fight earlier, but they could still make out their reflection even in the dim light. Short white hair long grey before it’s time. Deep dark bags under their eyes that spoke of little sleep. A jagged scar across the bridge of their nose that they had no memory of getting.

Rune stared into the mirror for a long moment. Gortash’s corpse had provided them with some information but none of it was to the questions they actually had. There was only one person who could answer those.

What did they used to look like, before everything? Rune had a rough picture from Kressa’s notes-she’d commented on having to shave off their long hair-but the rest was a mystery. Did they wear makeup or only got disguised? How did they like to dress? Was Rune’s fondness for shiny trinkets their own or an echo of someone else? 

They grimaced, watching their reflection do the same. Speaking with Gortash’s corpse had been mostly useless. All it left them with was more questions. And the only person who could answer them had not left a corpse behind to ask.

“Why?” Rune whispered to their reflection hoping Astarion wouldn’t hear. That’s all they wanted to know, truly. Why do all this? Why stop fighting the Urge? Why partner with Gortash and Ketheric? 

Maybe if Rune knew the answer to any of those questions, they could stop themselves from becoming that person again. 

Their reflection just stared questionly back at them. Rune grumbled and blew out some hot air fueled by their wild magic, fogging the glass so they could no longer see their face. 

With that, they walked towards the window where Astarion was waiting to leave this mess behind them. 

------------

THEN

Here was the issue: you should have known he’d find out. 

You weren’t stupid, in fact you thought you were rather smart. You had to be running a fully stocked and fed murder cult underneath the guard’s nose. Ketheric could call you feral all he wanted; at the end of the day, you were the one who came up with the cult spin to Gortash’s plan. You were smart, you knew it, and that was why you were in charge of the cult and Sarvok was tasked with warming a chair. 

So you should have known Gortash would go looking. You went searching after his history, of course he’d do the same. Easier to manipulate someone with the whole picture of their past. But you’d made an immense effort to disconnect yourself from your own history, that it had never occurred to you that there was anything to find. That there was a record of the name you picked for yourself anywhere.

You picked out your own name when you were seven and decided the one you had didn’t fit right. You spent weeks pouring through whatever scraps of writing you could get your hands on, books, newspapers, old letters, trying to find something that you thought was better suited. In the park, you’d curl up under a tree with a tomb stolen from your father’s study and read odd names in the acknowledgments section, deciding how much you liked the sound of them.

Stupid. You were smart but Gortash was smarter. You should have known that much.

“You can change your mind and pick another one if you don’t like it,” your father told you over dinner one night as you furtively read composer’s names out of one of Aria’s folders of sheet music under the table. You didn’t know how to explain to him that you wanted it to be right the first time, how this would be the first thing of importance you picked for yourself and you wanted to be fond of it, even if you decided to change it again later.

Even then, your body didn’t feel entirely your own. Maybe that was why you put so much weight on that choice. Or maybe it was just your natural nerouses. It’s easier to assign intention to such things in retrospect. 

You should have known there was enough of your old self in you to connect you to the person you left behind. 

You wanted to recoil from that idea. You wanted to vomit at the, likely true, suggestion you were projecting Aria onto Orin. You didn’t have the time to do either, not with Gortash turning away from you, pleased as a cat that pinned a bird. 

You noticed he enjoyed bird names early on. Having people pick what to call you was partially born out of convenience but it also told you a lot about a person. You can assume some things from a man who calls his dog “precious” versus one who calls his dog “mutt”. The bird names told you two things.

That Gortash enjoyed having the power to define you. But not as much as he enjoyed the fact that you made the rules.

You could let this interaction end without saving some face. If this alliance was to hold, you could not let this slight go unpunished. Thankfully, you knew just the solution for putting someone in their place. Literally.

Your magic sprung to your fingertips as you called for its power. If it decided to act up, this would embarrass you even further, but it was worth the risk. You felt the weave tangle between your fingers like vines and you twitched your wrist to edit the spell slightly; Hold person worked best when there were no verbal components to give it away. Once you’ve shaped the weave correctly, you unleashed it, all your focus on the man in front of you. 

He froze. His right foot was even paused in mid-step, his entire body locked into place. The spell was so perfect that he didn’t even twitch. After taking a second to make sure no imps were about to appear, you forced yourself to smile as you walked into his line of sight.  That smile almost became genuine when you saw the slightest bit of fear on his face, barely concealed under the rage. 

You don’t love him. You love parts of him- his intelligence, his sense of humor, the fact he isn’t scared of you- but you don’t love him. Gortash is, at best, someone you can feign love with, someone you can reap some of the benefits of love from without your father crushing it immediately for your insolence. 

You told him once that the tadpoles weren’t the only parasites in your scheme. He needed you for the power of the cult, you needed him to keep you supplied. He’d retorted it was more like mutualism, but you both know the truth. Only one of you could come out on top. 

Time would tell who was the parasite and who’s the meal.

“Would you like some applause for being clever?” You said, leaning in close enough to kiss him. Despite the grin you’re forcing, you kept your voice flat. Thankfully you had practice keeping your voice free of emotion.  “Perhaps some praise? I’m sure Raphael didn’t give you enough of either.”

Gortash eyebrow twitched. Good. 

You met Raphael once. He appeared in your chambers unannounced around half a year ago, swirling a goblet of wine and complaining about “the stench of the decor.” He wanted the crown, thought he could persuade you to hand it to him if he promised you a deal. After he learned there was nothing he could offer you- why ask for anything when Bhaal could undo destroy it by piloting your own two hands- he vanished and you had to deal with the lingering smell of sulfur mixed with decay and rot for at least a week afterwards.

Even if he could offer you something worthwhile, you doubted you’d take the deal. You disliked cambions.

“Poor little Enver Gortash, unloved and unwanted,” You continued, drawing back to pace in front of him. You felt him struggle against the spell and poured more magic in to shore it up. You weren’t done yet.  “Nothing to depend on but his wits and his word. Did you feel clever when you found where I came from? Did you feel special?”

You’re sure he did. He prided himself on being clever and you have taken full advantage of that on multiple occasions. You could see him in your mind’s eye, leering at a headline you lived first hand, his glee at finding something you had not told him yourself. 

