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wood-white-writer · 2 months ago

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"We Shall Be Monsters" [One-Shot]

— Enver Gortash x F!Durge!Reader (Baldur's Gate 3)

Pairing: Enver Gortash x F!Durge!Reader

Summary: Long before you became the Savior of Baldur's Gate, you were the Chosen of Bhaal; his unholy offspring. More than that, you were the Chosen of Bane's. There are memories beyond you grasp, forever lost in the oblivion of your mind, but he never forgot, as much as he yearned to.

Wordcount: 7k

A/N: Guess who spent the last three weeks playing Resist!Durge, only to fall for this raccoon of a man? Apologies for grammatical errors, will correct them later. English is not my first language.

Enver Gortash had a revelation, presenting itself as a dream.

He was surrounded by darkness, wholly alone, when a deep and otherworldly voice spoke from the shadows. Whether it was instinct that compelled him or something else, he knew almost instantaneously that it was his God that spoke.

The Lord of Tyranny granted the mortal soul the title as his Chosen One; an honor beyond the kind the mortal world could ever hope to provide with. At the moment, it was far too grand for the mortal to properly acknowledge – a pinnacle of shame he would come to live with for years to come.

Just before the dream faded and the newly appointed Chosen of Bane returned to the material plane, he recalled his God’s parting words:

“Seek out the One whose path is paved with Corpses. The one who’s Who will build her castle with bones.

Seek out the Chosen of my Sworn Foe; his unholy offspring. Make an ally of her.

Do what is necessary to make the world bow before you, and when the time comes, do what must be done to ensure that my rule remains unchallenged.”

---

As it turned out, he had no need to spend any coin trying to scourge you out.

You sought him out instead.

The first time he laid eyes upon you, he found you almost disappointingly unremarkable.

Not in the sense that you were hideous to look upon. No, quite the opposite.

You looked normal.

Normal in a way that, had he crossed paths with you elsewhere – be it at a gala or across the streets of Baldur’s Gate – he wouldn’t have paid you much notice. Maybe offered you a drink and some pretty words, but little more.

Unsurprisingly, he had his reservations about whether you were truly the one he expected.

A Bhaalspawn– No, The Bhaalspawn.

The God of Murder’s very own Chosen Child – his flesh and unholy blood comprised into one singular being.

He had heard tales of you long before he met you.

He had anticipated to come face to face with a monster sprouting tentacles and rows of razor-sharp teeth, blood leaking from every orifice, and a wicked smile stretched across her lips.

Every bit the beast the stories and cautionary tales circling Baldur’s Gate portrayed your kind as.

Not this – someone who looked like they had simply wandered into the completely wrong place.

You were no monster - not at first glance, but he didn't quite know what to make of you. Even in the darkness, it was hour to make out your shape, and you didn't provide him anything to go by.

You were as silent as the evening itself.

Enver considered himself a perceptive man, taking every advantage he could reap whenever an opportunity presented itself. Whenever he happened to come across a potential ally or a new associate, his first instinct was always to read them; figure out the kind of person they were.

He could tell a lot from a person based on their initial demeanor. Were they the worrisome kind? The arrogant type? Self-assured in their position, or meek and subservient to those they considered their superiors?

Lickspittles or servants; equals or subordinates.

He believed he had come to know them all.

You, however, were a blank canvas.

There wasn’t a trace of blood on your clothes, not that he could tell. Not a wayward piece of flesh stuck between the white of your teeth, peeking out past your lips.

He couldn't even see something as menial as a smile.

Hardly the stuff of nightmares.

He couldn’t tell if it disappointed him or not.

However, the Archduke-to-be would come to realize his mistake the moment your eyes met, and all he saw gazing back at him was darkness.

Complete and utter blackness. Absence of light; of life.

Not even the depths of the Hells could compare, nor the shadows which made up Shar's domain. A black whole circling the universe.

You possessed the eyes of a killer, angled in a way that reminded him of knives searching for skin to sever, and they were aimed straight at him.

A shiver ran up and down his skin.

Oh, you were the real deal, all right.

He found that the smile that stretched across his lips was a genuine one for once, unlike the kind he typically displayed when first meeting a potential associate.

He clapped his hands together, suddenly eager to proceed with the introductions. “The Chosen of Bhaal, it seems we finally have the pleasure to speak.”

He took a few steps closer, mindful that you could probably mince him without any effort if he got too close. It was only then that he noticed the blade you kept strapped to your hips. Crimson as the blood it had undoubtedly spilled.

Your eyes maintained direct contact with his for a moment longer before they shifted to the window, not a smidgen of interest or … much of anything, really.

He tried to scrutinize you for any thoughts or feelings, desperate for some reprieve in the enigma that was your character. The moon would not permit him any clues, even as a blade of her light diagonally cut your face.

You were a blank slate, cold even from a distance; wholly indecipherable.

Finally, you spoke: “Chosen of Bane, Enver Gortash.”

He could not hope to conceal his intrigue. “Ah, it seems you already know who I am, then?”

You nodded, only once, like the conversation had already lost all appeal.

“And may I have your name in turn?”

“You have my title. It will suffice."

For now.

Ah, quick and precise. A lady after his own heart.

Just as he was about to offer you a glass of wine - for curtesy’s sake, of course – he looked back only to find your piercing gaze suddenly less than inches away from him, the Lash of Bhaal tilted dangerously close to his jugular vein.

It didn’t cut through him, though he could already tell it was a tempting thought on your part. Still, that didn’t keep you from allowing the blade to dance across his skin, cold and hot at the same time.

Sharp indeed.

A dance of death, with only a moment keeping him from Death’s cold embrace.

Enver fleetingly wondered what it would feel like to have his life claimed by Bhaal’s offspring. Would it hurt? Most likely, but it didn’t frighten him even half as much as it should have.

He had heard the reports of what remained of those who were unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of Bhaal's knives.

He had seen the detailed drawings and read in-depth descriptions Baldur's Mouth publicized, and while he was a skeptic towards the media's reliability, he had no doubt that they had spared no details when it came to your crimes. Children, women, men, it mattered not. Anyone with blood pumping through their veins could become a target, and he was no exception.

What would the headlines be?

"Aspiring Military Advisor found dead in his own chambers - The Cult of Bhaal strikes again!"

He imagined his blood would run warm down his skin, soak the imported fabric of his clothing, forever staining the expensive carpets beneath his feet.

Oh, what a sight it would be, should he be fortunate enough to remain conscious for only a few seconds long to see his execution through.

He instinctively held his breath, but all sense of fear and self-preservation evaded him, as it had done numerous times already. He could feel your breath upon his skin, scorching and acidic, yet he could find no trace of repulsion within himself. Instead, all he could focus on were your eyes.

So deep and hollow, like the expanses of Shar, but tenfold as captivating.

Oh, how the goddess would’ve wept upon being usurped.

