wixed reblogged
wixed reblogged
Based on the fic Chef’s Kiss which recently got expanded from one shot status. Equally charming and filthy, recommended if you like that sort of thing.
Click to see some closeups!
Pairing: Gale x Tav, M!Tav, TransTav
CW: Alcohol abuse, gambling addiction mention, descriptions of illness, lots of rats.
10 - Bandaging/healing each other’s wounds
◤──•~❉Tavlin❉~•──◥
Of all the things to die from, a rat bite was not high on Tavlin’s list of possibilities.
To be fair, it was quite a lot of bites, not just one singular terrible bite. They had found a group of peculiar vermin in the Gauntlet of Shar, and the hoard seemed displeased with how the conversation went. Tavlin found himself surrounded by large, diseased, angry rats.
‘I just wanted to help.’
He assumed leading the soul of the broken justiciar to accept his fate would aid in his turmoil. Instead, the rats became incensed and lashed out, placing him in the middle of a terrible situation.
His companions were still at the top of the ledge, slowly climbing down to join him when the conflict escalated to combat. Tavlin held off as many rats as he could, but the overwhelming numbers proved a problem.
The hoard was defeated with a few well-placed fireballs, the protective circle of Spiritual Guardians, and sheer determination. The victory wasn’t without hardship – several of the companions suffered from the rat’s disease. Shadowheart only had enough spells to cure two of them. Lae’zel seemed to resist the illness, having a fairly high tolerance for such aches and ails of the body, but Gale and Shadowheart looked pale and sickly. Tavlin suggested Shadowheart cure herself first, then Gale, which Gale tried to protest, but Tavlin waved a dismissive hand.
“I’m the leader, remember. Besides, I feel fine.” He winked at Gale while searching the area for any discarded supplies or equipment that could be useful.
During his search, he could feel his palms warm with clammy heat. He knelt as his breathing became more labored. He wiped his brow, hoping the motion would dispel the rest of the discomfort. He steadied himself, carefully going to another long since dead and desiccated corpse, blearily looking through the pockets.
Through the thick haze clouding his senses, the sound of Shadowheart calling out to him was the last thing he heard before the sickness strangled the consciousness from him.
◤──•~❉ Gale ❉~•──◥
“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” Gale’s voice rang out over the discussion occurring in the cold, dusty camp they’d made in the Temple. Everyone gathered around the fire – everyone except Tavlin, who was laid up in his tent.
Shadowheart gave a deep sigh at having to explain the situation again. “I don’t have any more spells. A simple Lesser Restoration would cure him, but I am completely exhausted. I wasn’t expecting to fight a hoard of vermin after dealing with Yurgir.” Her tone held just as much spite as it always did but was also laced with trepidatious concern for her friend.
Gale rubbed his forehead, trying to run through their options. Halsin stepped forward to add to the conversation. “Unfortunately, I did not prepare the necessary spell today. I can make a traditional medicine that will help ease the fever, but I’m afraid it won’t be enough to completely cure the disease.”
Gale groaned in frustration as he paced in front of the fire. “What about our supply of potions? Surely something has to be in there.” He motioned to the pack that Karlach was searching through.
“Other than some really fancy elixirs and standard healing potions, I haven’t found anything – well, I guess there’s these poison antidotes…” Karlach held up the simple black bottles they seemed to have a dozen of.
Halsin shook his head at the bottle. “Unfortunately, that will only cure the effects of poison. We’d need an antidote for disease, specifically.”
“We can cure him come morning.” Shadowheart cut in. “ We’ll just have to ease his suffering till then. He’s a strong young man. He’ll be fine for the night.” She sounded like she was attempting to convince herself as much as Gale.
A strained cough came from Tavlin’s tent, which was enough cause for Gale to abandon the useless conversation. He let himself into the tent, allowing the flaps to fall shut behind him. He knelt by Tavlin and took a cloth folded by a small water bowl at the bedside. Gale dipped the cloth into the bowl and used it to wipe the gathering sweat from Tavlin’s forehead.
Tavlin stirred in response to the gesture. “Gale?” He strained to turn his head. Gale felt his heart sink at the sight of the ghostly pale and weak Tavlin. He tried to banish the deep frown he’d been wearing since Tavlin lost consciousness after the battle. He summoned the best convincing smile he could.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” He dabbed the cloth on Tavlin’s head again, wiping a rivulet of sweat from his cheek. Tavlin mumbled something that Gale couldn’t quite make out. “You’ll need to repeat that, Tav…I’m sorry.”
Tavlin coughed as he gathered enough strength to better form the words. “It’s hot…” he pulled at the sleeves of the heavy robe. Gale immediately set the damp cloth down.
“Gods, of course. You’re probably sweltering in all those layers. How could I be so obtuse?” Gale started to unlatch the robe and gently helped Tavlin sit up to pull over the hefty garment. He set it to the side, making little attempt to fold it. Sure enough, the undershirt was soaked through with sweat. Tavlin tried to lay back down, grunting in discomfort at being upright.
“One more, Tav. Can you stay up just a little longer?” Gale rubbed at the middle of his back, trying to comfort him. Tavlin merely nodded with heavy lids falling over his eyes. Gale used one hand to support him and summoned a Mage Hand to help his free arm remove the undershirt, tossing it to the side.
“There, all done.” He helped guide Tavlin back down to the bedroll. Gale gently moved stray hairs from his face and leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead. Despite the fever consuming most of Tavlin’s lucidity, he was able to weakly form a smile in response.
“I don’t think I’ve been this sick… since I got pox at the Guild…” Tavlin said in a weak voice. He grabbed Gale’s hand and barely squeezed.
“I’ll… I’ll be ok Gale. D-don’t worry.” Tavlin’s head rolled to the side as he took a deep, strained breath. Gale could feel the frown returning. He squeezed the gelid hand holding his. He’d never found himself wishing to be trained in different magical arts, but what he wouldn’t give to wave his hands, call upon his deity, and banish the illness from his beloved’s body. The worst thought crept into Gale’s mind at that moment.
‘What if Tavlin perishes before you’ve said it? Hah… ‘it,’ stuttering over my own internal dialogue like an unfledged schoolboy. How can I expect to woo him if I can’t even muster the courage to say how I feel in the privacy of my own mind? Well, all of that won’t matter if he dies here tonight… ’
Such dark ideations clouded his logic. They still possessed clerics and druids capable of resurrection magic among their ranks. Revival of the dead was not always guaranteed, but such failures were few and far between. He had no reason to doubt Shadowheart or Halsin’s skills. The feeling persisted and ate away at any resolve Gale held onto.
He decided at that moment that once Tavlin was able, once the illness no longer plagued him – because he was going to survive and these dark thoughts would be just that, thoughts – once Tavlin was well, he would make him as magical of a night he could conjure in these damned accursed lands. Gale would provide as much as he could for him and then tell Tavlin, tell him his earnest and ever-growing feelings.
It was decided.
◤──•~❉Tavlin❉~•──◥
Consciousness rolled in and out like waves lapping against a shore. Tavlin tried to hold on as long as he could; he could tell Gale was worried, and he felt awful. He was careless, and now he’s made everyone worry.
He tried to talk to Gale about anything that popped into his mind, just something to keep him awake.
“Gale… my mother… she was like me.” He’s not sure why he went to memories of his mother. Something about being sick perhaps made him think of the times he could remember her taking care of him. Gale leaned in and brushed a strand of hair from Tavlin’s face.
“Your mother? How do you mean?” Gale’s voice briefly broke through the haze.