“Did you feel envious when you realized my parents wanted a Bhaalspawn more than yours wanted you?” You glanced at him, watching as his eyes dilated. Though the hold person, he managed a single twitch.

They loved you. They wanted another child so terribly and your father was so thrilled to find you. He’d told you the story of hearing you cry from an alley over a dozen times when you were small, how he thought you were a stray cat. And then your mother would chime in about sewing together two of her outfits to make you clothes and Aria would laugh and laugh and laugh because they did the same for her-

You felt your magic strain, Gortash pushing the bounds once again. You threw what was left  of your magic into strengthening it again and forced yourself to pick up pace. You needed to make your point now: let go of the theatrics. Now was not the time to act like Orin. 

“I only have 30 seconds left or so assuming you don’t get lucky so let me make this clear-“ You gentle removed the gauntlet from his left hand, and let it fall to the floor. With your right hand, you dug the nail of your pointer finger into the back of his hand, drawing blood. Gortash growled in response. “I am a thing meant to be controlled but never by you. You finding my ghost means nothing.”

Ghost was the closest word you could pick to describe that version of you, the foolish child who knew nothing of what was coming, who grew into a naive adolescent who thought they could control their very blood from running wild. That version of you had died multiple times from your own hands; literally and metaphorically. You were what was left over after your father burned everything else away.

It was a ruinous, disgusting, pathetic thing, but it was you. Your father owned the blood in your veins, the slice of your daggers, the urge in your head but your contempt for the man in front of you? That was yours. 

Gortash could have run away. He could have left the whole damn mess of it alone and used his intelligence and wit to become an inventor or a scholar or a farmer, literally anything else other than bowl it to Banes altar.

“Every concession I make to you is because I will it.” You dug your nail in deeper, making sure to wet the pad with blood. 

“Every act of submission is my choice.” You wiggled it back and forth to worsen the wound. 

“I let you play the beast tamer, but it is a role. Forget that at your own peril.” You removed your hand and reached up to place your bloody finger over his mouth.  And-“

Your magic snapped. You had no time to react before it recoiled back at you. With a flash of light, you found yourself teleported back outside the house, standing on the rooftop of the holding next to it, your hand still raised as if to silence an invisible figure. The last of your lecture died in your throat.

And never mention Aria again.

A curse from next door drew you out of your stupor. You ducked down low and looked over towards the building just in time to see Gortash thrust his gauntlet back on with a grunt. He looked out the window, cursed, and then returned back inside. With a single word, he cast a fire bolt into the debris and stormed downstairs.

By the time you see him leave the building the entire room was alight. It would long be cinders before anyone arrived to put it out, something the guards should write off as an accident rather than sabotage to save the paperwork. The Harper’s would know better; good, best to put some fear in them. That happy thought is enough to lift your spirits just a little. 

After you find a way back down to the street you  walked into the night back into the city, past the Rock and into the lower part of town. It was late enough that most of the bar patrons were back in their beds, leaving only a slim few to wander the streets. You kept to the shadows out of force of habit regardless. While you should head home, instead you wander ideally, trying to drown out memories with the sound of your steps against the cobble.

Eventually you found yourself at the Docks, looking at out the Chionthar. You liked it here despite the smell, though you find yourself scowling realizing Gortash probably used your fondness for the spot as another one of his clues. 

No matter how much blood you drenched yourself in, you couldn’t suffocate who you used to be. 

You kicked at one of the loose nails in the boards. It merely wiggled from the force of your frustration. At least Fell wasn’t there to bother you. You told him that you wanted him to assemble five complete skeletons from the bone pile from a ritual and then filched the metatarsals and stapes from them to make it impossible but not obviously so. He’d figure it out eventually, but until then you thankfully had time to yourself. 

There was no self for you. Haven’t you learned that lesson. Stupid foolish-

As much as you could manage, at any rate. 

You walked up to the edge of  the docks and sat down on the boards, letting your right hand dangle into the water. Absentmindedly, you cast shocking grasp a few times, watching as the electricity rippled through the water. Dead fish rose after each cantrip, multiplying with each cast. You hummed, satisfied as their corpses hit the support beams, the thunk of flesh soothing. 

For a moment you considered adding your own corpse to the pile. It would be easy enough: just all in and cast lightening bolt. It was a tempting idea. But you’d wake up on the shore coughing up filthy water, Fell lecturing about “the heresy of dying by your own hand,” with the Urge worse than ever for your troubles, and that wasn’t worth the bother. 

Anyway, it would all be over soon. That what this was all for. If your plan didn’t work, some enterprising hero would kill you. If it did work, then your so called allies would. And if your allies didn’t kill you, Orin would. And, Gods’ forbid, if all of them failed, Bhaal would kill you when the work was done. You’d be done soon enough. Finally. 

With that comforting thought in mind, you got up and walked back towards the lower city, leaving nothing but the piles of corpses to show you were ever there. 

[elinorbard]

plotting world domination and also your murder ❤️‍🔥 art by tarlya! (@sankttealeaf)

. the Dark Urge (Ta'av) x Enver Gortash, in the years before Baldur's Gate 3... .

A Banite and A Bhaalist (Mature, 5.1k words / ~1482 DR) Gortash meets a captivating Bhaalist who is nothing like he expected.

get in my bed, I wanna kill you (Mature, 7.9k words / ~1483 DR) Gortash tests the boundaries of his alliance with the Dark Urge - and the limits of her temper.

our strange duet (Explicit, 8.4k words / ~1484 DR) Gortash hires the Dark Urge to assassinate one of his rivals in a way that happens to require a night at the opera.

what she came for (Explicit, 7.6k words / ~1485 DR) Gortash finds his life disrupted when the Dark Urge decides to bring him three gifts.

A Little Prayer (Explicit, 5.8 words / ~1490 DR) Gortash's work is interrupted when Ta'av, the Dark Urge, seeks out his help with a new kind of uncontrollable urge.

. read the full series: sex and violence, one is just the other .