Patiently, the Follower of Bane awaited your verdict. Truthfully, he had no interest in dying before this alliance came to fruition, however brief. Perhaps he could make an exception this once, if only to die gazing into those eyes of yours.

They contained a beauty meant only to be beheld by the dead or the dying, he discovered.

You tilted your head to each side as you studied him, like a cat inspecting the prey caught between their claws. The blade followed your as though it possessed sentience of its own, scraping against his neck in a manner he almost mistook for fondness.

Then, a sharp sting reverberated across his skin.

He suppressed the urge to wince.

A drop of his warm blood escaped through the cut you had inflicted on his chin. Not fatal by any means, but it would undoubtedly scar.

A scar worthy of a story.

Your eyes trailed down to the crimson liquid gathering on the collar of his shirt, and he could’ve sworn your pupils expanded to the edges of your irises. You took a deep breath through your nose, and upon releasing it, he found your face changing into something … thoughtful.

“You’re not afraid.”

There was no disappointment laced between your words. A hint of surprise, perhaps, but not disappointment.

Enver tilted his head to get a better view of you, the edge of his lip tugging slightly. “Does that offend you?”

You didn’t answer and withdrew the blade.

He might have said something else, but never got the chance to speak up.

In the blink of an eye, you were gone, like a wraith having returned back to their grave.

All that remained of your presence was the opened window that allowed the evening breeze to ruffle his curtains and the lingering scent of death he had grown intimately acquainted with.

As he drew his fingers over the fresh cut down his chin, feeling the warmth of his own life coat the digits, he could not keep a smile at bay.

---

It wasn’t until weeks later that he saw you again, in your natural habitat – for a lack of better description.

You were kneeling on the ground, covered in blood, viscera, and gore, like a devoted monk in the temple of their deity – begging for recognition.

Barely an inch of your skin was visibly underneath the many layers of blood that coated your flesh.

In a way, it felt like he was intruding.

When your eyes snapped to address him, it was like an animal seeing a potential threat. He couldn’t help but feel something stir in the depth of his chest, lodged between his ribcages like a raven yearning to break free of its chains.

Once more, it was in the confines of his chambers. He had retired for the evening, more or less hoping to catch a glimpse of his enigmatic new associate, when Lord Bane apparently saw fit to grant his loyal Follower the visage of his sworn foe’s daughter – completely naked at that.

You were beautiful.

Covered in blood from head to toe, the individual strands of your previously maintained hair separated by layers upon layers of bodily fluids, your clothing cast aside as if to merge yourself completely with the remnants of your prey.

It was like he was witnessing something he had no right to, but still being granted permission. This might have been sacred on your part, meant to be a private affair.

If you wanted to, you could kill him for this slight – if you considered it as such. You could strip him of his teeth, separate the layers of his skin, pull apart his bones, and place his corpse alongside the one you currently had positioned in front of you.

One of his servants, he realized shortly after. A young lady named Serah Lancastor, daughter of a nouveau riche lord who had entered his services not long ago.

Whatever blood remained of her corpse had been spent drawing the Symbol of Bhaal. A tribute, perfected in the chambers of the Child of Bhaal’s adversary. It would have been the perfect sacrifice – an insult to Bane and a gift to your Father.

The Banite in him certainly would’ve considered this an insult of the gravest sort, deserving nothing short of a lifetime in Wyrm’s Rock, but Enver himself was more eager to finally get more than a few sentences out of you if he could.

“And here I was under the impression that our respective Lords were at a truce, or have I been misinformed?” He asked as he assessed her, arms crossing over his chest in a way that would’ve come across as self-assured.

You did not reply at first. As you got up to your feet, he could not help but notice that your movements were unsteady, like a foal fresh out of the mare’s womb.

“You were not mistaken,” you answered, your voice hoarse, and the Lash of Bhaal clutched tightly in your grip as you marveled at your masterpiece.

“Oh? Then, pray tell, what reason could you have for killing one of my servants – in my chambers, no less?”

You regarded him stoically. “The woman poisoned your wine.”

An assassination attempt? How ambitious. “So, you killed her for my sake? Considerate for a Bhaalist, wouldn’t you say?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Your usefulness would expire upon your premature death, Banite. The servant maintained hers after.”

His gaze flickers between you and the corpse for a few moments, thoughts washing over his head. It would seem that – despite your inherent nature – your urges were not without cause. Not wholly, at least.

This meant, for the time being, you would have no reason to kill him unless you saw any benefit from it. He would live for as long as the alliance between your Gods did.

Did it vex you, knowing you could not satiate your hunger for blood just yet?

Did it intrigue you? Did you sleep at night, dreaming of the day you could finally add his name to the long list of your victims?

So many questions and only one knew the answers. Only one could answer them.

But he was in no hurry to receive them.

“There’s a bath in the back, should you feel the need to use it.”

“Does the blood disturb you?” you asked, almost hopeful.

“No," he admits truthfully. "but I imagine it would be difficult leaving this place like that. The servants would be frightened – as they should be – and the guards would be on your trail in an instant. Why not spare yourself trouble when you can afford it?”

You continued to stare at him like he was a puzzle to be solved, and he granted you all the time you required before you finally reached your verdict. With the flick of your blade, and drops of blood splattering across his floor, you turned around and made your way to the bathroom.

Enver was not a salacious man by nature, despite what the Baldur’s Mouth would imply, but even he had to admit – it was a lovely view.

Alas, there was the matter of explaining the unfortunate fate of poor Serah to the cleaning staff …

---

He didn’t see you again for quite sometime after that, and although he’d never admit it to anyone in person, he’d grown accustomed to the way each of your previous visits had left his adrenaline surging through his veins.

To be without it was proving … tedious.

There were reports of various murders committed in the Lower City, some more grotesque and messy than the rest, but he could already discern yours from anyone else’s.

Your kills were methodical; and pragmatic. You didn’t waste time decorating your victims with their innards or putting them up to become a spectacle for the rest of the poor denizens in Baldur’s Gate to find the following morning.

Whoever was responsible for those murders was… wasteful.

It couldn’t have been you.

While Enver was parading about to the many lickspittles and politicians, his mind always shifted back to whether he would open his chamber doors and be greeted by you standing there in the dark. He could care less if you were covered in blood or not, as long as you were there.

What would you do?

Finally make an attempt on his life?

Kill another one of his servants?

He'd give you ten of them.

He had enough at his disposal, he’d be more than willing to pay the cost if it meant getting another chance to peer into those acute eyes of yours one more time.

But when he retired once more to his chambers that night, he was disappointed to find it vacant. Not even a corpse was there to greet him.

---

He sent a letter.

Not a long one, but one he was sure would reach you, and sure to pique your interest if his mere presence failed at that.

It regarded the House of Wonders – more specifically, what the House itself contained.

