Datasets:
mickume
/
dnd_drow

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
Community
text
stringlengths
0
41.4k
What will a Bhaalspawn do, when he’s troubled? Zal’krum pulls out his dagger, gazing deep into the vermillion blade, lost in its vile brilliance. When he’s with Enver, he feels loved, wanted, owned, and he can set the ever yawning darkness in his cursed soul aside, allowing himself to appreciate the simplicity of living and giving himself away, enveloping himself in a warm, bubbly sensation that is happiness.
But now that he’s alone, the familiar, ceaseless whispers tugs at the edge of his consciousness, slithering and crawling, pounding on the walls that is his very skull, reminding him that it exists, it never went anywhere, and it is just as hungry as he is. It screeches, demands that he feeds for the both of them with blood and gore, or its maw will come down to feast on him instead, consuming him whole and leaving nothing behind.
His head throbs in agony, and he buries his head between his palms and growls. Does he actually enjoy slaughtering, or is it the urge compelling him? Does it matter? It won’t when he coats himself head to toe in red, it embracing him like a lover would — it isn’t going to be as sweet as Enver’s, but he has to make do, right? A content smile creeps onto his face and before he knows it, his legs start to take him somewhere else. Where to? Who cares, he will just figure it out when he’s there.
The red haze has almost consumed his vision before the blinding ray of sunlight pierces through it, forcing him to look away, and his surroundings gets significantly busier and rowdier, to his dismay. He prefers his silent solace, so where in the Hells is he? Blinking away both the red haze and the sun, he opens his eyes again to see... not Lower City. He isn’t entirely sure where this is, until his gaze landed on a signpost nearby: Welcome to Rivington .
Rivington? So he simply turned the other way around, from the Fortress? How peculiar, that his body brought him here, way out of his comfort zone, but maybe he just needs to do something unusual for him to clear his gloominess. First things first, he slips away from the merchants hollering for business, the noise was making him grind his teeth in agitation, and he finds himself at the park. Well, saying "park’ is being generous, it’s just a patch of grassy ground with a bench or two, and some flora scattering about.
He scans around the area: it’s open, but the security is also incredibly lax, almost to the point of non-existence. I can get away with a lot here, he chuckles to himself, why haven’t I thought of coming here before? All the possibilities, so many tragedies, all he needed to do is just make them happen. Excitement and bloodthirst surges through his veins, and he lets out a breathy sigh, it’s time to hunt.
It really is too laughably easy for him, way beneath his talents, but he isn’t too picky today. The people here are so blissfully unaware, they never saw it coming even as their tongues were cut out, their bodies split open and spilling blood so gorgeously, him intentionally letting the majority of it get on his everything, covering him in red, just the way he and his urge wanted. The spontaneous murders in an otherwise peaceful, little town are bound to strike dread and terror into its inhabitants for a while, and that thought does fill him with sadistic glee.
By the time he’s finally sated and the whispers quieted down, he’s lounging on a bench on top of a hill overlooking the coast, listening to the waves splashing against the shores. It would be a serene sight, if not for the fact that there’s a body — no, just a torso now, laying on the empty spot right beside him, red spilling all over the seat and dripping down onto the very ground under. Him being totally splattered in red, licking the blood off his blade with a greedy tongue, humming a tune he just made up, the coppery taste gives his head a nice, pleasant buzz, and his shoulders relax.
"I wonder if Enver’s the type to go sunset-seeing..." He muses to no one in particular, gazing at the sun setting in the distance. Not like he’s the type to, either, but everything will be significantly improved by virtue of having his favorite person there, so why not? Zal’krum’s so hopelessly enamored with Enver, that as soon as he’s able to, his mind drifts straight back to him, not unlike a lovesick child. "Did those fools give you trouble? I’ll kill them for you if you ask, Enver..." Daydreaming about him seems to be his plan for the rest of the day, until he goes to see him again, that is.