[chronicsolasapologist]

There is a Light That Never Goes Out [[RE-WRITTEN AND EXPANDED]]

yall... idk if there are any Durgetash freaks out here but... I might be expanding and rewritting a longfic...... of...... *coughs* DurgexGortashxAstarion, sooOOoooo....

you can read it here! the first re-written chapter, that is

as much as the plot is going to stay the same, I am changing some things and expanding A LOT (from 1,5k to 3k-5k chapters) bc I reaaaaally want to do some more in-depth character studies

there is smut! there is smut you freaks *looks at the 20 private bookmarks on OG work*

well, anywho, grab a snack, some water and enjoy!

[vermilionskiinmorning]

Abandoned || Enver Gortash x F! Resist Urge-Durge

Quick note edited 12/04/24: Changed a few details of this story. Removed reference to Gortash kissing durge during the coronation scene & tweaked context of the memory flash she gets during this.

Summary: The Dark Urge meets with Gortash in his private rooms the evening after the coronation.

Words: 3989

-----

“Come to me, tonight. We have so much to discuss. None will hinder you.”

She’d just stepped out of the fortress when the words were beamed into her mind in Gortash’s voice. A send message spell clearly.

______

Feravel stood at the foot of Wyrm’s rock looking up at a balcony high above. Its doors were open and light spilled out into the night. She didn’t have to investigate to know he was up there waiting for her. For nearly half an hour, Feravel sat on her boulder contemplating everything she could remember -which was admittedly very little- and comparing it with the information Gortash had shared. The most frustrating part was that she could detect no lie. He had been so infuriatingly open about the whole thing, earnest even in his proposition for an alliance. Furthermore, she supposed the Emperor was right when he suggested she could accept the alliance and not honor it. Feravel was set on destroying the brain. In no realm of existence would she use it to subjugate and that decision was only further cemented with this revelation that the whole mess…was her own doing.

She sighed. A tear forming in her eye as she remembered Gale’s harsh words.

“So this all is your doing?! Not just a Bhaalspwan-" He scoffed. "But the chosen of Bhaal? I need to be alone. I need to think.”

Astarion had tried to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she’d shrugged it off and not gone back to the Elf Song since. Instead she’d taken to meandering through the bustling streets of the Gate trying to remember her life, but gods all she could remember was blood and that unruly black haired man which she now knew had to be Enver Gortash. Even before meeting him at the coronation, she’d felt a sense of familiarity toward him -warmth- looking at his face plastered on posters around the Gate.

She turned her mind back to Gale. Gale who was so kind and genuinely good even when she was moody or difficult. Who saw the best in her always. The one she loved, but if Gale wanted space, she needed to give it to him. She couldn’t be emotional about it and then face Gortash. The man had keen eyes, he would certainly notice, so she took a moment to school herself. There was also the disadvantage that he clearly knew her and well.

Perhaps it would be easier to deal with him alone like this, though, instead of with the pressure of an audience. There were only two ways this discussion would end after all; an alliance or his death -damn what her buried self felt about it. After a deep calming breath, Feravel looked up at the balcony again and misty stepped directly onto the rail. Hopping from the rail to the stone floor with a dull thud as her manner of announcing her presence.

“You always have liked to keep me waiting.” Said Gortash, promptly and with a distinct note of fondness.

His back was to her and he was seated at his desk, but there was a meal laid out on the nearby table.

“Help yourself. I’m sure you haven’t eaten what with wandering around the city all day. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Hesitant, Feravel stood just outside on the balcony watching him. He was at ease here not troubled at all by her unconventional manner of arrival -had expected it even. Gone was his overcoat, gilded bracers, and gloves, leaving him looking oddly exposed before a possible enemy; he was dressed in only his fine black shirt, trousers and leather boots. Was it a display of confidence? Or did he genuinely believe himself safe in her presence? Either left Feravel feeling off kilter which she supposed was his aim.

“The food isn’t poison if that’s what you’re thinking.” Enver added when he didn’t hear her enter the room.

She stepped inside, but didn’t close the door behind her as she strode over to the table. Leaving herself a quick escape should she need it. Despite the fact she was hungry, Feravel ignored it in favor of asking the obvious instead.

“You’ve been spying on me?”

Enver put down his quill and turned to face her. “Spying sounds so…invasive. I’ve simply kept tabs on your little traveling group. Ever since I saw you in the eye at the goblins camp, before you destroyed it that is, I’ve kept an ear out so to speak. Nothing so organized as spying.”

Feravel wrinkled her nose. Whatever he said, it sounded very much like spying and she didn’t much appreciate it.

“Whatever.”

She plucked an orange from the fruit bowl and rolled it between her fingers. It was firm, but not hard. Fresh, he’d brought out the good stuff in anticipation of her arrival. A brief thought of the joy she’d felt when Gale had gifted her one he managed to find during their travels. Enver knew her fondness for oranges as well it seemed. How was that supposed to make her feel? Whatever his intent, it only made her more wary of him.

She considered the orange a moment longer before deciding he must be telling the truth and pulling out a paring knife to slice the fruit. Why waste good food to poison her? He certainly didn’t seem to want her dead. Nor, had she thus far detected any hint of deception from him.

Popping a slice into her mouth, Feravel turned her attention back to him. He was watching her with just the hint of a smile. She got the feeling he was remembering something she couldn’t. It made her frown. That memory she’d seen in his mind… She resisted the urge to covertly cast detect thoughts on him again -after all she’d gotten much more than she bargained for before.

“So what’s the play here?” She asked finally when she couldn’t take the weight of his gaze any longer.

Amusement flared in his eyes. “Play?”

Feravel furrowed her brow. “The late night meeting-“

“It is only late by your own choice. You could have come hours ago.”

“The food. This-“ She huffed, gesturing vaguely to him causing Enver to raise one eyebrow at her. “As if you’re meeting a friend…not a potential assassin.”

He chuckled. “Are you here to kill me?”

Feravel clenched her jaw. It grated her how blatantly he was enjoying himself. The urge sang with excitement at her irritation: kill him, it will please your little friends, make them a gift of him innards. It will please father. Destroy the Banite. Flay his skin, carve the smirk from his foul lips-

She abruptly shut the thoughts down.