He had waltzed through the halls there on several occasions – attended galas and gatherings hosted by the city’s elite, and he’d seen what rested behind their meager display cases.

Remnants of your history: Bones of fellow Bhaalspawn, ancestral instruments that deserved more than to be poised up for show. The people of this city exploited these instruments as a sign of peace. To know that – if one Bhaalspawn could be felled, they all could.

But you were not the kind to fall so easily as your brethren did.

At first, he was doubtful his message would reach you, but when he found you standing in the corner of his room not even two nights later with the messenger’s severed head positioned on top of his work desk and his letter tucked between what remained of the boy’s teeth, he grinned.

You, however, were evidently not in the mood for idle chatter.

The moment he shut the door, your eyes were once more on him. “Speak.”

And so, Enver did.

He had already planned the groundwork: how to get in and out without alerting the guards, and successfully make away with the torture racks using a Scroll of Dimension Door. It was child’s play, really. The House’s security had dwindled in the last couple of years, and for once, it served him well.

As he laid out his plan for you, taking out the House’s blueprints to further emphasize the brilliance of his mind, he maintained your attention long enough for him to deduce that you were interested.

When he was finished, he turned back to you, patiently awaiting your verdict.

Your eyes flickered between him and the blueprints before they finally settled on him with the same sharpness he had grown to appreciate.

“Tomorrow, at 11 o’clock,” you answered, shortly. “Do not keep me waiting.”

At that moment, Enver could’ve wept with joy.

---

The Heist was a success.

Truly, only the damned Devil’s death could’ve surpassed the satisfaction Enver felt the moment they escaped.

Not only had you two been successful in infiltrating the House of Wonders and making away with the instruments unscathed, but he got to watch you doing what you did best from the front rows.

There were guards there, more than a few, but not even five seconds after they made their debut, screams were reverberating through the halls of the House to the point where the Banite could feel the tremors through his very bones.

There were possibly ten or fifteen guards in total, and you killed them all.

Killed them?

No, that’s too undignified of a word to apply to your craft.

You remade them entirely.

There was so much blood, screaming, and bones being pulled apart from the stems, that he didn’t have the capacity to focus on it all at once.

Blood rained wherever you went.

The One whose path is paved with Corpses.

They were dead long before you ever touched them, he knew as much. One after the other, they all fell until all that remained was a pool of blood gathering under the soles of his shoes.

It was like you were dancing.

You were a monster.

Oh, but what a beautiful monster you were.

In the end, there were no more screams. You stood there in the middle of the circle of death you had just made, blade in hand, clothes soaked thoroughly and clutching to your skin. It seemed like you were on another plane of existence entirely, your mind not your own for a moment, no word brushing past your lips.

All he could hear was your shallow breathing in the aftermath of the chaos you had created.

And when you finally glanced over your shoulder to look at him, your face smeared with the liquid life of those around you, eyes lifeless and cold, Enver could deny it no longer.

Not to himself, not to you, not even to Bane.

“You’re beautiful.”

The way in which he said it was unbefitting of an Archduke-to-be, much less a Banite, but damn it if his pride was not worth this moment of admiration.

For just a moment, he detected a glimpse of something different in your eyes when he spoke that confession. Something he had never seen before. For once, it was not hidden underneath layers of indifference or antipathy, not even perverse satisfaction. It was bare and vulnerable like a snake having shed their most recent skin.

You looked… Surprised. Shocked.

Flustered?

You opened your mouth to say something, but then for some reason, you shut it just as quickly. He had never seen this manner of indecisiveness with you before, and it felt like he wasn’t supposed to.

Still, he couldn’t will himself to look away, to be denied the view of you being anything other than Bhaal’s Chosen.

Then, you finally spoke, and it was so hushed that he almost strained to hear it.

“Enver Gortash … You’re something else.”

He caught the glimpse of something tugging on the edge of your lips. Not quite wide enough to qualify as a smile, but the closest thing he had seen thus far on your countenance. He expected it to be of the perverse kind – the smile of a killer, satisfied with their recent excursion in the name of their Father and Lord.

But it wasn’t.

At least, it didn’t seem so.

Whether it truly was the amount of deaths surrounding you or what he’d said, he didn’t have time to deduce before the bells began to ring in the distance, and their heist came to an end.

Even so, he could not shake off the mental picture he took of that moment.

It was scorched into his brain forevermore. He could try to scrub it as much as he wanted, it would never leave.

Nor did he want it to.

The Heist was indeed a success – but not for the reasons he initially believed in.

It signified the night he finally got to see you, if only a brief glimpse of it.

---

It was as if the Heist with the House of Wonders further cemented your respective alliances, for better or for worse.

On one hand, you began to seek him out more, as he oftentimes found you already waiting for him in the dark of his chambers as per usual. The two of you spent the majority of your time discussing how to advance your plot, while simultaneously attempting to avoid the missteps of your predecessors.

After all, you aimed towards a fruitful alliance, and to sully its potential too early would be a waste on both accounts.

Fortunately, it seemed like you had decided to keep the number of deaths in his quarters at a minimum, for the most part. Whether it was for your inconvenience or his own (his servants had begun to grow disturbed by the piling numbers of deceased in his room), he could not tell.

On the other hand, there was the matter of both Ketheric Thorm – the Chosen of Myrkul – and your second-in-command – Orin the Red.

The geriatric and the child, as he mentally preferred to refer to them as.

Ketheric was at least useful to some extent. His obsession with reviving deceased family members was a thorn in Enver’s side, but not without its advantages.

Orin, on the other hand, was a migraine from the moment he was introduced to her. Admittedly, she looked more the part of the Bhaalspawn he had expected to encounter before being introduced to you. Stained in blood, colorless eyes akin to a corpse, giggling and shouting at the turn of a coin while waving around a blade much like a child would their precious toy.

In the name of Bane, he was fortunate it was you he had had the pleasure of meeting instead of her that night. Having Orin as the Leader of the Cult of Bhaal would’ve made eventually cutting this alliance much easier.

You knew how to dance hand-to-hand with your blade.

Orin merely toyed with hers.

---

With how often you frequented his office nowadays, Enver began to suspect that you were neglecting your Cult in your absence. Not that he ever brought it to your attention, he simply pointed it out to himself.

For the most part, you would stay and discuss his plans with him, still never speaking more words than you deemed necessary. If there was something you didn’t agree with, silence would remain your answer until he figured out the source of the problem. You were incredibly smart, he’d be a fool to deny that.

But with more time, he discovered that your brilliance was not the only reason he wanted you to stay.

With every session you partook in together, he swore he could see your face softening ever so slightly. Every gesture became more relaxed, and you ceased to pull away from his proximity. There were times when he could put a hand on your shoulder, even brush a wayward piece of hair away from your face without you threatening to spill his innards.

He took his victories in small measures.

Then one evening, he found you inside his chambers, only that you weren’t making standing now as you usually were when awaiting him.