Unfortunately, his serenity is intruded upon by a presence behind him. If this was a witness of the sins he committed, he would just chase them down, add them to his unending list of murders, but this wasn’t. He’s keenly aware of who this specific someone is, as much as he prays to his Father for it to not be the case. Anxiety and hate pools in his stomach and bursts into tangible shards when an unnaturally pale hand slithers into the corner of his eyes and rests on the backrest of the bench.
"You’re way out of your nest today, dear little brother," it’s Orin, his "sister’, so to say, the only thing relating them together is their shared Father. And the way she addresses him the same way Enver does, when he should be the only one to ever call him that... It’s disgusting, he has to swallow the bile in his throat and tightly clench onto his thigh to keep himself from lashing out, his claws digging into the blood-soaked fabrics.
"Touch me, and I’ll hack that arm off and devour it in front of you," he warns slowly, with as much malice as possible when Orin tries to caress his face. Her hand stopped midair, thankfully, he would very much prefer to not have her do something that he only lets Enver do. Has she been trailing me this whole time? I need to be more vigilant... That thought makes him feel utterly unnerved, and he bites down onto his lower lip, his fangs drawing blood in his mouth.
"Aww, you wound me," she drawls, feigning hurt in her voice, "don’t say such cruel things to your sister."
"If you wanted to bother me, you’ve done it," by his Father’s grace, is she just here to goad him? He will be playing right into her hand if he loses his cool now, and he’s definitely trying his best, "now begone, back to where you slink from."
"Say, you’ve been naughty, haven’t you?" She ignores him, as he expected, and insists on pushing his buttons. "Busy being someone’s sweet, lover boy?"
"You care too much," now she’s trying to "discuss’ his private life? What’s next? This is getting incredibly vexing.
"Of course I do," she twirls his ponytail with a finger, and that makes him turn around, baring his fangs in barely concealed annoyance, "Father cares a lot about your performances. Careful, brother, you’re getting distracted."
"And yet I’m still His favorite and you’re not, what gives?" If she wants to play like that, he will engage, too.
"Watch your tongue."
"You watch yours." Their faces are very close now, with Orin leaning down and them glaring pure hatred at each other.
"I should rip your beloved lordling to shreds, that will teach you, brother."
"Not if I sink my fangs into you and tear you apart first, sister." Venom drips from each syllable coming out of his lips, the grip he has on his dagger tightens, primed and ready to unleash his wrath upon his blood sibling.
"Or maybe I should wear his face instead and crawl onto your bed at night," she grins with maddened delight, her blank, pupil-less eyes gazing down at him with blatant mockery, "let me hear how you scream his name, how warm and slick you’d feel, and you won’t be able to tell the difference!"
Something in his already struggling mind snapped at that. It’s one thing for her to be a constant, irritating nuisance, like a fly buzzing around his ears, grinding at him about how she’d serve their Father better, that she should be His chosen... He can tolerate that. It’s another thing for her to desecrate what he considers a sanctuary to the crazed, bloodied world around him — the time spent together with Enver, even as a threat. He pined for so long, wanting someone to accept his crimson love, just the way it is, and she wants to trample all over it? The absolute galls of her.
"Don’t you dare!" rage blooms within him, a wildfire spreading across his very being, even seeping through the words he spits through his gritted teeth. His urge is more than eager to latch onto it, tinting his vision with red, red and red, feeding him with whispers of her dismembered, nothing but chunks of her flesh on the ground, her pallid eyeballs crushed by his fangs, and make it happen already, child.
"Oh my, my little brother didn’t like that," Orin says with a hand to her mouth, acting like she’s surprised, which sets him off even more. "What a shame, he looked so lonely sitting here, I thought I’d do him a favor as his loving sister." She then bursts into a maniacal cackle, evidently unfazed by his palpable fury, even reveling in it.
That was the final straw for him. With a savage roar, he leaps over the bench he was seated on, using it as a leverage, dagger poised and ready to land upon her and spill some blood, but with a twist of her wrist, she disappeared, like the mongrel that she is, and he fell onto solid ground. The impact would’ve knocked his breath out, if he’s not completely fixated on his need for violence. Her infuriating laughter rings in his ears, the anger still boiling hot in his blood, and he curls up into himself, forehead on the ground, growling in sheer frustration, claws drawing lines in the soil before his hands ball up into fists and slams down over and over.