“She could do magic. I took after her a lot… she was…tiefling…and storms…” Despite his best efforts, Tavlin felt the heavy blanket of unconsciousness fall over him.
“There you go, just like that! You’re doing it!” the blue-skinned tiefling woman said as a younger Tavlin attempted their first spell.
Motes of light shot out from his hands. Blue glowing orbs flickered across the pond and settled at the bottom, illuminating the creatures swimming within. He giggled at the fish curiously swimming around the glowing motes beneath the surface.
His mother, filled with pride at the sight, smiled warmly as he gathered more weave, summoning more motes and causing them to dance around the two like little fairies.
She cupped his cheek and kissed the top of his head.
“You’re so talented, my little raindrop.” She tapped his nose at the nickname, which caused him to scrunch it and lose focus, and the motes fizzled. He crossed his arms in a pout, and his mother pulled him into an encompassing hug, squeezing him tightly. They both fell over in laughter and giggles.
Another memory flooded into the happy one. One that Tavlin thought of too often.
“Where are you going, pa?” an older Tavlin asked as his father went to the door. He stumbled over his feet and words.
“M…going to the docks. Sven’s got a shipmen’ in…” he hiccuped between the slurred words, “Stay ‘ere.”
Tavlin chewed on his bottom lip in worry. He wanted to tell his father the good news he received. He swallowed the lump in his throat before summoning the courage.
“Pa… I’ve been talking with of the guys at the harbor, and they said a ship that looked like mum’s was seen the othe-”
“You been down there? I told ya not to go to them docks!” Suddenly, his father closed the distance between them, getting in Tavlin’s face, the stink of ale and years of bad habits on his breath.
“It was just for a little bit – I just wanted to know if her ship was still out there!” he pleaded. His father grunted and rubbed his temples.
“She ain’t… comin’ back. I told you a thousand times before… she’s gone.” He spat out the end of the sentence with what Tavlin could only place as disdain. He was told his mother went on a voyage and never returned, he wasn’t told why.
“Why do you say that, pa? How do you know? Maybe she’s still-”
“Her ship went down! She’s dead, alright? Damn sea bitch took ‘er n’ there ain’t no comin’ back from that! Now, don’t go down to them docks, you hear me?” He raised his hand to Tavlin but clenched his fist and brought it back down to his side.
“And that’s the last …” he wobbled and braced himself against the door, “...the last I wanna hear ‘bout your damn mother.” With that last command, he slammed the door and left.
Tavlin didn’t see his father again after that night. He’s not sure if the old man had finally had enough of raising a kid on his own or if the debt he racked up drinking and gambling finally caught up with him. He couldn’t blame him too much; Tavlin never tried to look for him that hard, anyway.
That was all before Tavlin truly knew himself and chose his own life and path. His father wouldn’t even recognize him if he was still alive; he’d be looking for a daughter, and as far as Tavlin was concerned, that kid was gone.
Another memory swam to the forefront of his mind. Faces and voices collided until the pooled images coalesced.
“What are we going to do with another useless brat?” a masked young man said as he gestured to Tavlin.
He was dirty, and the rags he wore for clothes barely held together. He was hungry, and illness was sure to claim him soon if he didn't find someone to help him or, more accurately, if he didn’t find someone to be useful to.
“I… I can do magic, I swear! I can do lots of things for the Guild, I just need some food and a place out of the rain. I won’t even take anything I find, please Miss-”
“Did we say you could speak, brat?” the man cut him off. Tavlin quickly stopped talking. He shifted awkwardly while waiting for the leader of the Guild to answer his plea for safety and a place among them.
“You said you can do magic… you a sorcerer?” The woman known as Nine Fingers finally addressed him.
“Yes, I am! My mum was, too! She could control storms and the winds, she helped the ships make it to harbor.” Nine fingers held up her hand to shush him.
“I didn’t ask about your mother. What kind of magic can you do? Have you got a teacher?” Her tone was very direct as if he was being interviewed for the gazette instead of a criminal organization.
“I don’t have a teacher, not since my mum… not since she died.” He felt an ache in his chest, saying it out loud for the first time since his father had confirmed it for him. He stood up straight and held his head high, trying to shake off the weight of sorrow.
“But I can do a lot!” He stared his would-be boss in the eye, quivering but determined. She smirked while she posed with her hands on her hips.
“Well then, let’s see it.” She gestured at some empty barrels. He nodded and walked over, about ten paces in front of them. He took a deep breath and summoned a stream of cold from his fingertips, blasting the rotted wood.
The barrels fell apart, covered in ice. The water at his feet also froze, causing him to lose balance and slip. A few of the guild members chuckled and rolled their eyes. Tavlin’s embarrassment flushed his cheeks a deep purple. He glanced up at Nine Fingers, she seemed unamused. He cursed under his breath and tried to think of a way to salvage this.
He quickly wove some magic together, and an illusion of a cat came meowing and yowling loudly from around a nearby corner, causing every head to suddenly turn and look.
Tavlin took the opportunity to scuttle behind a few crates and hide. He quickly thought about what spells he knew and decided a big show was what she asked for, so a show he’d give.
The cat disappeared, and he heard a few of them murmur, asking where he had gone. He lined up the spell to get as many barrels as he could once he stepped out. He had one shot.
“Detono!” he shouted with all his might, and a wave of booming thunderous energy slammed into the remaining barrels, blasting them to smithereens, shrapnel flying everywhere.
A few of the older members grumbled and dusted the pieces of wood from their clothing. Tavlin was breathing heavily and trying to hold in the biggest smile he’d felt in a long time. He turned his attention to Nine Fingers and couldn’t read the expression on her face.
“I uh… I can do a bit more if-”
“No need, we’ll run out of barrels. Uktar, make sure the boy gets some clean clothes, a set of picks, and for goodness sake, get him some food, he’s not but skin and bones,” she curtly ordered to the masked man.
He sighed in contempt but didn’t argue. “Come on, you heard her.” He motioned to Tavlin.
He followed Uktar, beaming from ear to ear, ‘She called me a boy…’ he thought as he heaved a heavy sigh of relief.
A violent cough dragged him from memory and sleep. He suddenly became aware of how clammy his sweat-drenched body was, the flush of the fever oppressive and uncomfortable.
Gale was immediately over him, wiping his brow with a wet cloth, the cold of it filling him with a gentle comfort. Tavlin weakly glanced at him with a furrowed brow.
“Are you… still awake? G-Gale, you should…sleep.” He tried to sit up, but his bones felt like they had been replaced with lead.
“Hush now, I’ll sleep once you’re back to full health. Since you’re awake, though, you should drink more of the tonic Halsin made for your fever. It’s about time for another dose.” Gale brought the cup of bitter-smelling medicine to his lips. Tavlin drank slowly, making a face at the taste of it.
“I’m afraid the taste can’t be helped; try to think of it like a… hmm, like a piquant aperitif – something bittering to help cleanse the palette between courses.” Gale helped hold his head steady as he drank. Tavlin chuckled slightly at the attempt to cheer him up.
“It tastes more like a pungent cheese than a pic… a pecked… than a whatever it was you said.” They both laughed with the gentle absurdity of the situation housed in a rather terrifying and dreadful one.
Tavlin finished the tonic and groaned, laying his head back down, closing his eyes despite wanting to keep them open more than anything. Wanting to take in Gale at his bedside, caring for him with such attention and compassion it felt like a fairytale.
And as he drifted back into unconsciousness he dreamed of exactly that, fairytales. Visions of stories and adventures, of a dashing wizard in a tower, and a romance he thought only possible in books. He dreamed of a life with a man who he loved and who loved him, a life free from parasites, free from world-ending gods, free from orbs and doomed narratives. In his fever dream, he had Gale, and that was enough.