Instead, you were perched in the alcove of his window. While your blade was clutched tightly in your grip, your eyes were closed, and the manner in which you sat seemed almost … peaceful.

Were you resting?

The second he closed the door, your eyes shot open, and he quickly found your blade pressed against his neck. It likely would’ve killed him had your eyes not fallen onto him in time.

He blinked. “… Good evening?”

You blinked again, recognition falling over your features, and sheathed your weapon.

Unperturbed by the most recent attempt at his life, Enver proceeded over to his desk. “Apologies for disturbing your rest,” he said, and what surprised him was that he meant every word of it.

It sounded like you were struggling to come up with a proper response. “I wasn’t resting.”

“Oh?” He glanced over to where you were previously not-resting, intending to make a subliminal point, when he noticed something.

Your previous seat – the layers in his window alcove – were drenched with blood. He initially suspected you had a corpse stowed away somewhere for him to find, but with a quick glance across his rooms, he found none. You never hid your kills, not from him, and upon turning back to you, that’s when he discovered that it was the back of your clothing that was drenched.

It wasn’t anyone else’s blood.

Just yours.

And no shortage in amount, either. It was dripping from the edge of your coat, staining the expensive carpets he as of five seconds ago couldn’t care less about.

His first instinct compelled him to investigate, all while maintaining the façade of complete composure. You were no mere person. You were a Child of Bhaal, you had no equal on the battlefield as far as he knew. Even the mightiest foes fell victim to your blade, regardless of their race, height, or armor.

The only one who could prove strong enough to even get close and inflict this amount of damage on you would be …

You.

A warmth encompassed him, foreign to his inherent nature. Warmer than the fires of hell, twice as scorching; twisting and clawing under his skin like desperate souls in search of freedom, but not even all the gold in Raphael's vault could tempt him to be rid of it.

��You’re injured,” he concluded.

“I heal fast. My Father’s blood ensures it.”

“An admirable and useful trait, but judging by how much you’ve already lost, I would say you’re still at risk until you’re healed.”

“Of dying?”

“Nothing as dramatic, I doubt. My furniture, however, is at risk of being stained beyond repair at this rate. Do your friend a favor and let me assess the damage, then.”

Your body stiffened.

“Is that what we are? Friends?” you asked, one eye looking over your shoulder to pinpoint his exact location.

He looked at you in turn. “Do you wish to be?”

You said nothing in return, but there was no sharpness to your gaze. No perceived slight at the casual words he permitted to come out of him. It felt like you didn’t know what to make of this, and he was in no hurry to make his meaning plainer.

Rather than waiting for a verbal response, he gestured to the stool by his bedside and headed to his bathroom to retrieve what little he possessed of healing balms, a washing bin full of water, and bandages. He usually had people for this kind of matter, but he doubted you would feel inclined to accept help from strangers when you scarcely permitted it of him.

He returned to find you seated, your upper clothing already discarded on his bed, with your bare back presented to him.

Enver Gortash had seen his fair share of the grotesque, whether it was from the Hells or in the city. He believed himself numb and desensitized to such; he never had a problem dishing it out himself.

Yet somehow, the sight of your back – borderline skinless with how marred your flesh was, blood already starting to coagulate across the edges of each cavern, made him pause for a moment. Anyone else would’ve died had they suffered the same injuries, but you were not anyone else.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Hells, he wouldn’t have allowed them the liberty to sit here, partially naked like a disgraced courtesan, and offered them his assistance. He had seen you naked already, but not like this.

But with you … He’d be willing to make an exception.

He discovered that he would be willing to make a lot of exceptions.

Folding up the hems of his sleeves, he began the process of wiping off the excess blood. He imagined that the salve in the water would sting, possibly hurt, but he warranted no reaction from you. Not a wince, not a moan, not a single sound. Your skin was cold, like the corpses you created, but soft in spite of the state you were in.

The basin soon turned red with the remnants of your life’s essence, and he imagined that – were it true that Bhaal was in your blood – the God of Murder would’ve surely found it affronting to have drops of him wasted in a washing basin.

As he began to dry the jagged edges of your self-inflicted wounds, he couldn’t keep the question that was nagging him at bay.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

“Repentance.”

His eyes furrowed. Why would Bhaal’s favorite child – the one he had personally witnessed commit massacres in the name of her Lord – be required to repent? What could someone as devoted as yourself have to repent for? “For what?”

He received no answer in turn. All he gained was a look over your shoulder, one that quietly requested that he didn’t delve deeper into the matter.

You could’ve demanded his submission with pain.

You could’ve turned around and forced his head into the blood-mixed water, held him down until he was all but begging for the sweet relief of death.

But you didn’t.

So, he didn’t delve deeper.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend,” you murmured.

Enver smiled as he applied the balm to your skin. “Then I would be honored to be your first.”

---

He began to make note of the things you liked.

---

You liked blackberry, he discovered that when he left a bowl of them unattended on his desk - a gift from an associate overseas.

He returned to find the bowl near-empty, and the window open.

After that, he made a public announcement that blackberries were his favorite flavor, and although he received plenty of gifts from admirers and lickspittles alike, he never indulged himself.

The gifts were always gone from his chambers come morning.

———

You preferred the sound of the violin to the piano.

Whenever he hosted gatherings, he would insist on having the violinists perform the longest, if only to catch a glimpse of you hiding somewhere no one could spot you.

———

You never slept - you claimed to have no need for it

But every so often, while he was working on his desk, he would catch you closing your eyes and rest with your back against the wall.

———

“So, what do you think?” He swirled the wine in his glass before taking an appreciative sip. Imported recently from Neverwinter, a batch from 1359. Perfectly aged, and perfect for an evening such as this.

You looked skeptical at the drink in your hand from the opposite side of the table, internally weighing the pros and cons before finally taking a tentative sip. To his delight, you did not look disgusted, which meant that you were pleased.

He knew you would like it.

“Your verdict?”

“It’s sweet.”

“It’s composed of Blackberry syrup, quite popular in the region and a personal favorite of mine. Unfortunately, not many of my associates seem to share my taste for the beverage, so I’m fortunate that you do.”

“Do you wish me to kill them?” you asked, completely serious.

He grinned and rested his cheek atop the knuckles of his free hand. “While I can appreciate the gesture, I’m afraid that I need these particular associates alive for now. When their usefulness eventually expires, I’ll be sure to send word for you.”

You nodded in acquiescence and took another sip of your glass.

The both of you drank for a while longer, and while your conversations felt rather one-sided on his part, you listened and supplemented when you saw fit to it.

At first, the subject varied from different aspects of your plan regarding the Absolute, who to kill, and so forth. Then, when the liquor seemed to loosen both of your tongues, the subjects delved deeper. Deeper than they ought to have, but none of you felt the need to correct this error.