“I could be. You did say I was your favorite assassin.”

Enver spread his arms as if in another context he might be offering a hug. “Then by all means, my dear. I am all yours.”

A muscle in her face twitched. Did he think himself funny? How foolish was he to temp her urge like this? Tense moments passed. She wondered if from his spying he’d determined she wouldn’t just kill him outright or if he was playing with her. The notion brought forth a wave of bloodlust that she had to focus to master. Consequentially causing her to miss the knowing way Enver was appraising her.

“No?” He finally asked once he deemed the moment had passed. Getting to his feet, he strode over to her, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, but Feravel swiftly stepped back. Enver hummed apparently in consternation. “Well I suppose after all you’ve endured it would be difficult to expect us to pick up where we left off.”

Her mouth went dry. Even with the space she’d asserted between them, he was close. If he’d wanted to, Enver could still reach out and touch her. The thought made her heart race and heat rise up her neck. Her eyes flicked over his partially exposed chest and she inhaled sharply unwittingly taking in a fine scented perfume she recognized. Dark rosewood and vanilla bourbon, Feravel found herself breathing more slowly to savor the scent.

“I had hoped coming of your own will to be a good sign. That you remembered more than you were letting on infront of your companions.” He looked a touch disappointed. “But it does seem Orin did quite the number on you.”

She hummed condescendingly pushing away the fog his scent had momentarily clouded her mind with.

“Yes, well from where I’m standing it seems my nearest and dearest ally did nothing to prevent that. Perhaps I could be forgiven for not being quick to pick up where we supposedly left off.”

“But you’d trust a group of misfit strangers?”

“A parasite shared is a parasite halved…so I’ve heard.” Feravel said with a shrug.

“Well you should know. I did not let her kill you. We weren’t to meddle in eachother’s affairs. You were very clear on that. All I could do was warn you of her ambitions which I did -duly- to which you explicitly told me you intended to handle it. I wasn’t to know the inner workings of your father’s temple.”

The words sparked a feeling of recognition in her gut. A conversation long forgotten, now just whispers. She couldn’t prove or disprove his claim either way so she said nothing.

“You were gone. I have tolerated Orin for the sake of our plan, but I’ve always liked you.”

She sensed something off about the way he said liked. Slightly strained tone as if he’d almost used another word instead.

“Yes well, I hardly remember you and I know nothing of this plan as you’ve dictated it. Frankly I have no interest in either. Orin is Bhaal’s chosen and I am changed. I want only to be free of this threat of becoming a mindflayer and to go my own way.”

Enver pressed his lips into a thin line. She’d hit a nerve. Good, she thought.

“With things as they are, there is an imminent threat to all the infected, but furthermore the entire Sword Coast. Orin is becoming increasingly bold. As I told you earlier, she’s out for blood: yours and mine. She’d kill us both and take the stones for herself. You may have no interest in this plot, her, or the temple of Bhaal, but she will never stop hunting you until one of you is dead. That is a fact. One way or another you will have to deal with Orin. It is only a question of what you’ll do after that.”

She couldn’t help the small nod of agreement. It was in essence, the same conclusion she’d come to. With Orin after her, the issue would shortly come to a head and especially with the spy Enver previously revealed to be at her camp.

“I do intend to deal with Orin. On my own terms.” She said diplomatically .

“I’m sure you’ll make the right choice. An alliance benefits us both. You saw that before. ” He said. “In the mean time, it would be a horrible shame to let a good meal go to waste?”

Feravel expected more pressure from him to outright agree to working with him, but it seemed he felt little concern for it. As if he considered their alliance a foregone conclusion. It irritated her.

She glanced at the table. Her forgotten orange lay on a plate before her. Glancing at Enver, she sighed and went to take a seat. Plots, backstabbing, and alliances aside, she was hungry. Perhaps she could just ignore him while she ate and then disappear.

It was blessedly quiet between them for a time, but Feravel was not blind to the way Enver observed her mannerisms. He was searching for the person he knew in her. She could feel it, but not until she had just finished eating did he decided to speak.

“You are not quite so changed as you think. I very much doubt, you would have made it this far if you were nothing of what you once were.”

Enver did not meet her eyes as he said it, but he was watching her from behind his chalice of wine which he raised to his lips promptly after uttering the words. It was bait. Clearly, but she couldn’t help herself from taking it.

“And what was I before? A bloodthirsty murderer? Simply more controlled than Orin? Easier to steer? A weapon in the Black Hand of Bane?”

“Self assured, shrewd, and cunning.” Enver answered readily. His lips quirked up just slightly at her scornful words. “If a tad short fused…but passionate.”

“Such pretty flattery. One might almost think you earned that silver tongue from a devil.”

“Little surprise, as I did learn from one.” A proper smirk formed on Enver’s lips. “I do not know what you do remember, but I know that you heard my thoughts; or perhaps saw my memory rather, in the hall.”

The blood drained slightly from her face at being caught in her snooping. He’d made no indication at the time he was aware of her presence in his thoughts. Thinking on her feet, Feravel responded dismissively. “An illusion.”

Enver scoffed, his nose wrinkling in distain. “Unlike your little wizard plaything, illusions are not part of my repertoire.”

“A fantasy then.” Feravel snapped.

Enver let out a mirthless laugh. “I’ve never known you to delude yourself like this. Perhaps you are gone.”

“All I remember is death. Bloody, horrible death. This urge to perpetrate it that’s only barely within my control.” Gale’s concerned face as she came back to herself the night she’d almost killed him. Her own crushing guilt at the foul things she’d said. She could almost feel the burn of the ropes on her wrists. “A stain on my soul I will never wash away.”

Enver’s expression was unreadable and he seemed to have no inclination to speak. Pressure through silence, it seemed, but she did not give in at least not at first. As it dragged on, Feravel began to wonder if he was attempting to peer into her thoughts. She didn’t know if he knew such spells, but

“I didn’t know who you were until we reached the city… I saw the posters. Your face. It was familiar.”

She swallowed hard.

“I’d had dreams of a black haired man, but I never saw his face. I saw you and it just…fit? Like a shadow stepping into the light.”