He was just starting to finally have a better time, and now his evening is sufficiently ruined. The sound that comes out of him is a mix between a scream and a whine. How dare she threaten me with thinly veiled assault? The worst part, however, is that she’s right, he won’t be able to tell the difference, identifying changelings is an arduous task, especially one as slippery as Orin. The distress he’s feeling right now is triumphing over everything else — what if that sick woman actually goes through with it? Or Hells, what if she does the opposite to Enver? Showing up in his office as him, his beloved being none the wiser...
Zal’krum would throw up from how repulsive that train of thought is, if not for the fact that his throat is closed up from the anxiety. He has never felt this violated in his life, his skin crawls nauseatingly, as if it’s being caressed involuntarily. His very skeleton feels like it doesn’t even want to stay in his body, rattling in its cage, yearning to be let out. It’s such a terrifying prospect, and he can only beg and pray that Orin has done no such thing, yet.
"I’ll kill you! Flay your skin! Pry your flesh off your bones!" His emotions have nowhere to go but out, and he screams, droplets of tears fall onto the ground, hands pulling on his hair with so much force that they almost come off. "You wouldn’t dare... you won’t touch him... Enver’s mine! Mine!"
"Mine, mine, mine, mine..." He murmurs, like a broken record, repeating the mantra to himself, a failed attempt to calm his nerves down. In his heightened senses, he hears shuffling about, and that puts him on alert and does shut him up. Hells, I’m being too loud! He swiftly gets on his feet, wiping away the wetness on his cheeks, and stomps on the soil under him to cover up his tracks, before muttering an incantation of invisibility on himself and sprints away from the scene.
When he slows down, he’s still shaking from the rage and fear from earlier, and the adrenaline doesn’t help one bit. The night has fallen, and he leans on a wall to catch his breath, concealing himself in its shadow. His sanity is hanging by a thread, and he’s resorting to what he knows best: killing. Pressing one ear against the cold surface and listening carefully... someone’s in there. Perfect, works for me, he breathes deeply for one more time, before circling around the corner and reaches for the back entrance. Locked. Not anymore, with a quick cast of knock. He slips into the house and closes the door behind him without care, the noise immediately alerting whoever’s inside.
"I recommend not screaming," he says as soon as they open their mouth to do exactly that, "I don’t like loud noises, you see, and I think it’s in your best interest to not agitate me further." That makes them close their lips fast. They always thought they could save themselves from him. How naïve, death is inevitable, he’s merely a herald of it. Now he can take a better look of his victim—
A human man with dark hair and dark eyes. Ah, what a coincidence, it reminds him of the times he specifically targeted men who looked like Enver, and he was teased by the man himself for it, so he avoided doing that ever since, but...
"Sorry, Enver, I’m about to relapse..." He whispers breathily, a wide, cruel grin slashes cross his face, and the sight sends his next kill into panic, inching away from him slowly. "Oh, sorry to you too," of course, he isn’t one to let them get away, and closes their distances easily, his height making it more imposing as he towers over the man, "would it help if you can’t see?"
Then, he shoves him onto the wooden floor, a firm hand clasping onto the lower half of his face, effectively silencing him. Two hands scratches at his wrist, but he’s stronger, and they eventually limp to the sides as he sinks his dagger into those eye sockets again and again, mincing the flesh within into mush, and severs the nerves connecting directly to the brain. The deed was done within the minute, and just for good measure, he slits his throat open and pries open his mouth to slice out the tongue. The rest of the body, of course, gets split apart too.
"Shame that you’re not half as great or handsome as him," he says softly, as he trails his blade on the ground, stained with his victim’s blood, tracing a ritual circle around the corpse, "further proves that Enver’s special," and mine, he adds in his mind, "well, at least you get to be an offering to Father, so you got that going for you." As a finishing touch, he draws a symbol of Bhaal on an empty spot on the wall, the act coming as naturally as breathing, and recites an unholy prayer with his eyes closed.