“What is your name?” he finally asked. He had wanted to ask that question for a while now – since the moment you first met – but you had never indulged him.

Maybe now, you finally would?

You tilted your head slightly to the side as you assessed him. “Does my title not suffice?”

“A title is one thing, but a name is another,” he explained, releasing his glass on top of the table to focus completely on you. “There have been other Bhaalspawn before, though never one such as yourself. I believe that requires a designation on your own.”

The way you peered at him, sent a warmth to his cheeks that he could not credit the alcohol for. Those eyes, the very ones who looked so hollow and lifeless, now had a certain glow about them that captivated him like a moth to the moon.

You glanced out the window for a moment, and he could faintly hear you whisper something he doubted was meant for his ears.

(“Forgive me, Father…”)

Then, you gave him your name; ushered it like a secret that was meant for him, and only him.

At that moment, Enver Gortash realized that he was willing to forsake it all.

Forsake Bane.

Forsake his work.

He would gladly toss it all away, if only he could keep your eyes on him at all times, to speak your names as many times as he desired.

At that moment, there was nothing more he desired.

Well, almost nothing more.

There was one thing.

As if all effects of the liquor had abandoned him, he got up to his feet and walked over to your side. The blade you had previously put aside found its way back to your hand with his guidance, and he helped up get up to your feet.

With little care, he buttoned his shirt down, exposing his chest to you; his skin, his flesh, all bare for you to indulge in as you pleased.

There were question marks aligned in your eyes at the gesture.

“Cut me.” His words were soft enough to be perceived as a request, but there was no room for negotiations, not this time. You had displayed painful self-control in his presence, never harming him since you first met.

Now, he was permitting you to do what you had undoubtedly denied yourself all this time.

You could kill him – sever his link to the mortal plane, dig out his heart, and eat it if you wished to. You had his permission, if only you could make him last long enough to see you smile once again.

You had only smiled once in the time he’d known you, and it was because of him.

Maybe his death would bring you a greater joy?

He’d hope you would smile for him one last time.

He felt the blade pierce his skin, but not deep enough for it to leave lethal consequences. A prolonged line from the right side of his abdomen up to his left shoulder. That’s all it left, hardly enough to be considered a tribute to your father’s name, but your pupils grew wide all the same.

With his hand circling your waist and pulling you closer, Enver forced your face into his blood-stained chest. “You have my scent,” he whispered into your ear. “Now have my taste.”

He did not have long to wait before he felt your nails piercing holes through the fabric of his coat, leaving crescent-shaped indents on the skin of his back as you pushed yourself tighter into him. It was near-suffocating, but Hells, if it wasn’t euphoric.

Your teeth on his chest came next, sharp and merciless – predator tearing into the carcass, like you wanted to devour all of him. Your tongue slid across the length of his scar, drinking in every drop of blood he could offer at the moment. It hurt, it stung, and it ached, but whatever blood his body could afford to spare went south on record speed.

It all dawned on him, then, in a moment of euphoric ecstasy

Why you were always covered in fresh wounds of your own making whenever you went to see him.

Why you were always murmuring prayers when you thought he couldn’t hear.

Begging for forgiveness from your Father – For your God.

It was all because of him.

For all the troubles he had unintentionally caused you, it was only fitting that he compensate for it, right?

When you finally pulled back, lips drenched with his blood, you looked absolutely beautiful.

“Tell me,” He clasped his hand to the side of your face, his voice hoarse with pure, unadulterated want. “How do I taste?”

In your dazed state, so content and so nourished by the essence of him, only one word pushed past your lips:

“Sweet.”

He claimed your lips in an instant, tasting himself on your tongue – Harsh and unyielding, and you matched him with equal vigor. To anyone else, the two of you would’ve resembled two animals in the midst of a fight, or a rut.

What others would say if they knew, he cared little for. His God could cast him aside for this wicked sin, and he’d accept it with a self-satisfied smile as he walked backward to the Hells. He wanted to taste every part of you, savor every piece you would grant him, and let you taste him in turn.

You bit and you clawed, shedding his blood, tearing at it skin.

A lesser man would have found it repulsing.

A lesser man would have pushed you away, redressed himself, and left.

But Enver Gortash was not a lesser man, and all you did to him, it only added to his eventual undoing.

Your skin was surprisingly soft against his, for all your scars from years of service to your God. The sounds you made as you came undone, be it by his fingers or his tongue, he could never hope to tire of it. For someone who never spoke much, you sure compensated for that with the unholy moans and snarls he earned.

Just before he entered you, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, he could detect the faintest flicker of … fear? Hesitation? He did not have an estimated answer to the cause of this, but he did have his suspicions.

Before establishing the foundation of your friendship, he had noticed how you would go out of your way to avoid physical touch unless it was you who initiated it.

Of course, that boundary was cast aside when it came to reaping lives, but it seemed that in this particular instance, it was different.

Had you never known such pleasure?

Never allowed yourself to feed? To indulge?

Did your God only permit you to touch something - someone - as long as it resulted in death?

A gnawing began to tug at his bones.

He did not think you would care much for gentleness, nor did he ask you to clarify, but he was still measured with his intrusion and quickly discovered that you were tight. You left him breathless, and he in turn provided the same.

His suspicions were correct.

What a slight Bhaal would consider this; to know his precious offspring was defiled by no other than the Chosen of his Sworn Foe.

Enver was not a petty character - he was more dignified than that, but just this once, he was willing to spite the God of Murder.

Not that it’s was a point of focus to him.

With some adjustment, he searched your face for hints and signs that he could proceed. Where your voice fell short, your eyes provided. If you had objections, you did not voice them, but he made sure to commit to every act necessary for you to call out to him - not Bhaal, but Enver Gortash.

He learned what place made you sing to him. Made you scream his name.

And you did – several times.

He made sure of it.

And he called out yours.

---

By the time you were done, the bed was a mess, and you both looked like you had just narrowly escaped a chance encounter with death.

In a way, he had.

“Enver,” you called into his chest, your arm wrapped in a bruising hold around his stomach.

“Hmmm?”

“A friendship with you … has its uses.”

He almost laughed and wrapped his arms around you in return. “Care to elaborate?”

“You do not taste foul.”

He could live with that.

In fact, he wanted to live with that.

With you.

You would leave for Moonrise Towers soon, and your plan would come to fruition. Ketheric would fall – Orin could too for all he cared. The world would be at your feet, and you would both reign as Gods over the rest. There was no other he would rather share it with, save for the only one he considered his Equal.

Nor would there ever be anyone else.

This he swore to all the gods that would listen, - to Bhaal, to Bane, to Myrkul.

Enver swore it.

If the world considered you monsters, then you could be monsters together.

---

The next time he sees you, it’s months later, and you’ve changed.

You’re not alone this time, as much as he preferred it so.