“And these dreams were of what?” His shoulders were tense.

“What were we?”

“What were your dreams?”

They stared unflinchingly across the table at each other. Feravel wondered if it weren’t for the table between them if he’d reach for her again. Did she want him to? Uncertainty coursed through her. She gripped the edge of the table tightly.

“At first, I thought it was Gale I was dreaming of. We’d only just met, but I liked him. I quickly realized though, it couldn’t be him…”

Enver scowled at that. “Your pet wizard? Yes, I’ve heard of him, Mystra’s former chosen. He reached for something greater and failed. She was right to discard him. He’s not worthy of you.”

“It’s not your place to determine who’s worthy of me!”

“You are Bhaal’s chosen! A softhearted fool like that could never accept you.”

Feravel stood so quickly her chair was knocked to the floor.

“I am no one’s chosen and I am more than I was made to be!” She heaved a few deep breaths. Then she spoke again, far more calmly, staring intently at him. “I am my own person.”

“You were mine.”

Heatedly, Enver got to his feet, pushed back his chair and stalked toward her, but she could barely register his movements for his words held her rapt attention.

“I was yours.”

He cradled her cheek with a softness she would not have expected had she not experienced it before. Before? A forgotten memory triggered by his words began to unravel in her mind. It was incomplete and muddled, but the feelings it held were clear.

A calloused palm against her cheek. She leaned into it. Lips lightly brushed over her own, reverent. This was peace. Her place of rest. So long as she did father's will she could keep this -him. Even if one day, her father's will would lead her to murder Enver. A thing she once would've relished. Now seemed so impossible to execute. That was a problem for later though. For now, father knew Enver was useful. So long as she could continue to make use of him toward her father's aims, Enver was safe. Enver was hers.

It had not been long before her death. She could tell that much. And she suspected this moment to have been when her old self had realized she loved Enver.

“It was because of you.” Feravel concluded aloud.

Enver furrowed his brow. “What?”

“I wouldn’t have sacrificed you to Bhaal, had he asked it of me.” Feravel simply. “I doubt he planned to, but it seems knowing that I was unwilling to do so was enough.”

She let out a breathy laugh.

Then Enver was kissing her like a man dying of thirst and she was a spring in a desert. She was carried away by the intensity and familiarity of it so easily. Her fingers brushed tentatively along his jaw as she raised a hand to thread her fingers in his hair. It was just as fine and soft as in her dreams -except this was real. Enver was not a faceless shadow.

He let out a breath he must’ve been holding and drew her more firmly to him wrapping her tightly in his embrace. The way their lips moved and felt together was as natural as breathing. Her body yearned to surrender to him. There was no denying, Enver was telling the truth. This could not be manufactured, imitated or faked. The feelings his embrace elicited within her were not unlike how she felt for Gale. That worried her.

How easy would it be to stay here? Enver seemed to hold the key to so many of her lost memories. Just days ago she had been desperate still to know some semblance of who she was. Now, it was difficult to sort through what she wanted.

What a difference a day can make.

She was starting to feel choked up like she couldn’t breathe and her fingers slipped from Enver’s hair, running down his neck, over his shoulders to rest on his chest. Suddenly Feravel pulled back, but Enver didn’t allow her to go far -tightening his grip on her waist. Enver leaned his head against her’s as they caught their breath.

It took him a moment to realize there were tears running down her cheeks. So strange, he once thought he may never see her cry. Cautiously he wiped one away.

“Fera?” He said barely above a whisper.

With effort, she swallowed any further tears and looked up into his dark brown eyes which were so unlike Gale’s honey brown.

“I should thank you, I suppose.”

Enver furrowed his brow.

“Whatever we had, ultimately made me my own person. It was enough for Bhaal to abandon me.”

She wasn’t free by any means, but perhaps she could be. Killing Orin might be the key to free herself of father and the urge. Whether that meant her death or a life without the evil hiss in her ear, the devil on her shoulder, she didn’t know.

Enver leaned in again and brushed his lips against hers. It was just the faintest touch, but warmth spread through her from it. She could sense he was being cautious and deliberate now.

“I never told you.” He murmured lowly against her lips. Feravel kept still with anticipation. Her eyes closed, breathing steady, committing this moment to her memory. “There wasn’t a right moment, you understand? But I have to now.”

Love. He didn’t have to say it. Despite the broken thing she now was, he still loved her. Whatever he’d been searching for in his observations he’d examined her and had not found her wanting. To him, she was still somehow the same. An overwhelming prospect.

Feravel felt her heart in her throat. Just that morning, Gale had turned to her at the breakfast table and told her he loved her -just because as he often did. Then Astarion had to ruin the moment with an eye roll and a comment about toothaches which earned him a slug in the shoulder from Karlach. There was no one here to interrupt with banter, to ruin this moment though, only them.

She opened her eyes to find his face mere centimeters away.

“I…I can’t.”

Feravel tried to extricate herself from him, but he held her in place. His grip firm, but gentle he stroked her cheek with his thumb, staring deeply into her eyes. For a second, she almost wanted to lean back in, to erase her words.

“Why did you come?”

She furrowed her brow at him. What sort of question was that? He’d summoned her. But he didn’t give her time to answer before continuing.

“You should’ve known I wouldn’t have pursued or forced you here. Our matters are better left private. Causing a scene by dragging you before me would’ve brought scrutiny.“

“How pragmatic.” She said shortly.

He waved the comment away. “I would’ve been upset to be sure, but as I said before somethings are best handled discreetly. So why did you come?”

Silence hung thick between them. Feravel unwilling to utter a response and Enver unwilling to allow the question to pass. Their stalemate went on until Enver tired of her obstinance.

“You wandered the city all day instead of returning to your companions. Then you came to me. Could it be then that you feared their judgement? Or the judgement of one in particular.”

“What do you want from me?” She snapped.

“Are you so blind?” He released her, but didn’t withdraw. There was a tone of weariness in his voice. His guard was coming back up. “I do not take to heart this distraction you’ve taken in the wizard, but now you’re returned to me. You do not need to be burdened by the opinions of sheep.” He paused, then in a more business like tone. “I will provide for you anything you require to retake the cult of Bhaal or destroy it -whichever you choose.”