The crimes he committed today are already terrible enough, now he’s adding a proper sacrifice to his Father on top of it. Oh, he can imagine the rumors, spoken in hushed voices, the innocent townspeople looking behind them in fear, unwilling to trust what their eyes see, especially the flickering shadows... Glorious, the idea does make his tail wag behind him in glee, and improves his mood. It doesn’t last, however, Orin’s threat looms at the back of his mind, and his eyebrows crease with worry. When he’s out there wasting time killing some man, she could’ve done it, touching Enver... his Enver...
Stress has his heart on a chokehold and he busts out of the house and darts towards the direction of Wyrm’s Fortress. In his hurry, he didn’t even bother to close the door properly, it swaying back and forth in the gentle night breeze.
Gortash pinches the bridge of his nose as he practically drags himself to the stairs connecting to his office. It’s late, all he can hear is crickets, and nothing else. Even the halls, usually bustling with activities of all kinds, fell quiet as everyone went back to their quarters, ready to end their days. Only his guards that are on night duty stand around, giving him a quick salute as he passes by them.
Gods, even climbing up the stairs becomes a draining task, and he almost collapses by the time he reaches the top. Meetings after debates after in-person supervisions have left him completely exhausted, and for a childish moment, he entertained laying down where he is and to just go to sleep. Obviously, he’s not going to do that, it would be unsightly for a man of his status.
He’s going to tell me I look horrible, again, he chuckles to himself, the thought of his lover does bring some energy back to him and he breaths out of his nose, turns the corner and reaches for the doors to his office—
Wait, something isn’t right. Zal’krum enjoys his silence, but this is too quiet, eerily so. He slowly creaks open one of the doors, and nobody’s inside, as far as he can tell, which is normal, he specifically ordered for his men to not be in his office past a certain hour, for reasons, and well, their privacies. The chandeliers are not even on, which is alarming, and he goes behind himself to grab hold of his crossbow, his fatigue prior all but replaced with adrenaline and tension.
An ambush? He pats down his side, looking for... good, he has some of his grenades on him. If there’s indeed an attempt on his head, he will need to avoid drawing their attention by calling out for his guards. There’s also the other layer of concern over his lover’s safety, he just has to trust that he can defend himself against whatever this is. Thankfully, he knows his office like the back of his hand, and is able to navigate his way around even in pitch darkness.
If only I have his darkvision, but he quickly shoves that thought away, it doesn’t help him right now. Grabbing on the doorknob to his quarters, he twists and opens it, readying his crossbow to... do nothing. He’s still breathing, head sits on his shoulder as it should be, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Flicking the lights on, he takes a good look of his room and what he sees almost makes him lose his composure and he clenches his weapon again.
Zal’krum lays on his bed on his side, head buried in his pillow and an arm wrapping around it, the other one grips onto his vermillion dagger tightly. It wouldn’t be so concerning, if not for the fact that he’s absolutely coated in dried blood, and for a moment Gortash feared the worst, until he saw the steady rise and fall of his body.
So he got rid of them? He wonders as he sheaths his crossbow, but there are no blood or signs of conflict whatsoever in his room. He even goes back outside to turn the chandelier on as well, just to be sure, and his office looks exactly the way he left it this morning. The plot thickens, and there’s only one way to find out what happened.
"Zal’krum, dear, wake up," he pats one of his cheeks gently after coming back from his inspection. It didn’t take long for him to see a pair of crimson, gazing up at him blankly. This is the part where he says his name lovingly, and pulls him down into an embrace. Neither happened, but that’s no matter, "thank the Gods you’re fi—" He didn’t get to finish his sentence before the look in those eyes hardened, and it only takes a few seconds for him to go from laying on his bed to putting distance between them and baring his fangs, aiming the tip of his dagger at him.
What in the Hells is going on? Did the urge finally get him for good? If that’s the case, logically he understands that he will have to put him down, but in his one moment of hesitation, his lover charges at him with full murderous intent, and he isn’t going to have the luxury of pinning him down with his bolts, so he has no choice but to call upon his God’s powers...