◤──•~❉ Gale ❉~•──◥
The morning came so slowly Gale was convinced that along with whatever curse plagued the land, time had been altered as well, drawing out languorously against the night. Through the longest hours of it, Gale struggled to stay awake, but any stir from Tavlin woke him enough to keep his eyes open.
He heard Halsin stir far before he thought anyone would be awake. Around the time he started walking over, Gale remembered elves needed less rest than other mortals. He shot up with a dizzying speed, stumbling a bit and catching himself on the tent's support beam..
“Halsin! You’re up rather early, please tell me it’s for a reason that I very much hope to hear.” Gale couldn’t help a yawn at the end of his question. Halsin smiled with a gentleness that radiated warmth.
“I only needed a handful of hours to fully rest and I’ve communed with Silvanus the best one can with the blanket of Shar’s presence cast upon this place.” He said as he stepped inside the crowded tent.
“So, does that mean you can cure him, now? Please, if you can…” Gale’s voice was desperate and hopeful.
“Yes, I can heal him.” Halsin knelt by Tavlin’s side, and a glow of golden light emanated from his hands, he raised them and gently pulled down in a motion as if he were pulling the divitinty powering his spell from the sky. Halsin placed his glowing hands on Tavlin’s chest.
“Vincere est viveret.”
The golden motes of divine magic absorbed into his body, and with it, the deathly pallor of the tiefling was banished. Color returned to his cheeks, and he took a full, unburdened breath. Tavlin’s eyes fluttered open before he sat up.
“Halsin? Oh wow… that feels… tingly.” He shook his arms and wiggled his toes with a smile, which coaxed a chuckle from the large elf.
“Hah – a good ‘tingly,’ I hope.” Halsin clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you back to your lively self. Didn’t feel the same without you last night.”
Gale waited for Halsin to finish, standing just outside the tent. Once the druid exited, he smiled at Gale, holding the flap open for him to reenter. There was a hint of something in the druid’s eye that puzzled him, or perhaps it was just the sleep-deprived interpretations of a relief they all shared at Tavlin’s recovery. Regardless, he didn’t linger on it.
Tavlin was sitting up, shuffling off the blankets from his legs with his chest still bare and hair hanging down around his face. Gale couldn't help a blush from spreading across his cheeks at the sight of Tavlin half-naked in his bedroll, especially now that he could enjoy the image without a sense of dread or unease ruining the picturesque view. He got on his knees in front of the tiefling and gently held his face in his hands, thumbing his cheek gently.
“It’s hard to tell with the curse, but I believe I am correct in wishing you a good morning.” He kissed Tavlin softly. A kiss that Tavlin returned, smiling into the kiss.
“I can’t believe you’re still awake. You must be exhausted. I’m so sorry, Gale,” Tavlin started to apologize. Gale shushed him with another series of kisses, speaking through the brief parting between each one.
“Nonsense - You were ill - Of course, I would - stay by your - side.” Gale couldn’t keep his lips off of Tavlin’s. He moved his hands down his chest, fingers gliding over the infernal ridges above the pectoral. He softly moaned into a long and wanting kiss.
Tavlin responded in kind, wrapping his arms around Gale, grabbing at the fabric of his tunic around his back. He slowly fell back onto the bedroll, with Gale following, lips still joined and taking of each other.
Unfortunately, despite the hardening arousal in his trousers and a deep desire to continue, Gale’s head pounded with the throb of exhaustion. He winced, which Tavlin noticed.
“Love… you’re exhausted. Why don’t we both get some sleep, and we’ll uh… continue this later?” Tavlin’s face flushed that purple color Gale adored so much. He chuckled and laid his head on Tavlin’s chest.
“Wise suggestion, one I shall not make any protest to, so long as you stay right here.” Gale didn’t bother removing his tunic or getting any more comfortable than he already was. He snuggled up next to Tavlin, and as quickly as he closed his eyes, a deep slumber claimed him.
Gale slept in Tavlin’s arms well into the late morning. It gave him less time to prepare something truly special for Tavlin, but he was determined to still do something for him tonight. No more waiting. No more excuses.
Tonight.
Ayyyyye thought you'd seen the last of these, didn't you? Psyche, Durgetash hasn't completely rotted my brain. It just doesn't give it back very often.
I missed these two, and it was lovely to get back to them, especially since the next installment is the Act 2 Romance 👀 😉
Enjoy, and as always, feedback is always appreciated and welcome.
wixed reblogged
Temptations of Circuits and Sin
CW: Blood/Gore, Torture, Medical Torture, Medical Experimentation, Drugged Torture, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Religious Zealotry, Ingesting Body Fluids (Blood), Cannibalism, Loss of Agency, Durge Episode, Clawing/Scratching, Grinding, Choking, Dom/Sub
Pairing: OC!Durge x Gortash
Summary : Durge experiences a troubling fascination with anatomy in a way that Bhaal disapproves of. This doesn't stop them from pursuing understanding in- what they believe- is secret. After attempting to manipulate the means of death in vile ways, they experience a break of sanity that a certain Tyrant witnesses. Their expertise in the natural sciences compels Gortash to ask Durge for aid in his own creations. Thus begins their tumultuous and whirlwind relationship.
Part 1
◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥
The meeting between the Chosen drew laboriously on. The bhaalspawn could feel the urge in the back of their mind twitch at the banality of the current discussion.
War plans, invasions, political scheming - it all felt like needless pomp.
Each chime from the grandiose, overly mechanical clock rang through their ears like a shrill laugh. Mocking the Murder Lord’s chosen. Bound by the drivel of civility. Chained to this table like a sacrifice at an altar, for a ritual they cannot comprehend and care little for. Only instead of being cut and splayed, they were forced into an agreeable nature. It made them want to split their own skull to pierce through the dull ache of boredom.
Another melodious chime tore through the room. They slammed their dagger into the wooden table, bringing whatever conversation they had long since drowned out to an abrupt halt.
“Do you have something you wish to bring to the table, Assassin? Other than more scuffs and scrapes?" Gortash’s question was meant to rile them. Shame them for their outburst as if the Tyrant held such power over them.
"I do not see why I must be here for the Moonrise invasion plans. They have little to do with my part in this.” They tried to cow the petulant tone in their voice.
Gortash smiled with a seductive ease. The sight of it sent a lash to the bhaalspawn’s core. They turned their head with a dissatisfied grunt.
“We simply want to ensure you understand and are kept in the loop. If you do not wish to be here any longer, by all means, you may leave." The Tyrant’s words caused a roaring heat to roll over in their belly.
"Good. I have a complicated series of staged ritualistic murders to plan. These meetings are a waste of my time and talent.” They lifted the dagger from where it still dug upright into the table. They deftly twirled the blade as they sheathed it. Gortash gave a wry, crooked smile.
"Well then, it sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Chosen." His words dripped with coy superiority.
The bhaalspawn scowled as they left the war room, the doors slamming shut behind them. As they left the confines of Wyrm’s Rock, they could feel the eyes of prey upon them. It made their blood itch. How dare such pathetic creatures use such weak eyes to observe their visage? Their body surged with a murder-lust their Father demanded of them. Their focus flicked from patron to patron, momentarily stopping on a beggar woman who seemed sickly.
Normally, they avoided such frail offerings for their Father. The god of disease already claimed this soul, but it would suffice for the practice and planning of the staged rituals.