Feravel stared at him. Men of exceptional ambition. Was this her type? Two different lives she’d lived and yet. Despite their vast differences, she’d fallen for men who were not so terribly unalike as they first appeared.

“I-I have to go.”

Without giving him a chance to pull her back, Feravel nimbly twisted away, misty stepped to the rail and jumped -opening a dimension door below her as she fell. She didn’t see Enver race for the balcony to peer over the edge and only just catch a glimpse of her portal before it popped out of existence.

Frustration boiled in him at her disappearance, leaving him feeling exposed in a way he would never usually allow. He slammed his fist on the table to release some of the pent up emotion. She would be back he told himself. After disposing of Orin, she would return to him one way or another.

However, he’d known this was a possibility. He’d gambled with how much she could remember -allowing his emotions to take too much of the lead. It had been unlikely for her to agree to anything right away. She’d always had a will of her own and did still. Besides, he mused, it would’ve been unpalatably weak had she just crumpled, immediately abandoning her newfound compatriots. The lord Bane would not have been pleased with such an ally or companion for his chosen.

[astarionmademewriteit]

Ch. 2: My Forbidden Lover

MDNI. 18+ ONLY. Blank bios will be blocked.

Enver Gortash x f!Durge (pre-tadpole)

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 3.4k

Tags: Pure smut; Oral (female receiving); Face fucking; Dom/sub dynamic; Bondage; PIV rough sex; Blood kink; Cum Play; Praise and degradation kink; Bodily harm (in a sexual context); Orgasm denial (kinda? But not exactly); Choking; Biting; Durgetash is switch-coded; Subby Gortash; Minor jealousy; Brief mention of Astarion's background with non-consentual sex; Really graphic depictions of sex.

Summary: After having come to an agreement with Astarion and plotting to kill Cazador, the dark urge goes home with her lover Gortash where they engage in filthy sex.

A/N: Please refer to the first chapter to set the scene. This is pre-tadpole days where the Dark Urge has an established relationship with Gortash and befriends Astarion while he is still in the clutches of Cazador. The story will follow her eventual amnesia and Illithid kidnapping where she will fall for Astarion, who doesn't reveal the fact that he knew her from before the Nautiloid crash.

I meant for this chapter to spill over into the next day when Durge meets up with Astarion, but I'm a simp for Durgetash and it just got away from me. Please enjoy!

Ch. 1 | AO3

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵

We walk through the brisk night air, the stars spatter the sky–holding their ancient secrets close. I hook my arm through Gortash’s as we stroll through the streets. We are sporadically approached by admirers of Enver, offering their gratitude for all he has done for the city.

“I assume our new friend was receptive to your requests?” Enver murmurs once we catch a moment alone.

“He’ll warm to the idea. He is understandably terrified of Cazador,” I stroke his broad arms, contemplating my conversation with Astarion, “I sweetened the deal. In return for information, I promised to provide him with blood and a victim for Cazador. I assume that won’t be a difficult request to fulfill.”

Enver nods, “We can supply him with a thrall. They should comply willingly,” He stops and moves to face me, “As for the blood, dear assassin?” His question does little to hide the concern underpinning his tone.

“Enver, you wound me,” I close the little distance between us, pressing my body flush against his, “I have access to plenty of blood. Why are you concerned?” I cock an eyebrow, waiting for him to confess.

He chuckles darkly, recognizing my playful banter, “I do not relish the idea of sharing you. Especially your delectable blood,” he lines the column of my throat with gentle nips at my flesh, “I would hope that was just reserved for me,” he growls.

I run my fingers through his dark hair, pulling away to look into his eyes, “You have the exclusive privilege of spilling my blood, Enver,” I place a small kiss on the corner of his mouth, “In any case, Astarion and I are kindred spirits. I recognize myself in him,” I contemplated the thinly-veiled terror that he had tried hard to mask, but I recognized it for what it was immediately. His volatile environment wrangled him into submission, and he was forced to do things that I believe he was unwilling to do–completely severed from his own autonomy.

It was similar to my condition, although I still had the freedom to make choices–choices that Astarion was completely robbed of. It was my hope that our new agreement would help him regain some of his autonomy, no matter how little–even if it was to my advantage, at least for now. I felt a small pang of guilt, wondering if he felt used in other ways instead. I would have to ask him tomorrow.

“Indeed,” Enver agrees after a moment, “But, do not lose sight of the grand design, my love. We are no heroes”

A smile plays on my lips, “If I didn’t know better Enver, I would think you were jealous,” I hook my arm through his once again and we begin our tread back to his waiting palace.

Once we are safely inside the confines of his home I rest on the edge of Enver’s desk while he writes correspondence and runs through the list of powerful targets that threaten our plans. Next on our list was the beloved Duke Ravenguard–he could be a powerful asset should we enthrall him with an Illithid tadpole. I offer to send Orin, my bloodkin, to complete the task so that we may focus on other things.

“That’s enough work for tonight, my dear,” I caress his cheek with the back of my knuckles and he watches me with a darkened expression. I lift myself from his ornate mahogany desk and move towards Enver who still sits in his chair. I turn and sit on his lap, peering over my shoulder and watching him expectantly.

He sweeps my hair to one shoulder and slowly begins to pull the zipper down the back of the evening gown I wore to Cazador’s ball–taking great care to ensure the delicate fabric does not catch in the zipper.

I stand and let the soft fabric slip from my shoulders until the garment pools at my feet. His eyes rake over my exposed body, drinking in my frame with hungry eyes. I drive the heel of one of my shoes into his chest, waiting patiently as he nimbly unbuckles the straps around my ankle. He places small kisses up the calf of my leg, nipping at my flesh–hungry to taste me.

I kick off my heel and repeat the same gesture with my other foot. He glides his hand up my calf to my inner thigh, digging the claws of his gold filigree gloves into my flesh. His hard grasp dimples my flesh until he draws blood and a sigh escapes my lips. He places small kisses along my inner thigh as he works to unbuckle my shoe.