Bane’s dark chains envelope around Zal’krum’s body, binding his arms together behind him and to his neck; the same happens to his legs too, each calf tied to his thigh, effectively immobilizing him. Gortash has to dodge to the side as the momentum carries the other man forward, dropping him onto the marble floor unceremoniously with a pained wince. He struggles against the chains on him but realizes that there’s no freeing himself, and he growls, hand still clinging onto his dagger.
"Dear, you have some explaining to do," Gortash crouches down, tugging on the chains that are originating from his hand, "but first, let go of this." He slaps his bound wrist and pries at his fingers, attempting to wrestle the blade away from him. He knows he’s not going to match his strength, but luckily Zal’krum relents, and he grabs the dagger and leaves it on his nightstand. When he turns around again, his lover stares at him looking as if he’s about to cry, and half of him feels guilty, the other half only gets more puzzled.
"Bane’s chains... you’re actually Enver?" Zal’krum asks weakly.
"You know other men like me?" Gortash has to ask, finding a smidge of humor in a question as strange as that.
"Well- no, you’re the only one, but..." It seems like there’s something bothering him, but that can wait for a bit longer.
"Enough of that, I have to assume that you were attacked—"
"Attacked? I knew it," Again, he doesn’t get to finish his words before Zal’krum growls in palpable anger and starts struggling on his bindings once more, "to Hells with you, Orin! Enver, let me go! I need to kill her before... before..." It’s futile, even with his strength, and he limps on the ground, panting in over-exertion.
"Orin’? Gortash has never heard of that name before, but the way Zal’krum spits the word out of his mouth, like he can barely stand saying it... So this Orin’s the source of the problem , he deduced. He gently pulls on the chains — he doesn’t want to risk having him lash out again, until this is resolved — guides him up to a sitting position, as much as the bonds allow, and caresses a cheek with his other hand, keeping their eyes on each other.
"Start from the beginning, dear," he says with his "authority’ voice, "who’s Orin?"
"Orin is my older sister," after a defeated sigh, Zal’krum slowly mutters, "the blood kind, you understand. She’s Sarevok’s granddaughter." Sarevok’s... Another Bhaalspawn, then, he notes.
"I ran into her earlier. She’s always whining about how she’d be a better chosen for Father, and I usually tune her out, but today..." A pause, him seemingly contemplating his next words.
"Tell me what she did." They aren’t getting any results if he’s hesitating like this. Gortash gives one of his horns — stained with blood as well — a reassuring stroke, and gets himself a purr.
"...She’s a changeling, that means she can look like anyone, and she said she would wear your face, to..." He doesn’t continue, shaking his head as if to get whatever mental image he has out of his head.
"You thought I was Orin," this is now making a lot of sense, and the idea of a Bhaalspawn who can be anyone is certainly concerning, "and the blood? How did you even get through my men?"
"The blood has nothing to do with her, she wishes she could kill like me!" Gortash almost rolled his eyes at that, why is he getting offended over this, "I... went murdering, and your security needs more truesight, it was pitifully easy with invisibility."
"I thank you on behalf of my Lord for your suggestion," he can’t help but respond to his "criticism’. Well, at least there was no ambush, it was nothing but a bloody misunderstanding. With that out of the picture, Gortash feels his body relax, and the exhaustion from earlier slowly creeps back. He unlatches his crossbow and sets it aside.
"Wait, Enver," just as he’s about to dissolve the chains, Zal’krum raises his voice with a hint of uneasiness in it, "you know what that means, right?"
"Elaborate." Gortash has an inkling what this is about, but decides to let him speak his mind.
"Orin... if she can be you, then she can be me too, wearing my face and... and..." those eyes fixated on him desperately. He doesn’t need to say more, Gortash understands perfectly what he’s implying. "She won’t be doing anything to you! You’re mine, Enver, mine!"
Nevermind, this is the source of the problem.
"How would I know if you’re not her right now?" Gortash tugs on the chain and pulls them closer together, the coppery scent lingers in the air between them.