—
Luring the beggar back to the abandoned house they used for such practices was easy. The house was a secret place for sacrifices that would defile their Father-God's sacred temple. This blood would not spill in the name of Bhaal. It would not be clean and freely flow from the lash of their blade. There would be no praising cuts to adorn the body before Bhaal claimed it. It did not deserve the temple.
They gave the woman a meal and medicine to ease her fever. It would be no good for study if the brain was cooked from illness. She cried in supplication at the feet of her would-be savior. The Chosen did not move from their seat. They looked on with deliberating patience, waiting for the sleeping drug to take hold of the peasant.
A few moments later, her feeble body slumped in her chair, and her breathing slowed to a dangerous pace. The bhaalspawn lifted the unconscious body with ease, opening a hidden latch in the floorboards and taking her to the secret basement below. They tied their unwitting project to a medical table stained with blood from overuse. Save for the stains, the table was remarkably clean.
In fact, the entire space was neatly organized and relatively clean for what one might expect from a Chosen of Bhaal. Shelves held books and scrolls at one end of the room, and another was full of varied herbs, toxins, and alchemical supplies.
They picked up a small razor, sharp yet delicate, and shaved the head of all hair, removing anything that could impede sight and compromise the precision of their cuts. They began to split the skin of the woman at the crown of the skull. She was too far gone in the drug to do more than twitch out of instinct, eyelids barely fluttering at the glide of the blade across her skin. They carefully sliced around the crown, blood dripping down the twitching face. With a slow ease, they peeled back the skin, pinning it out of the way.
They licked the blade clean with a satisfied hum, then set it down. Grabbing another larger knife with unique serrations, they growled a noise of frustrated contemplation. They hovered over the exposed skull, steadying their erratic breath.
They felt a sudden spur of pain cut through their body. Father did not approve of their hesitation. He misunderstood - they did not hesitate out of guilt or some other weak foreign emotion. They hesitated out of pride. Their cuts were divine prayer, the mutilated bodies at their hand a providence. Though this meat was unfit for the temple, they were still a priest and must act under their holy creed. Sloppy would not suffice.
Once their breath drew steady and their heart beat in rhythm with the world around them, the serrated blade started to work on the skull. They finessed away a small piece of bone. exposing the brain. They felt their lips twitch with excitement at the sight. Their hands shook over the enticing organic matter. With a sharp inhale, they placed the blade neatly adjacent to the small razor.
They gathered a few small vials of liquid from a shelf. The liquids consisted mostly of poisons and some acids of varying strength. They mused over which to try first, eventually deciding on a common nerve poison. They slowly added a drop to the exposed brain and waited for the poison to take hold. A few moments later the body violently seized against the table. The loud rattling of their bones hitting wood echoed through the room with gasping strained breathing. The body continued to convulse until the limbs froze, contorted joints locking in place.
Seeing the body dance for them enthralled the bhaalspawn, a small smile forming at the corner of their lips, showing the sharpened teeth beneath. They grabbed a vial of acid and carefully but excitedly poured a drop into the cranial cavity. The body twitched but had very little response. The Chosen glared at the defiant meatsack. They took a syringe and drew up some of the acid, injecting it into the internal jugular vein.
The process was slow, but eventually, the cuts started to ooze once again. The urge inside them stirred at the smell of the sanguine nectar. Despite it being poisoned and diseased, their bloodlust craved the carnage. When it became evident the acid would not have the desired effect, they stood and reached for another toxin. Their deliberation was cut short by the body experiencing another violent series of convulsions, breathing rapidly increasing. Bloody foam gathered around the mouth.
The bhaalspawn cursed. They tried to keep the wretched thing from choking on her bile and spittle, but it was too late. The chest sank as her limbs went rigid, still bent from the nerve poison. In frustration, the bhaalspawn slashed the throat of the beggar and drove the blade into her heart.
They unlatched the body from the table and tossed it aside, sighing at their experiment cut short. They bent over the table, their face a mere hair’s breadth away from the pooled blood left there. They closed their eyes and languidly inhaled deep and slow. The iron aroma of the crimson called to them. They slowly dipped their tongue into the pool and licked a long stripe up the table, clenching the table so tight their sharp fingernails left indentations. Suddenly, a vision invaded their mind.
They imagined licking a body, warm and supple under their touch, blood flowing from the cuts drawn by their blade. Their tongue traveled up the collarbone to the neck. They pulled back to gaze upon the face of their prey, and instead of seeing lifeless eyes from a sacrifice, they saw his face. The Tyrant looking back at them with his smug smile shocked them out of the daydream.
They shot up from the table with sudden alertness, eyes wide and darting about the room. Disgust roiled in their core, their heartbeat once again thrumming wildly. Once the panic of the uninvited vision left, they glowered in still silence.
“Sceleritas!” they broke the quiet, summoning their faithful servant. The imp appeared with a pop of sulfurous smoke.
“Yes, my Liege?” He bowed to his master.
“Take this body to the ruins outside the temple. Make use of it.”
“As you command, my Dark Master.” Another deep bow. He took hold of the corpse and snapped his fingers, taking the body with him in another swirl of infernal smoke.
Once Sceleritas vanished, they cleaned the remainder of the spilled viscera. They tried to push thoughts of Bane’s Chosen from their mind. They soon left the abandoned house. Their body still ached with the need for bloodshed, proper bloodshed. They needed to still their mind in prayer. Their Father would make all things clear. Cleanse the weakness from them as they cleanse this world of vitality. They had several sacrifices awaiting them in the temple, ready to be made holy for their Father.
They stalked to the sewer entrance leading to the temple ruins, so distracted by the events of the last few hours they didn’t notice the lowly Banite who had been following them since the meeting.
◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥
Enver paced his foundry workshop. The metal clack of the cane hitting the stone floor was the only sound among the hissing steam vents until there was a knock at the door.
“Enter.” He cooly called out. The Banite sent to tail Bhaal’s Chosen returned from their mission.
“Sir.” The soldier stood at attention with a small bow of his head. Enver waved his hand dismissively.
“At ease. I assume you were successful? Tell me what you found.” He sat in the plush chair at a writing desk, hand still atop his cane.
“Yes sir, I tracked them to a decrepit house in the Lower City. They brought a peasant beggar with them but left alone, with no additional baggage or body. They took to the sewers after.” the Banite reported. Enver brushed his metal-clad thumb over his lips while humming a thought.
“And how long were they in the house?”
“A few hours, my lord.”
“Very well, leave the address for me. You are dismissed.” Enver passed the soldier a piece of blank parchment and a quill. The man did as he was commanded and took his leave.
Enver sat staring at the address for moments that turned to minutes until he tapped his cane against the stone, standing and moving to the mobile teaching-board covered with schematics and architectural drawings. He pinned the address to the board next to sketches of an automaton design. A low hum echoed from his chest to his throat.
“Interesting.”
—
Half a tenday came and went since Enver first had the Bhaalist followed. Each day since, he commanded his most skilled rogues to continue tracking and observing the curious bhaalspawn. Always the same report; They lure a lowly peasant, usually sick or diseased, they go to the abandoned house, hours pass, and they leave.
Enver never gave much thought to the daily routines of Bhaal worshipers, or his blood-spawn, but his mind kept wandering back to them. It was a near hyperfixation if he was being honest with himself. He told himself several times over the past few days that the Chosen was likely doing their duty assigned to them, simple as that. And yet, he couldn’t shake that there was more to it than that. More to them.
He found himself staring out a large arched window, the main source of light for his office at this time of day. He couldn’t see the house from his lofty tower, but he knew the direction all the same. His thoughts swarming and swirling like rats caught in a current.