Once I have discarded my shoe, I watch him with eager eyes as he works his way towards my upper thigh, savoring the way his lips feel as they bite and suck at my flesh–tasting my blood. I intertwine my fingers through his dark hair, willing him to focus his attention at the apex of my thighs.

His agonizing slow pace up my inner thigh has me growing impatient, “Enver,” I growl in warning, tightening my grip on his hair until a satisfied groan falls from his lips.

“Far be it from me to keep my favorite assassin waiting,” he murmurs before swiping his tongue up the seam of my dripping cunt. I instinctively pull at his hair more aggressively as he tongues and sucks at my sensitive clit. My legs immediately begin to shake as pleasure undulates through my body.

Enver repositions my leg until it is resting on his shoulder, providing him with a new devastating angle that practically sends me into a frenzy. I hold his head against my aching cunt and throw my head back as I hear his stifled breathing. “Be a good boy for me, Enver,” I growl, “You may only draw breath once I’ve been satisfied, or you can suffocate. Whichever comes first.”

He moans as he slips his tongue into my slick entrance, nosing my clit in the process. His warm tongue fucking me expertly until I’m panting uncontrollably. He hums into my pussy, sending tantalizing vibrations straight to my core.

He hooks his arm around my thigh, pulling me closer as he hungrily services me–his golden filigree claws drawing more blood as they dig deliciously into my flesh. The pain brings me such pleasure that I can feel myself building to a dizzying crescendo.

Enver continues to drag his tongue in slow concentric circles around my clit, sucking and nipping at it until I’m losing myself–spiraling into an intense climax that has me writhing underneath his tongue. I grind myself against his face–his stubble adding another layer of overwhelming sensations that has me coming undone just for him. He growls against me as I drag my sensitive cunt against his face, relishing the way I use him for my pleasure.

Once I’ve come down from my orgasm, Enver pulls away–his face gleaming with my slick. I pull him up by the collar of his robe, and we collide into a feral kiss. The taste of my arousal and the coppery aftertaste of blood fills my mouth as our tongues slide against one another.

I finger at his robes, clumsily unlacing the clothes that separate me from his flesh. He assists me in removing his clothes, our lips crashing back together with a ferocity that could buckle my knees. I push him hard until he is falling on the bed behind him, my eyes scanning his exposed flesh, devouring him completely. I circle the bed before grabbing his wrist and binding them to the bedpost with barbed wire that cuts deeply into the exposed flesh beneath his golden lattice gloves. I repeat the gesture with his other wrist, and watch as blood flows freely from his wrists–dripping down his arms in crimson rivulets. I drag my tongue up his arm, drinking in the taste of his life-essence, and ecstasy thrums through my body at his flavor.

“You taste so good, my love,” I murmur before making my way to the foot of the bed and crawling up his body until I’m straddling his waist.

“It’s all for you, my assassin,” he croaks, his voice gravelly and thick with lust.

I drag my nose up his throat, sucking and kissing at his salty skin. I sink my teeth into the soft flesh where his neck meets his broad shoulders, and Enver cries out in pleasure as blood rushes to the surface. I can practically hear his heart beating against his ribcage as blood fills my mouth–his wrists pulled taut against his restraints, causing more blood to flow freely from his veins.

“I love when you bleed for me, Enver,” I growl into his ear. His heavy panting rings like music through the bedroom, and I savor the way his body writhes impatiently beneath me, “You’re doing so well,” I praise, which only spurs his need to be inside me.

“Please,” he whispers, begging to feel my cunt wrapped around his leaking cock.

“Oh, Enver,” I whisper seductively, cupping his face with my hand, “How I love to watch you squirm.” I line myself up with his throbbing cock, already leaking with pre-cum.

His swollen head immediately stretches me wide open, and I cannot stop the moan that falls from my lips as he fills me completely. Enver whimpers beneath me as my pussy slides down his length at an agonizingly slow pace until I am sitting flush against him. I clench around him instinctively, forcing another moan to escape his lips.

I lean over and crush my lips to his as I begin to rock my hips seductively against him. I bite hard into his lip, drawing more of his sensational blood–relishing the coppery taste as it fills my senses completely. My nails dig into his hairy chest and welts immediately begin to form, marking him as mine.

I lift myself up and begin riding him slowly, savoring the way his cock spears into me–threatening to split me in two. I clench my pussy around his length every time his cock withdraws from me, effectively massaging his swollen head.

“Gods below,” he moans underneath me, “You’re so perfect, my dear assassin.” He instinctively bucks his hips, brushing against my cervix and causing me to cry out in shock. He drags his cock slowly out of me before forcefully thrusting back inside, hitting my sweet spot with agonizing precision. The barbed wire confining his wrists continues to pull blood from his flesh, painting him like a beautiful masterpiece.

I lean back, propping myself on his thighs as I continue to ride him relentlessly–allowing him to watch as he pierces me with his throbbing member. My arousal rings like a symphony throughout the room, only spurring me to ride him harder. My nails dig into his thighs, bringing more blood to the surface. I watch as his body slowly trickles with blood and images of our own demise flit through my mind.

I knew I wanted to keep him until fate intervened and I was forced to kill him and myself in Bhaal’s name. It would be incredibly beautiful, slicing his flesh open until he had been drained of blood completely. I would die a beautiful death next to my lover–and I would be free of the carnage I was meant to exact on this world. And it would all be by his side.

As the images flit through my mind, my desperation becomes more prominent. I can feel myself nearing the edge of no return. My body begins to quiver as he continues to meet me thrust for thrust until I am exploding into a tantalizing climax–falling over the edge into a depth of pleasure that I could only ever experience with Enver.

His name falls from my lips and echoes throughout the room like a haunted hymn as he coaxes the pleasure from my body. Enver’s breathing becomes ragged and I can tell he is chasing his own release. I cannot help the sadistic tendencies that wash through my body in moments like these.

I wrap a shaky hand around his throat as I continue to ride him with newfound ferocity born from my own ecstasy. He watches me with a dark expression as he nears his own climax, biting at his bruised bottom lip as I apply pressure to his throat, cutting off his blood flow momentarily.