"I- I’m not-" Panic blooms in his crimson eyes, him suddenly registering the fact that he can’t really disprove the accusation. They dart around in inky voids nervously, before coming back onto his face, "you need to trust me..." His voice trails off when the tip of his own blade rests at the base of his neck, between his collarbones. Gortash can feel his heartbeats quicken even through the cool steel, and he presses it down just enough to break skin, tiny beads of blood seeping through the delicate cut.
"That’s what she would say, wouldn’t she?" He will have to look into changeling physiques, but for whatever reasons, his intuition is telling him that the man in front of him, on the verge of bursting into tears, is telling the truth. That doesn’t stop him from having ideas, though, with his lover already conveniently tied up and being so wonderfully compliant... They do have "unfinished business’ from way earlier, after all.
"I suppose... you’re right..." Ah, the Gate’s worst criminal, looking so innocently guilty with his eyes lowered and staring at the floor, like a child who just got caught red-handed. Literally, in this case. Sure, he’s exhausted, and will definitely feel and regret it tomorrow, but what’s wrong with indulging in what’s his?
"You will have to prove yourself," gliding the blade upwards, he lifts his chin up, making their gazes meet again, "I know my Zal’krum will be good for me," he taps on those lips expectantly, and smiles in delight when a tongue slithers out, wetting the metal while keeping his crimson eyes on him. Gods, just a brief praise, a stern command, and he has him on his palm, completely exposed and ready to satisfy each and every one of his whims.
Power really is such an addicting thing, especially when it’s so eagerly given.
"Enver...? Am I being good enough...?" the words come out slurred, it’s not easy talking with your tongue hanging out, after all. The swipes of his tongue get more and more generous and slippery...
Then, with an unexpected yank on the chains, he almost lost his balance and fell forward again, but managed to steady himself on his knees. It did, however, make the blade cut his delicate tongue, and he whimpers and pants in pain as blood drips onto his lips and down his chin.
Gortash distinctly realizes that maybe his Bhaalist lover is rubbing off on him more than he thinks he does, because his first thought was we can’t let that go to waste now, can we? His second course of action, is obviously, to lean in and catch the droplet of red with his own tongue, slowly dragging it upwards, until they are stuck in an open-mouthed kiss. Wet smacks and slurps echo in the otherwise quiet night, with the occasional moans and grunts in between. The blood only made it taste even sweeter.
Okay, maybe he is starting to get the appeal, even just a little bit.
Either way, when the lack of air forces him to pull away, the metallic aftertaste lingers on the tip of his tongue, him already lamenting the loss of intimacy. Zal’krum seems to be of the same mind, chasing after him with a pant, tongue still hanging out, not unlike an excited pet.
"Good boy," he says after a pleased hum, pushing himself up to go take a seat on the edge of his bed. The wag of the other man’s tail didn’t escape his scrutiny.
"Then, Enver," even the crimson eyes light up with elation, and that adorable smile with a glimpse of sharp fangs... "will you let go of these?" He rattles the chains that’s still hindering his movements, and pleads with a tilt of his head.
"I don’t think I will, dear," he drawls huskily, "you are exactly how I want you to be, right this moment," he adds when he sees confusion show on that face, and mouth opening as if to argue but why.
"Huh? Wha-" He really is so naïve sometimes, he muses, as Zal’krum gives himself a proper lookover: all tied up in chains he can’t break out of, kneeling on the ground with his thighs spread... The look of cogs moving in his head sends a spike of desire through him, and warms his tired body up pleasantly. "O-oh... I- surely I can be of better use freed?"
"I can use you just fine," he smiles when those freckled cheeks darken, fully getting his barely concealed intents, "now be good again and come to me." With a firm and uncompromising tug, there’s no other place for his lover to go but be guided along, unless he wants to fall over and have to slither his way over. Gortash takes in the view of him crawling on his knees that are definitely going to be bruised after this, and idly twirls the vermillion dagger with his other hand. Perhaps he should commission a smith to forge a similar blade to it? An appealing idea, something for him to keep in mind of.