“Lord Gortash.” The servant startled him from his troubling fixation. He scowled at being caught unaware.
“Yes? What is it?” his voice low and threatening.
“They’ve taken more to the house. This time several at once, a count of four peasants, sir.” The servant dutifully reported. Enver stood pensive for a moment before grabbing his elaborately embroidered overcoat.
“Thank you. Dismissed.” he waved a hand at the cowering servant, then left.
◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥
Days upon days of failure weighed heavy on the bhaalspawn. Failure to their Father, failure to their mission, failure to their urges.
They attempted concoction after concoction of poisons, toxins, and acids to no avail. The resulting deaths didn’t look right, wasn’t what they needed. The nerves would seize, but that was the only success. The poisons extracted from mushrooms would cause too much distress to the stomach, the poisons harvested from a particularly nasty insect resulted in too much swelling, and the toxic oils from dangerous plants caused uncontrollable and unpredictable rashes. They were at their wit's end. They chuckled a helpless, deranged laugh at the thought of having any wits left.
This obsession all but consumed their every waking moment. They had fallen behind in prayer, in their holy duty to the Temple, and their Father took notice. They were sure a punishment wasn’t far off. In desperation, they decided to lure a larger group tonight. They wouldn’t stop until they got it right, even if it took till morning.
They weren’t sure why this riddle had become so important to them. A flash of Gortash’s face flitted across their mind, and they growled under their breath. Perhaps it was simple competitive nature that made them so crazed for this answer, but the flutter of something in their core prevented them from fully accepting such a contrite explanation.
They strapped three of the half-unconscious bodies to chains hanging from the walls while the remaining one got the table. They stroked the face of the plump sacrifice laid flat on their altar, an altar to understanding rather than butchery.
“You are lucky. You get the comfortable seat.” Their sharpened nails dug into the skin a little too deep, drawing blood from the rosy apple cheek. They smiled with deranged glee, sharpened teeth flashing across their face as the smell of blood filled their nostrils. They breathed it in like the air would run out of the room. They blinked their eyes quickly, attempting to banish the crimson haze taking over.
“No, no, no, Father, please. Not now. Please I b-… I beg, Father, please!” They gripped the shoulders of the victim on the table tightly, bloodied claws digging in for purchase. But it was too late. Their sanity had left them, their Father-God demanding control over the bhaalspawn’s bloodlust. With a shrill manic cry, they clutched their head. Their body twitched through feral screams as they began to slice the warm and waiting flesh before them.
◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥
Enver didn’t relish in sneaking through the city, his city, but he could manage it when the occasion called for it. He quietly waited outside the entrance of the old house. A few glances about the area told him that if anyone was watching him, they likely wouldn’t care.
He slipped into the house with ease. Old dressers and empty crates filled the room. He cautiously looked about the dwelling, growing frustrated in thinking he had the wrong house, but then saw a curious set of marks behind some crates. Upon inspection, he found the hidden entrance to the basement. He paused at the open hatch, he knew it was a risk, but something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He inhaled a short, decisive breath and descended the ladder.
When he made contact with the ground, he found himself in a makeshift foyer that seemed to spill into a larger room. He slipped behind a crate against a wall, watching the scene escalate before him.
The bhaalspawn had finished chaining three people to a wall. An older woman who suffered from a cough wearing a washer woman’s apron with an embroidered monogram - a servant to a high house. A young man who seemed healthy with tanned, broad shoulders - a stable hand or farmer perhaps? And a young woman who seemed too thin but otherwise seemed healthy, based on the finer clothing, likely a brothel worker, a low-end brothel at that if she couldn’t be fed properly. The Assassin leaned over their fourth victim, a rotund man strapped to a table whose ankles and feet were puffy and swollen, a spoiled merchant, no doubt.
Enver’s eyes danced around the room, he saw bookshelves, what appeared to be medicine cabinets, an alchemy station, a writing desk-
Before he could finish assessing the room the bhaalspawn began to mutter with a desperate tone. They were pleading. Enver’s brows knit together in confusion as he continued to watch from his dangerous vantage point. With a wail, the bhaalspawn lashed out at the body on the table. They sounded like an animal, their cries of desperation mixed with feral guttural noises.
When they finished eviscerating the man on the table, they moved to the chained bodies. The young, healthy man unfortunately looked as though whatever drug they had given him had worn off. Enver watched the crazed Chosen tear into him as he cried for mercy, eventually choking on his blood. The wet bubbling of the choking drowned out his pained screaming until his eyes went dull and his head hung limp.
They moved to the other victims with erratic speed. Slashing, biting, ripping, and tearing flesh away. They were covered in viscera - entrails hanging from their arms, bits of skin caught on their blade-like nails, blood soaking through their clothing and hair. Enver couldn’t help but feel a fascination at the consuming nature of this “urge”. He still readied a dagger just in case.
It was several minutes before the bhaalspawn seemed to come to themselves. They had been in the middle of sawing off the wrist of the man on the table, or what was left of him, at least. They dropped the bone saw, standing still like a crimson statue.
Enver was even more shocked at what he saw next. They fell to their knees and started to sob. Deep heaving sobs while they quietly uttered a prayer of apology over and over to their father. He thought of revealing himself but decided to give it some more time and distance between the vulnerable state they were in and his unwanted appearance.
◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥
Blood and meat covered the bhaalspawn like a blanket. A blanket that was once warm and comforting but turned to an overwhelming heat. They could feel the pieces of flesh under their nails as the blood dried and cracked on their skin. The taste of iron lingered in their mouth as they swiped their tongue across their teeth.
They slowly forced their body up from the floor and began cleaning the mess. They unlatched the sabotaged experiments from the wall, the remainants piling on the ground. They pushed the brutalized meat on the table into the pile, joining the others in a homogenized mixture of carrion and sinew.
They stared at the writing desk where notes had laid open, in process studies strewn across the surface, now covered in blood. If they weren’t ruined, it would take days to transcribe it all. They sighed and it turned into a low dissatisfied growl. This was their punishment. More than losing their mind, more than the red haze taking over their body, this - their fascination with the mortal body and interest in discovering its secrets, destroying the lucid days of study devoted to it. That is why they suffered their Father’s lash.
They suffered the lash of Bhaal and still learned nothing. The wresting of control did not deter them. It was a momentary hiccup. Their Father didn’t understand, same as every other soul who knew of their interests. They needed to understand the mortal body to better utilize the meat sacks for their Father’s purpose. It was a half-lie they told themself on repeat. A lie they told themself now as they gently dabbed the sweet red juices from the ruined pages.
“Ahem”
They drew their knife and threw another barely missing the intruder as he cleared his throat behind them. Their eyes widened in shock, then quickly narrowed in anger when Gortash’s visage became clear.
“What are you doing here?” they spat out. “Get out, now.” They didn’t raise their voice, but the demand was laced with venomous unsaid threats of what defying it would mean for the Tyrant.
Gortash pulled the dagger from the wall behind him. He wore an easy, almost cocky smile as he stepped closer to the bhaalspawn, handing them the dagger hilt first.
“I had a gnawing feeling you were in need of aid, and it seems I may be correct.” He sounded confident, all of his usual charm edging through his words. The sound of his voice was enough to ground the bhaalspawn and they hated it.
“That is very presumptuous of you, Tyrant.” They grabbed the dagger, resheathing it in a quick fluid motion. They eyed him wearily like one predator sizing up another. They felt the saliva catch in their throat the longer they took him in. An irritated grunt left their lips without permission and they tore their eyes away from him.