His eyes roll into the back of his head and a dangerous smirk plays on my lips when I think about how desperate he sounds. Just when he is on the verge of climax, I pull myself off him completely and watch as thick ropes of cum spill from him and onto his stomach. He bucks his hips desperately searching for any kind of friction that will ride him through his climax–to no avail.

I release my grip from his neck and he eyes me with unfiltered frustration when he realizes the game I’m playing. His wrists are pulled taut against the barbed wire–the metal digging into his flesh as he struggles against them, desperate for some satisfaction as his hollow orgasm washes through him.

He lets out an animalistic growl as I remove myself from the bed, a dark grin gracing my features as I watch him struggle. “Oh, Enver,” I chuckle sadistically, “You never learn, do you?” I inch towards a bar cart and pick up an expensive decanter, leisurely pouring myself a glass of rich dark liquor. I seat myself in his chair, and watch as he grows more desperate by the minute.

“Please, my love,” he eyes me with wild anguish, pulling against his restraints harder than before–ignoring the stinging pain that travels through his arms. I cross my legs and lean back, taking another sip of the strong liquor. It burns my throat as it goes down, and the satisfaction I feel as I watch him squirm is delectable. My body welcomes the warmth of a roaring fire nearby and I sit and watch as he fights against his restraints–admiring the way his crimson blood paints his flesh.

“Gods, you look so pathetic, Enver,” I chuckle, “It’s utterly adorable.” I throw back the rest of the liquor–it’s rich burn soothing my throat and it’s warmth washing through my body completely.

Enver has settled down slightly, but I can tell he has found no satisfaction in his climax–just as I had hoped. “My beloved assassin, this hardly seems fair,” he grumbles–his voice perfectly diplomatic.

“When have you known me to play fair, my love,” I shoot back playfully, gripping the arms of the chair, “Besides, I’ve decided that you haven’t begged nearly enough for my liking.”

He glares at me from the bed, and a satisfied smile pulls at my lips as I wait patiently for him to convince me that he deserves his own fulfillment. Plea after plea begins to spill from his lips, his body continuing to fight against his restraints as he grows more and more desperate. I tap my foot impatiently as he continues to beg.

It isn’t until a tear of frustration falls from his eye do I stand, effectively quieting his supplications as he watches me closely. I move to the foot of the bed and crawl over him once again, and I can hear as his breath catches in the back of his throat. I drag my tongue across his stomach, licking up his spent–savoring its unique taste. I smack my lips when I’m done and note that Enver is hard once again as he watches me clean up the mess he made.

I pull away from the bed and move to release him from his restraints–kissing his wrists and sucking the blood that paints his skin in a rich crimson. I repeat the gesture once again with his other wrist. As soon as he is free from his constraints, he charges forward, pouncing on me like a wild, untamed animal.

“My turn,” Enver growls in my ear as he tangles his rough fingers into my hair and pulls back hard until I’m looking up at his looming form. He forces me across the room and throws me into the edge of his desk, the hard wood digging into my hips deliciously.

I whimper under his hardened touch as he bends me over his desk and presses my face into the desk with aggressive strength. He forces himself inside me without a moment to lose, desperate to feel my wet cunt wrap around his cock once again.

He begins a punishing pace, rutting his hips into me with unrelenting force that causes uncontrolled moans to fall from my lips. He places a large, rough hand on my waist and forces me down, causing me to arch my back until he is hitting my sensitive spot over and over again.

The force with which he fucks me into his desk causes papers to fall from the table top��teetering to the floor. Ink splatters across his desk as it tips over with every thrust. My cries rip through the air as he spears himself into me, allowing his frustrations to spill over into his movements.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growls as he slams into me–the desk digging painfully into my flesh with every cant of his hips. I dig my nails into the desk, trying to steady myself, but it is useless as he continues to abuse my dripping pussy.

The force of his hips slamming into me sends me over the edge once again and I cry out with unfiltered ecstasy as I fall from grace–my orgasm rocking through my body causing my cunt to spasm wildly around his length.

“There you go, my dear assassin,” He growls, “Just like that, baby.” He talks me through my climax, and the rush of adrenaline courses through my body as his claws dig into my flesh, bringing blood to the surface.

I whine underneath him as he uses me for his own pleasure–our roles effectively reversed in a matter of minutes. His breath grows ragged as he watches his arousal spear into me over and over again with such force that I fear the desk will tip over.

Once I’ve recovered from my orgasm, I feel his thrusts becoming sloppier as he chases his own, deserved release. “Cum for me, Enver,” I beg as his breath grows heavy with ecstasy. He thrusts into me violently a few more times before he is spilling into me–his cock spasming wildly inside me as he cries out my name. He whimpers out a string of expletives as he is awarded with his own pleasure.

He leans over me, his body flush against mine as he continues to fuck through his orgasm–savoring the feeling he was so cruelly denied just minutes earlier. I moan loudly, his name falling from my lips like a prayer of devotion until he finally stills inside me.

We catch our breath, neither of us daring to move until we have regained our strength. Enver chuckles darkly above me before pulling out of me completely. I whine at his sudden absence but gather myself as much as possible. I will my shaky legs to move back to the bar cart and pour us both a drink while Enver rests in his chair, sweat dripping down his dark features.

I offer him a glass before curling into his lap and nuzzling into his shoulder, noting the dried blood streaks that mar his body. I bite back a satisfied smile as I replay the events of tonight in my mind.

After a moment, Enver sighs, “We have made a mess of things, my dear,” he ruffles my hair with a rough hand before chuckling under his breath. “I think a warm bath is in order.” I nod my head in agreement, suddenly too tired to speak. “We have a great many things to accomplish tomorrow, my lovely assassin.” He throws back his drink and polishes off his glass in a few large gulps.

I wrap an arm around his waist as I continue to nurse my drink–memorizing the way his body feels against mine. I laugh to myself, realizing that I could never forget how his body feels against mine. I turn my thoughts to what lies ahead, already calculating more plans for the grand design.

I couldn't imagine doing this without him–My forbidden lover.

[thrawnslawyer]

Chapter 9 of my durgetash fic is up:)