A vampire stands beside you, looking awfully grateful and smug about being in your proximity – a hand on your hip for emphasis, unintentional with the spite aimed towards the Archduke. Gortash finds that he wants to squeeze out whatever blood is left in him just for breathing the same air as you.

There’s Duke Ravengaard’s wayward son, looking a little devilish as of late with the addition of two horns glued to his head.

Then there’s Karlach. He makes it a point to ignore her glare.

He has no interest in your companions.

What he does have is an interest in you, even if he can tell the feeling is not mutual. Not anymore. There’s that sharpness in your eyes, the one you always harbored before towards him, then ceased to.

Now it has returned, only it feels tenfold as cold compared to before.

“Shall we be allies?” he asks after making his proposition.

Shall we be friends again?

Silence, once more, remains his only answer.

It seems you were the only one who received the benefit of forgetting.

He never did.

Not once.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #Enver Gortash #gortash x durge #durgetash #bg3 gortash #dark urge x gortash #bg3 fanfiction #Enver Gortash x reader #the dark urge

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spookymystery67 · 10 months ago

Text

I Wish I Could Walk In Heels

AN: Here's another chapter! I hope it's alright. I was iffy on it but what's new. Also I got a laptop and Baldurs Gate 3 for christmas so I have to work out a good schedule between work, writing, and playing the game. There sadly just isn't enough time in a day for me to get all I want done and it very much irritates me. Hopefully it all works out. Anyways, enjoy!

TW: None I can think of.

Oh you have got to be kidding me." You said, realizing the person in the driver seat was someone you knew. Someone who both you and Leon had presumed dead in Raccoon City.

Chapter 12:

"Miss me?" Ada questioned with a smug smirk on her face as she drove. She was amused by the shocked look on your face, you could tell. "Oh come on, where did you think the rocket launcher came from?"

She was wearing a pair of sunglasses and a stylish red jacket over an equally stylish black dress with heels that looked far too uncomfortable to wear even while sitting.

Could never be you with your tacky, knee-high, ducky socks.

"I-I don't know. And where the fuck did you get a rocket launcher?" The metaphorical gears in your head malfunctioned as you tried to come to terms with your current reality.

"I have my ways." She shrugged, still smirking.

The smug look on her face begins to piss you off. Really, really, piss you off. You thought she died. Not only that, you thought she died saving you. All that guilt you felt over her was for nothing.

A part of you was relieved, maybe even a little happy, that she was alive and well right in front of you. That you didn't have one more death on your hands. But you didn't think you could deal with, well, whatever the hell kind of trouble that followed her when you had your own problems.

So, thus began your attempt to escape the moving vehicle.

You turned to jump out of the car, but she quickly locked the doors from the driver's side. They were child safety locks and wouldn't budge no matter how hard you tried.

"I'll take that as a yes." She joked.

"Let me out." You said as you turned to look at her.

"No, I don't think I will." She said casually.

"Ada, let me out of the fucking car. Now!" You yelled as you continued yanking the handle.

"So vulgar. Language." Ada joked. "Sorry, no can do. Those men back there that I just saved you from? They weren't actually policemen."

You froze. "Umbrella?"

Ada nodded solemnly, "Despite your best efforts, you still ended up under their radar." She paused, before adding in a forced, lighter tone. "And the governments too. Not quite as stealthy as you thought you were huh?"

"That's not funny. That's bad. Worse than I thought it was…" You sighed and covered your face with your hands, trying to think. You didn't even have the hard drive anymore. The only information you have is in your brain. How did they know what you knew? Why were you important enough to go after?

"You're right, it is bad. But lucky for you I'm here to save your ass." She told you.

You looked up at her in confusion. She wants to help you? Why? What's her game this time? What's her plan?

"You want to help me?" You voiced in disbelief.

"Yes."

"For what reason? I highly doubt it's out of the kindness of your heart."

For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of hurt flash across her features. She quickly masked it with a smirk. "Ouch. Is it so hard to believe I did come here out of the kindness of my heart?"

Your mind flashes back to the events of last week. "Uh, yeah, kind of. Everything about you was all lies in Raccoon City." You pointed out.

"Not everything."

"Really? Your name is actually Ada?"

She paused. "Well, it wasn't the name I was born with but yes, Ada Wong is my name."

"You're an FBI agent?" You asked. She snorted.

"Pfft no. But you knew that already. Though, it wasn't a full lie. I'm an agent of sorts."

"We're getting off track. What do you want?" You questioned.

"Look, I did come here to help, but, and really I hate to admit this, I also need your help with something in return…"

You hesitated. "...help with what?"

"A mission."

You huffed. "Ah, you want to use me again. Sorry, it's not happening. Unlock the door."

She ignored your demand, pulling her sunglasses down her nose to get a better look at you as the car stopped at a red light.

"I'm not going to use you. Think of this as a partnership. Believe me, if we succeed, I'll make it worth your while." Her tone sounded seductive near the end of her sentence. You turned to look at her in disbelief.

"A-are you trying to seduce me into helping you?" You asked, an unwilling blush mixed with anger and embarassment from the suggestive comment growing across your face.

Her eyes widened slightly, seemingly startled at being caught, before she pushed her sunglasses up her nose once more and turned to face the road.

"No." Ada denied, almost flustered.

"Yes. Yes you were! What, did you find out I like women and figure you could use that to your advantage? Seriously?" You spat.

You were pissed, mostly at yourself. You assumed she figured it out by your little slip up during your conversation in the NEST. Ada was a gorgeous woman, anyone with seeing eyes would agree to that. You couldn't help but feel some attraction toward her, even when she was flat out lying to your face and pointing a gun at you, she still had the ability to make you blush against your will. It was frustrating.

"N-no! That wasn't my intention. I'm sorry. It's a force of habit." She said quietly, as if she was embarrassed to admit it.

You paused, looking for any sign of her tells when she was lying. She didn't think she had any. They were minuscule. Barely recognizable unless you were really looking for them. But you notice. You had her figured out back in the city.

You saw nothing and your angered features softened.

It saddens you that she has had to flirt and seduce her way through life to the point where it is practically automatic. It makes you curious as to who the real Ada Wong is behind that flirty, seductive, femme fatale persona you have seen.

You shake the thought away. You barely know the woman. You have no right wanting to know her on such a personal level. You don't think anyone deserved to know. She can keep that safely to herself.

"It's fine. Look, I'm not going to be much help in whatever you need. Raccoon City was a fluke. I'm not cut out for all that… spy bullshit." You told her. She shook her head.

"Believe me, you're perfect. And it's not going to be as dangerous as Raccoon City was…" She started.

"But the tone in your voice implies it is some kind of dangerous. I'm a wanted woman, Ada. I don't want any attention. I can't help you." You said. She scowled slightly before shrugging.

"Well, I'm not stopping the car until I get there. So you're stuck with me until then."