He gave a small chuckle at their annoyance. “I know we come from very different… backgrounds, but I feel as though we share something in common.” He ran a finger over one of the shelves holding the alchemy supplies. They studied him closely, waiting for the reveal of his observation.
Gortash smiled at them, causing their heart to pick up pace. “We have brilliant minds, you and I.” He walked to the viscera-covered bookshelves. “Minds that many underestimate, devalue, and would leave to rot.” He candidly kicked some entrails out of his path, circling the bhaalspawn like a vulture. The Bhaalist stood unmoving but watched Gortash as he moved about their study, eyes never leaving him, and their hand never leaving the hilt of their blade.
“I always knew you were capable. Retrieving the Crown from the Hells proved that much. However, your brilliance, your intellect, it’s something that slipped through my notice, until recently.” He picked up one of the books and flipped to a clean page. It showed sketches of the mortal body and notes about the brain specifically.
One part of them wanted to snatch the book away and drive their dagger through his haughty, overly confident heart. Another part was frozen, treading unfamiliar territory. The Tyrant was praising them for their revolting interests. He seemed intrigued by it rather than put off. This alone was enough to allow him more of the floor in their conversation.
He shut the book, setting it down again. “I believe I can help you. If you’ll let me.”
He waited for their answer. The assassin thought through the offer carefully. This dilemma was the result of their shared plans. It wasn’t strictly Bhaalist business. They took in the sight of the half-cleaned study and failed experiments decorating their shameful, secret dwelling. Their mind raced through all the possible ways the Banite could use this against them, all the ways he could betray them, all the ways he could leverage the aid he seemingly freely offered. They sighed in exasperation.
“Fine.”
—
The two chosen spent hours together. Gortash seemed barely bothered, if at all, by the remaining gore that lay about the room. Eventually, the bhaalspawn called for their faithful butler to clean the mutilated bodies, ordering him to repurpose what he could. Waste not, want not.
They detailed their idea for the staged murders. The rituals had to appear of The Absolute, not of Bhaal, so their usual methods wouldn’t suffice. They decided that a “god” who communicates and works through telepathy would use the same means to kill. This Absolute would want sacrifices that gave the brain of the victim to the “god”.
“This already aligns with how weak brains reject the tadpole, when the infection is too much.-”
“The brain hemorrhages. Brilliant.” Gortash grinned with excitement. The bhaalspawn felt a renewed vigor for their ideas. Just having one person share in the thrill of puzzling through it set their blood aflame in a way they hadn’t felt before.
“I also thought so.” A smug smile flashed across their face. They pulled out their most recent notes on the varied toxins and poisons they’ve attempted to mimic a hemorrhage.
“The part I am …stumbling over is making the brain bleed look divinely spontaneous, no evidence of blunt force trauma, or piercing pokers can be left behind. I was hoping a potent poison could achieve this. I have found a toxin that results in a very fitting secondary symptom, but haven’t had much luck with the star of the show.” They showed the combinations and the results to Gortash as best they could through the blood stains.
Gortash reviewed the summary of experiments in earnest. A few moments of silence passed as he read. The bhaalspawn watched his fingers, dressed in the gold of his gauntlet flip through the pages of their notes. They analyzed the way he deliberately and delicately at the same time manipulated the frail pages. Their body felt a jolt of something shoot from the base of their spine to the neck. Like lightning had found its way into their spinal fluid. Their fingers twitched from the feeling.
The Tyrant made a reserved but triumphant exclamation. “I think I’ve got it.” He snapped the book shut with one hand, offering it to them. The assassin lurched forward to grab it, excitement written over their face.
“What? What is it? Out with it, Tyrant.” Their words might have been demanding, but their tone was anxious and supplicant. Gortash grinned with the power he held over them.
“Patience, dear Assassin.” He inspected the bottles of poisons and toxins that were all meticulously labeled. He picked one at the back, labeled “Rat Poison.”
“This is what you’re looking for.” He handed the bottle to them. They glanced at the bottle in their hand.
“I’ve already tried this, it causes hemorrhaging, but it’s of the gut.” The delight in their eyes faded. The Tyrant clicked his tongue in a chiding manner and lifted their chin with one sharp golden finger. They should slice the finger from his hand, they should spill his entrails on the floor before them for daring to touch Bhaal’s Chosen. They’ve done worse for less. Their eye twitched at the touch, and their body tensed in anticipation, but they held still, glaring up at him through what little restraint they possessed.
“You didn’t let me finish.” He dropped his finger from their chin, and their body immediately relaxed.
“We adjust the dose, pair it with the toxin you already have for the seizures, then apply it to the barrier between the brain and-”
“The blood-brain barrier! Of course! Gods, how could I not see it? We need to induce a stroke, so stressing the blood vessels locally would cause mass bursting - this is ingenious. We’ll need a binding agent and a few tweaks to the base solution to ensure the seizure toxin won’t be affected. Get the two working synergistically rather than-”
Their rambling was cut short by Gortash pressing his lips to theirs. Their words caught between the joined lips. They made a muffled noise of displeasure and pushed him at an arm’s distance.
“How dare you?!” They gasped for breath, their pulse unstable, causing their words to lose footing. Gortash smiled a wry grin. He saw through their veiled disgust. Knew their strained words for what they were. An attempt to do what they should. Attempts to cow their obvious desires. He chewed on his bottom lip as he shifted closer again, finding little resistance from the hands against his chest.
“By all means, Assassin, tell me to stop.” He pushed even closer. The bhaalspawn was pressed up against the table behind them, their hands finding the surface, attempting to steady their stance. Their piercing glare focused from his eyes to his lips. A low growl under their breath was their only response. Gortash closed the gap between them, his thigh pressing against their groin. He leaned in close, his breath hot and prickling against their skin. In a low husky voice, he continued.
“Say you don't want this, and I won't give it." He rubbed his leg enticingly against them, the friction sending heat coiling tight in their core. They didn't stop him.
Gortash captured their lips in his once more. They returned the kiss this time, needy and all-consuming. Growls of frustrated pleasure escaped them as they writhed against his thigh, causing the Tyrant to groan with delighted satisfaction.
The bhaalspawn moved their hands to his chest and drew their nails down the exposed skin. Gortash parted from their lips with a moan. Blood trickled from the scratches and they went to lick it up, fulfilling the fantasy that had plagued them.
The blood was sweeter than anything they'd tasted. It filled their senses with a different haze. They purred at the euphoric thrill of it all. They nipped at his neck and kissed at the vein they could feel pulsing under his skin.
His hand gripped the bhaalspawn's throat. He applied pressure to the sides as he pulled their face away from his skin. They grimaced with a whimper. They felt pathetic, yet the shame melted away with the intoxicating pressure on their neck.
“What did I say before, Assassin? Patience." He moved his grip to their jaw, positioning their face to look at him. He planted one last claiming kiss on the bhaalspawn. When they parted, he brushed his thumb over their wanting lips. He gave a small, satisfied chuckle before dropping his hand. He moved back to the ladder's base, glancing back at the wanton creature.
"Find me in my workshop, tomorrow. You can repay the favor by helping me with a problem in turn. Quid pro quo.” He smiled a devilishly coy smile. “Tonight, you have a breakthrough to document."
He left them reeling in their twisted lust and anger. The two emotions mixed terribly at first but settled out like an acid mixing with base, creating a neutral feeling as the pounding in their chest calmed and quieted. They finally let the death grip they had on the table relax.
They pulled a blank sheet of parchment and scrawled desperate prayers.