But for now, Zal’krum settles in the spot between his legs, gazing up at him with anticipation. He made it, did exactly what was demanded of him, so that warrants a pat and a hand running through his hair — unfortunately clumped together by dried blood — and slow strokes along his horns.
"Mmh- Enver..." The shaky purrs and moans go straight towards his cock, already half-hard and it takes a few deep breaths for him to not force himself down his throat... or maybe he should, but that’s for a more energetic day. "Release me... let me touch you..."
"Let’s keep you wanting for a bit longer, hm?" One more tug on the chains, and his lips are right up against his clothed bulge, "I trust you know what to do." Of course he does, Gortash has to let out a long sigh when a warm sensation wraps around it, sharp teeth grazing around looking for the laces. It doesn’t even hurt, in fact, the extra "bite’ makes him even harder. He decides that he will do him a favor, pushes him off slightly — not without him whining — and reaches to take his pants off, along with his boots.
Much better, and without further prompting, those lips are back, licking stripes along his cock, giving the head a rough suck, one that makes his hips buck involuntarily, so he takes advantage of it and shoves himself all the way down, keeping him there with a tight hold of the chains. It’s amazing, but he knows both of them want more, especially his lover. He’s proven right when Zal’krum slides off his cock with a loud pop, and stares up at him desperately, his hard-on prevalent even from this angle. It’s difficult, with the way he’s bound, but they managed to get him on the bed, and they shared another kiss.
"That would’ve been a lot easier, if you would just let me go, Enver," he complains once he’s back on his knees again, this time thankfully on a much softer surface.
"I could leave you like this, dear," Gortash counters, though he doesn’t actually intend to do that, "I did have a long day."
"What? You won’t—" His voice only gets more desperate when he feigns sleep, "Enver, don’t be mean! Gods..." He knows he’s got him right where he wants him to be, when the soft mattress dips slightly and there’s a warm weight on his hips, grinding on him, the friction feeling so glorious on his cock. "Please... Enver... use me already..." His lover falls for this, hook, line, and sinker every single time, as if he wants to be in a position where he has to sob and beg for it.
"Father dearest’s chosen, hm?" When he opens his eyes again, he can’t help but tease him for his cock straining uncomfortably, the very tip of it pressing a wet spot against his breeches.
"Shut up... like you’re not just as wet... Ah-" The back talking stopped when a blade slowly outlines his length, before hooking onto the side of his waistband and ripping downwards with a slice. Easy, with it being so sharp, and in just a moment, the same is done to the other side. "Enver? Stop that..." It’s not very convincing, when he’s letting out these sweet, needy pants, and the grinding only gets rougher with his cock freed.
"Don’t be silly, you don’t care for these," if he did, he wouldn’t have ruined it with this much blood. Two of Gortash’s fingers found a pair of eager lips, slicking them with traces of blood, and ran agonizing circles around Zal’krum’s hole, pulling away and keeping them out of reach as soon as those hips came down.
"Enough...! Inside... Push them in... Please, open me up and let me ride you after..." He has to wonder how he will do with long periods of edging, the amount of begging he would do. That requires time, so for now...
"What an addict you are," he doesn’t delay any longer, sliding the digits in and immediately goes straight for his prostate, kneading the sensitive bud. The way he shudders around him and moans so loudly, it makes his lips dry, and he pulls out to hold his cock by its base, tugging the chain downwards, "ride, dear."
His lover doesn’t need to be told twice, and he has nowhere to go but down anyways, the tightness on his neck slowly choking him, the painful burn in his lungs only making him want more. Gortash is still pulling by the time he hilts himself in the warmth, almost coming to the sounds of pleasured wheezes and quick slaps of skin on skin. Narrow crimson orbs stare at him with need, mouth drooping open as if he’s trying to say something...
"Say it, use your words," he’s getting close, and he’s sure that the other man’s the same, clenching down on him so deeply, cock twitching and leaking so exquisitely much.
"It’s been... longer than "a bit’," the riding never stopped, and he throws his head back in pleasure, before coming back on him, "can I touch you now...? Please...? Pleasepleaseplease..."