"This is kidnapping. Your kidnapping me, Ada." You huffed as you started to jiggle the handle of the moving car again.

"Is it really kidnapping when you have the intention of letting the person go?" She asked.

"Yes! I'm here against my will. Let me out."

"No." She continued to stare right at the road as she drove, giving no indication of stopping. You huffed.

"Ada."

"No."

You glared at her before, in a moment of spontaneous decision, quickly moving to grab your gun to threaten her as a last resort. She moved faster, using her right hand to point her gun at your forehead and her left to drive, still not glancing in your direction.

"You really thought that would work?" She questioned.

You froze, moving your hand away from your side and slowly moving both your hands to lay on the dash.

"Good girl." She mocked playfully. She pulled the gun away from your head and you slowly relaxed, accepting your fate with slightly red cheeks.

"You're such a bitch." You scowled as you crossed your arms.

"Hmm, says the one about to pull a gun out on me."

"You're kidnapping me!"

"Details." Ada smirked.

You scoffed and shook your head. Though you couldn't help but smile, somewhat amused.

"I'm glad you're not dead." You admitted quietly.

She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smirk growing softer and her cheeks flushing so slightly you almost missed it.

“Me too.”

—------

You've resigned yourself to the fact that you would help Ada. You just couldn't say no to her. Not after she saved your life more than once already. You owed her one. After that, you could go your own way.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

You really started to second guess your decision, though, when she pulled out an outfit for you to wear from the closet of her, much fancier, hotel room. You had just finished showering and had a complimentary white, fluffy robe wrapped around you.

Finally ditching the ducky socks once and for all.

“You really expect me to wear that?” You asked incredulously with a grimace on your face.

“What's wrong with it?” Ada questioned, looking away from you to the dress in her hands, trying to figure out what you didn't like about it.

The dress in question was navy blue in color. The cut in the neckline was low and bound to show off a good bit of cleavage while the bottom looked like it would maybe reach mid-thigh. The back of the dress was cut in an intricate way to reach your mid back. The sleeves were short but enough to keep everything in place. It was almost risky and classy all at once.

It wasn't nearly as short as the shorts you were wearing before, but the thought of putting the dress on gave you a pause.

“Nothing. It's beautiful. Just not something I'm used to wearing. I highly doubt I could pull it off.” You told her.

“Well, I think you'll look great in it.” You give her a doubtful look. “At least try it on. If you don't like it, we'll have some time to go out and find you something else if you would like.” She insisted.

“Wouldn't that be risky? What with Umbrella and others looking for survivors?” You didn't think they were specifically just after you. But ever since you got out of the city, it sure as hell felt like it.

“You're with me, Y/n. You'll be fine. Believe it or not, I know what I'm doing. Now, try on the dress.”

She held the dress out toward you expectantly. You paused and looked from the dress to her face. She raised an eyebrow, leaving no room for argument.

You huffed a “fine”, before you stomped toward her, grabbed the dress from her outstretched hands, and stalked toward the bathroom to change.

You weren't lying when you said the dress was pretty. It was gorgeous. Never something you would pick out for yourself though. Too fancy to wear casually and you never went to parties requiring a dress code. You wonder what Ada's plan was that required you, an amateur “spy” to accompany her.

You snorted to yourself. You're using the term spy very, very, loosely.

Sighing, you slipped the navy dress on with ease. Surprise and confusion etched on your features when you looked into the mirror.

It fit perfectly. It fit snugly in all the right places and showed off your curves and cleavage almost teasingly. Yet, somehow it still looked sophisticated. It was a weird combination that you didn't really think could work until now.

You looked hot. It's a miracle.

In all seriousness, you haven't felt this pretty in a long time. Especially after that week covered in zombie blood, guts, and other strange bodily and mysterious fluids that made you shiver when you thought about it.

Yup, this was definitely an improvement.

“Are you done yet?” Ada's voice asked from outside the door.

With a final glance in the mirror, you turned to the door and opened it with a dramatic swish.

“Tada…” You sing-songed with a spread to your arms in a 'well?” gesture. She smirked from her spot, sat on the bed and motioned for you to do a spin. You do.

“Hmm, not bad. I made a good choice.” Ada complimented?

“Was that a compliment to me or yourself?”

“Yes.” The smirk on her face grew when you rolled your eyes.

“How'd you know my size anyways?” You questioned.

She hummed and shrugged, glancing away briefly. “Lucky guess.”

Well, that was a flat out lie if you ever heard one. Has she been checking you out enough to know your size? Can anyone figure that out just by looking? Why and how did you not notice?

“In all seriousness, you look good, Y/n. I don't think we'll have to go shopping after all.” Ada voiced, breaking you from your confusion.

“Oh, I will eventually. I've been surviving off of thrift store booty shorts and ducky socks for far too long for my liking.” You motioned to the pile of clothes you discarded on the floor.

“I thought that was an interesting choice for the fall, but I wasn't going to judge.” Ada jested, making you snort in return.

“You're one to talk. With that outfit you wore in Raccoon City, I'm surprised you're not as scraped and bruised as I am.” You gestured to yourself, scabbed knees and all.

“We'll use makeup to cover what injuries are showing. I also have a pair of tights that would go great with that dress to cover your knees.” She reassured you.

Oh. She was probab just as bad off as you were. She's just strategically covered up. Maybe to avoid talking about it?

Or maybe to avoid looking weak.

You'd bet that with her job that she couldn't afford showing any vulnerability.

“Right…. Speaking of being battered, how is your leg and shoulder?” You questioned.

“Still healing. Doesn't hurt as much as it did a week ago.” She shrugged with her good shoulder.

“Really? Nothing severe?”

“Apparently I almost tore something to near unusable when I tossed you back up onto the bridge. But, it turned out fine.” She brushed off.

You could tell she didn't want to have this conversation anymore. She didn't want to talk about her injuries or her feelings on what happened. But you had to ask.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sacrifice yourself? Or, at least, make Leon and I believe that you did? You clearly had a way out of it.” You gestured to her sitting on the bed, alive and well.

“I did it for multiple reasons.” Ada trailed off, staring at the wall with a distant look in her eyes, in thought. You wonder if she was trying to concoct a reasonable explanation that won't share too many details.

You waited for her to continue. The silence drew on as you continued to stare at her as she thinks. You huffed a sigh, patience wearing thin.

“And?”

She looked back at you. “I can't really tell you all about it. And I don't want to,” she stood and began to pace around the room. ”but one of the main reasons was because I couldn't do anything while holding onto you. The choice was between letting you go and allowing you to fall to your death to save myself, or attempting to save you and then save myself.” She deadpanned.

“Why did you choose to save me?”

It confused you. Her saving you. From what little time you've known Ada, you've come to realize that she was a selfish woman. She didn't do anything purely out of the kindness of her heart. There were always ulterior motives behind everything she did. Her pretending to be the FBI. Her allowing Leon and you to join her mission. Her saving you. It was all for her benefit.