‘Forgive me, Father…’
This was supposed to be a smut oneshot - a self-indulgent Durgetash deranged smut-fest. BUT I guess we're here now.
wixed reblogged
Absolutely touch starved, maybe doomed, definitely adorable
wixed reblogged
Yurgir jumpscare!
Some buds love him, so here he is.
wixed reblogged
When you leave these fellas in camp together they’re going to have a tea party and vibe. Featuring the best asset in the game aka Frog Teapot.
wixed reblogged
Temptations of Circuits and Sin
CW: Blood/Gore, Torture, Medical Torture, Medical Experimentation, Drugged Torture, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Religious Zealotry, Ingesting Body Fluids (Blood), Cannibalism, Loss of Agency, Durge Episode, Clawing/Scratching, Grinding, Choking, Dom/Sub
Pairing: OC!Durge x Gortash
Part 1
◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥
The meeting between the Chosen drew laboriously on. The bhaalspawn could feel the urge in the back of their mind twitch at the banality of the current discussion.
War plans, invasions, political scheming - it all felt like needless pomp.
Each chime from the grandiose, overly mechanical clock rang through their ears like a shrill laugh. Mocking the Murder Lord’s chosen. Bound by the drivel of civility. Chained to this table like a sacrifice at an altar, for a ritual they cannot comprehend and care little for. Only instead of being cut and splayed, they were forced into an agreeable nature. It made them want to split their own skull to pierce through the dull ache of boredom.
Another melodious chime tore through the room. They slammed their dagger into the wooden table, bringing whatever conversation they had long since drowned out to an abrupt halt.
“Do you have something you wish to bring to the table, Assassin? Other than more scuffs and scrapes?" Gortash’s question was meant to rile them. Shame them for their outburst as if the Tyrant held such power over them.
"I do not see why I must be here for the Moonrise invasion plans. They have little to do with my part in this.” They tried to cow the petulant tone in their voice.
Gortash smiled with a seductive ease. The sight of it sent a lash to the bhaalspawn’s core. They turned their head with a dissatisfied grunt.
“We simply want to ensure you understand and are kept in the loop. If you do not wish to be here any longer, by all means, you may leave." The Tyrant’s words caused a roaring heat to roll over in their belly.
"Good. I have a complicated series of staged ritualistic murders to plan. These meetings are a waste of my time and talent.” They lifted the dagger from where it still dug upright into the table. They deftly twirled the blade as they sheathed it. Gortash gave a wry, crooked smile.
"Well then, it sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Chosen." His words dripped with coy superiority.
The bhaalspawn scowled as they left the war room, the doors slamming shut behind them. As they left the confines of Wyrm’s Rock, they could feel the eyes of prey upon them. It made their blood itch. How dare such pathetic creatures use such weak eyes to observe their visage? Their body surged with a murder-lust their Father demanded of them. Their focus flicked from patron to patron, momentarily stopping on a beggar woman who seemed sickly.
Normally, they avoided such frail offerings for their Father. The god of disease already claimed this soul, but it would suffice for the practice and planning of the staged rituals.
—
Luring the beggar back to the abandoned house they used for such practices was easy. The house was a secret place for sacrifices that would defile their Father-God's sacred temple. This blood would not spill in the name of Bhaal. It would not be clean and freely flow from the lash of their blade. There would be no praising cuts to adorn the body before Bhaal claimed it. It did not deserve the temple.
They gave the woman a meal and medicine to ease her fever. It would be no good for study if the brain was cooked from illness. She cried in supplication at the feet of her would-be savior. The Chosen did not move from their seat. They looked on with deliberating patience, waiting for the sleeping drug to take hold of the peasant.
A few moments later, her feeble body slumped in her chair, and her breathing slowed to a dangerous pace. The bhaalspawn lifted the unconscious body with ease, opening a hidden latch in the floorboards and taking her to the secret basement below. They tied their unwitting project to a medical table stained with blood from overuse. Save for the stains, the table was remarkably clean.
In fact, the entire space was neatly organized and relatively clean for what one might expect from a Chosen of Bhaal. Shelves held books and scrolls at one end of the room, and another was full of varied herbs, toxins, and alchemical supplies.
They picked up a small razor, sharp yet delicate, and shaved the head of all hair, removing anything that could impede sight and compromise the precision of their cuts. They began to split the skin of the woman at the crown of the skull. She was too far gone in the drug to do more than twitch out of instinct, eyelids barely fluttering at the glide of the blade across her skin. They carefully sliced around the crown, blood dripping down the twitching face. With a slow ease, they peeled back the skin, pinning it out of the way.
They licked the blade clean with a satisfied hum, then set it down. Grabbing another larger knife with unique serrations, they growled a noise of frustrated contemplation. They hovered over the exposed skull, steadying their erratic breath.
They felt a sudden spur of pain cut through their body. Father did not approve of their hesitation. He misunderstood - they did not hesitate out of guilt or some other weak foreign emotion. They hesitated out of pride. Their cuts were divine prayer, the mutilated bodies at their hand a providence. Though this meat was unfit for the temple, they were still a priest and must act under their holy creed. Sloppy would not suffice.
Once their breath drew steady and their heart beat in rhythm with the world around them, the serrated blade started to work on the skull. They finessed away a small piece of bone. exposing the brain. They felt their lips twitch with excitement at the sight. Their hands shook over the enticing organic matter. With a sharp inhale, they placed the blade neatly adjacent to the small razor.
They gathered a few small vials of liquid from a shelf. The liquids consisted mostly of poisons and some acids of varying strength. They mused over which to try first, eventually deciding on a common nerve poison. They slowly added a drop to the exposed brain and waited for the poison to take hold. A few moments later the body violently seized against the table. The loud rattling of their bones hitting wood echoed through the room with gasping strained breathing. The body continued to convulse until the limbs froze, contorted joints locking in place.
Seeing the body dance for them enthralled the bhaalspawn, a small smile forming at the corner of their lips, showing the sharpened teeth beneath. They grabbed a vial of acid and carefully but excitedly poured a drop into the cranial cavity. The body twitched but had very little response. The Chosen glared at the defiant meatsack. They took a syringe and drew up some of the acid, injecting it into the internal jugular vein.
The process was slow, but eventually, the cuts started to ooze once again. The urge inside them stirred at the smell of the sanguine nectar. Despite it being poisoned and diseased, their bloodlust craved the carnage. When it became evident the acid would not have the desired effect, they stood and reached for another toxin. Their deliberation was cut short by the body experiencing another violent series of convulsions, breathing rapidly increasing. Bloody foam gathered around the mouth.
The bhaalspawn cursed. They tried to keep the wretched thing from choking on her bile and spittle, but it was too late. The chest sank as her limbs went rigid, still bent from the nerve poison. In frustration, the bhaalspawn slashed the throat of the beggar and drove the blade into her heart.
They unlatched the body from the table and tossed it aside, sighing at their experiment cut short. They bent over the table, their face a mere hair’s breadth away from the pooled blood left there. They closed their eyes and languidly inhaled deep and slow. The iron aroma of the crimson called to them. They slowly dipped their tongue into the pool and licked a long stripe up the table, clenching the table so tight their sharp fingernails left indentations. Suddenly, a vision invaded their mind.
They imagined licking a body, warm and supple under their touch, blood flowing from the cuts drawn by their blade. Their tongue traveled up the collarbone to the neck. They pulled back to gaze upon the face of their prey, and instead of seeing lifeless eyes from a sacrifice, they saw his face. The Tyrant looking back at them with his smug smile shocked them out of the daydream.
They shot up from the table with sudden alertness, eyes wide and darting about the room. Disgust roiled in their core, their heartbeat once again thrumming wildly. Once the panic of the uninvited vision left, they glowered in still silence.