Even now, you're here for her benefit.

Ada threw you an irritated glare. “Reasons. Now, are we done with the questions about Raccoon City or are we going to waste more time that could go to explaining the current mission I need you in.”

You nodded and decided to respect the obvious boundaries she was putting up. You weren't going to be around each other long enough to really care about the why. Best to just thank her and move on. You had manners, after all.

“Yeah, just, I wanted to thank you. For saving my life. Multiple times. It may have been for you and not for me, but I still appreciate it.” You told her.

It was true. Choking, being crushed, and falling to your death were not ways you wanted to go.

No matter how shitty your life has been recently.

Ada was taken aback by your thanks, but nodded in acknowledgment. “You're welcome. Now, let's finish getting you ready while I go over the plan.”

Ada walked back to the closet and grabbed a pair of matching, lacy, black tights and a pair of tall heels. Your eyes widened.

“Uh, no. Tell me you have flats.” You gestured to the shoes. She gave you a deadpanned look.

“Do I look like I wear flats?”

You looked her up and down. “...No?”

She rolled her eyes. “These are the shortest pair of heels I have. You'll be fine. Besides, flats, with that dress? That would ruin the whole outfit.”

You didn't get it. And that was clearly a personal opinion. You've seen some very nice flats, thank you very much.

“Yes, but flats were invented for the clumsy and the comfortable. Heels were invented to torture people.”

Ada snorted, “Now you're just being dramatic.”

“No I'm not! It's right up there with the treadmill.” You exaggerated.

“Heels were a symbol of status. Not torture devices.” Ada corrected.

Of course she would know that. “Could have fooled me.” You grumbled.

“Put the damn shoes on.” Ada laughed.

You begrudgingly began pulling the tights over your scabbed and bruised legs, before you put the shoes on. You began walking and winced as your feet already began hurting.

“See. Not so bad.” She commented with a barely restrained smirk. You narrowed your eyes at her clear amusement to your struggle.

“These fucking hurt, you lunatic.” You gritted.

“You're just dramatic.”

“No, I have you all figured out now. You're a sadist.” You joked as you accepted that the heels are to stay for the night.

Ada let out a laugh. “Alright. If you say so. Practice walking around the room while I tell you about your part in all this.” She sat back down on the bed and watched as you slowly became used to the shoes.

“The mission is to collect an extremely rare artifact that was purchased at an auction two weeks ago by a Mr. Jeffery Smith.” She held up a photo and you walked closer to inspect the photo.

“Huh, he looks rich. And boring.” You said as you examined the picture of the most basic, rich, old looking white dude you've ever seen in your life.

“He is. Extremely rich and boring. An extremely rich and boring old man who outbid my employer for an extremely rare necklace that he just has to have.” Ada sighed, seeming bored as she handed you a picture of the necklace.

Your eyes widened at the intricate design and the gems throughout the necklace. “Holy shit! There is no way that your employer is paying you nearly the amount this necklace is worth.”

Ada smirked. “He isn't. Which is why I have another customer lined up with an even better offer. But I'll keep the details about that to myself.”

You snorted. “I'm not even surprised. So, why am I needed for this? I feel like you're extremely capable of handling this on your own.”

“You're right. I am capable. I can get past all the trip wires and laser beams without even breaking a sweat. But to do that, I need a distraction. Specifically a distraction for him.” Ada said as she pointed to the picture of Jeffery Smith.

Your eyes widen in realization and you grimace. “Ew. I have to chat the man up? Doesn't he have a wife or something?”

“Of course he does. One wife, and at least five other mistresses included.” Ada informed you.

You glanced at the photo in disbelief. “Five? For him? Really?”

“One word, Y/n. Money.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course. Money. Makes sense, I guess. I like money.”

“Good. You're on the verge of getting a good chunk of it if you help me out with this.”

You raised a brow, intrigued. “How much?”

“15%.” Ada told you.

“Really? Just 15%?”

“I am doing all the hard work. And at least you're getting something for your help this time around.” Ada snarked.

“How generous of you.” You replied sarcastically. “Come on, at least 50%. I'm a woman on the run here.”

Ada snorted. “No way. 15%.”

“45.” You shot back.

“20.” She countered.

“40.”

“35. That's my final offer.” Ada smirked, clearly amused. For her, this was probably like watching a child barter with their parents for more candy or five more minutes before bedtime.

You huffed as you considered. That necklace wasn't cheap. 35% of that fortune would last you a very long time. It wasn't like you were looking to buy a mansion here. You just wanted something to get by.

“Fine. 35%.”

“Great, let's shake on it.” Ada held out her hand, smirk still on her face.

“Sure. But I also want a signed contract.” You said as you placed your hand in hers to shake.

Ada laughed, a genuine smile gracing her features. “Of course. I'll keep my word, Y/n. 35%. I suppose you'll deserve it, with everything going on.”

“Thanks.” You replied with a strained smile.

It was a relief, to be honest. Money was going to be a problem, but that was at least one issue you had handled. Figuring out your other problems as easily as Ada had solved this one for you would be a miracle.

“Alright. Makeup and hair, then party. I'll be with you in the beginning, then I'll make an excuse to leave and make a move on the necklace, which will be your cue to start flirting with Smith. Sounds good?” Ada questioned as she grabbed a large makeup kit filled with pretty much everything you could never need.

“I suppose.” You said nervously.

“What's wrong? Why are you nervous?” She asked.

“I'm not a flirty person, Ada. I just don't want to screw it up.” You admitted.

“You'll be fine. You're pretty and young, just Smith's type.” She glanced up at you from her spot on the bed as she was digging through the makeup kit. “In his case, you might want to act a little ditzy. Giggle at every stupid joke he says, be a little touchy. You know, flirty.”

Your brows furrowed. “Is that flirty? I thought it was hotter than that?”

Ada smirked. “It usually is, depending on the person. But Smith seems to like people who act like their dumb. Trust me, I've met the mistresses.”

“You've met the mistresses?” You laughed.

“Yes. For research. Don't worry, they won't be at the party.”

“And the wife?” You questioned.

“In Europe, I believe.”

“Awesome.” You deadpanned.

“Now relax, I've got a lot of work to do.” Ada joked as she got up and sat you down on the bed to do your makeup.

You closed your eyes to rest as you let her work her magic to temporarily get rid of any evidence left from the events of Raccoon City.

You were reluctant to admit to yourself that you were happy to be in Ada's presence. It almost felt like you were hanging out with a friend. The thought caused a sharp pain to shoot through your heart. It made you miss your friends.

You sighed. One and done. After you help Ada, you're on your own for good.

#ada wong #resident evil #ada wong x reader #resident evil x reader #claire redfield #jill valentine #leon kennedy #raccoon city #idk what else to tag #I Wish I Could Walk In Heels

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