“Sceleritas!” they broke the quiet, summoning their faithful servant. The imp appeared with a pop of sulfurous smoke.
“Yes, my Liege?” He bowed to his master.
“Take this body to the ruins outside the temple. Make use of it.”
“As you command, my Dark Master.” Another deep bow. He took hold of the corpse and snapped his fingers, taking the body with him in another swirl of infernal smoke.
Once Sceleritas vanished, they cleaned the remainder of the spilled viscera. They tried to push thoughts of Bane’s Chosen from their mind. They soon left the abandoned house. Their body still ached with the need for bloodshed, proper bloodshed. They needed to still their mind in prayer. Their Father would make all things clear. Cleanse the weakness from them as they cleanse this world of vitality. They had several sacrifices awaiting them in the temple, ready to be made holy for their Father.
They stalked to the sewer entrance leading to the temple ruins, so distracted by the events of the last few hours they didn’t notice the lowly Banite who had been following them since the meeting.
◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥
Enver paced his foundry workshop. The metal clack of the cane hitting the stone floor was the only sound among the hissing steam vents until there was a knock at the door.
“Enter.” He cooly called out. The Banite sent to tail Bhaal’s Chosen returned from their mission.
“Sir.” The soldier stood at attention with a small bow of his head. Enver waved his hand dismissively.
“At ease. I assume you were successful? Tell me what you found.” He sat in the plush chair at a writing desk, hand still atop his cane.
“Yes sir, I tracked them to a decrepit house in the Lower City. They brought a peasant beggar with them but left alone, with no additional baggage or body. They took to the sewers after.” the Banite reported. Enver brushed his metal-clad thumb over his lips while humming a thought.
“And how long were they in the house?”
“A few hours, my lord.”
“Very well, leave the address for me. You are dismissed.” Enver passed the soldier a piece of blank parchment and a quill. The man did as he was commanded and took his leave.
Enver sat staring at the address for moments that turned to minutes until he tapped his cane against the stone, standing and moving to the mobile teaching-board covered with schematics and architectural drawings. He pinned the address to the board next to sketches of an automaton design. A low hum echoed from his chest to his throat.
“Interesting.”
—
Half a tenday came and went since Enver first had the Bhaalist followed. Each day since, he commanded his most skilled rogues to continue tracking and observing the curious bhaalspawn. Always the same report; They lure a lowly peasant, usually sick or diseased, they go to the abandoned house, hours pass, and they leave.
Enver never gave much thought to the daily routines of Bhaal worshipers, or his blood-spawn, but his mind kept wandering back to them. It was a near hyperfixation if he was being honest with himself. He told himself several times over the past few days that the Chosen was likely doing their duty assigned to them, simple as that. And yet, he couldn’t shake that there was more to it than that. More to them.
He found himself staring out a large arched window, the main source of light for his office at this time of day. He couldn’t see the house from his lofty tower, but he knew the direction all the same. His thoughts swarming and swirling like rats caught in a current.
“Lord Gortash.” The servant startled him from his troubling fixation. He scowled at being caught unaware.
“Yes? What is it?” his voice low and threatening.
“They’ve taken more to the house. This time several at once, a count of four peasants, sir.” The servant dutifully reported. Enver stood pensive for a moment before grabbing his elaborately embroidered overcoat.
“Thank you. Dismissed.” he waved a hand at the cowering servant, then left.
◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥
Days upon days of failure weighed heavy on the bhaalspawn. Failure to their Father, failure to their mission, failure to their urges.
They attempted concoction after concoction of poisons, toxins, and acids to no avail. The resulting deaths didn’t look right, wasn’t what they needed. The nerves would seize, but that was the only success. The poisons extracted from mushrooms would cause too much distress to the stomach, the poisons harvested from a particularly nasty insect resulted in too much swelling, and the toxic oils from dangerous plants caused uncontrollable and unpredictable rashes. They were at their wit's end. They chuckled a helpless, deranged laugh at the thought of having any wits left.
This obsession all but consumed their every waking moment. They had fallen behind in prayer, in their holy duty to the Temple, and their Father took notice. They were sure a punishment wasn’t far off. In desperation, they decided to lure a larger group tonight. They wouldn’t stop until they got it right, even if it took till morning.
They weren’t sure why this riddle had become so important to them. A flash of Gortash’s face flitted across their mind, and they growled under their breath. Perhaps it was simple competitive nature that made them so crazed for this answer, but the flutter of something in their core prevented them from fully accepting such a contrite explanation.
They strapped three of the half-unconscious bodies to chains hanging from the walls while the remaining one got the table. They stroked the face of the plump sacrifice laid flat on their altar, an altar to understanding rather than butchery.
“You are lucky. You get the comfortable seat.” Their sharpened nails dug into the skin a little too deep, drawing blood from the rosy apple cheek. They smiled with deranged glee, sharpened teeth flashing across their face as the smell of blood filled their nostrils. They breathed it in like the air would run out of the room. They blinked their eyes quickly, attempting to banish the crimson haze taking over.
“No, no, no, Father, please. Not now. Please I b-… I beg, Father, please!” They gripped the shoulders of the victim on the table tightly, bloodied claws digging in for purchase. But it was too late. Their sanity had left them, their Father-God demanding control over the bhaalspawn’s bloodlust. With a shrill manic cry, they clutched their head. Their body twitched through feral screams as they began to slice the warm and waiting flesh before them.
◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥
Enver didn’t relish in sneaking through the city, his city, but he could manage it when the occasion called for it. He quietly waited outside the entrance of the old house. A few glances about the area told him that if anyone was watching him, they likely wouldn’t care.
He slipped into the house with ease. Old dressers and empty crates filled the room. He cautiously looked about the dwelling, growing frustrated in thinking he had the wrong house, but then saw a curious set of marks behind some crates. Upon inspection, he found the hidden entrance to the basement. He paused at the open hatch, he knew it was a risk, but something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He inhaled a short, decisive breath and descended the ladder.
When he made contact with the ground, he found himself in a makeshift foyer that seemed to spill into a larger room. He slipped behind a crate against a wall, watching the scene escalate before him.
The bhaalspawn had finished chaining three people to a wall. An older woman who suffered from a cough wearing a washer woman’s apron with an embroidered monogram - a servant to a high house. A young man who seemed healthy with tanned, broad shoulders - a stable hand or farmer perhaps? And a young woman who seemed too thin but otherwise seemed healthy, based on the finer clothing, likely a brothel worker, a low-end brothel at that if she couldn’t be fed properly. The Assassin leaned over their fourth victim, a rotund man strapped to a table whose ankles and feet were puffy and swollen, a spoiled merchant, no doubt.
Enver’s eyes danced around the room, he saw bookshelves, what appeared to be medicine cabinets, an alchemy station, a writing desk-
Before he could finish assessing the room the bhaalspawn began to mutter with a desperate tone. They were pleading. Enver’s brows knit together in confusion as he continued to watch from his dangerous vantage point. With a wail, the bhaalspawn lashed out at the body on the table. They sounded like an animal, their cries of desperation mixed with feral guttural noises.
When they finished eviscerating the man on the table, they moved to the chained bodies. The young, healthy man unfortunately looked as though whatever drug they had given him had worn off. Enver watched the crazed Chosen tear into him as he cried for mercy, eventually choking on his blood. The wet bubbling of the choking drowned out his pained screaming until his eyes went dull and his head hung limp.
They moved to the other victims with erratic speed. Slashing, biting, ripping, and tearing flesh away. They were covered in viscera - entrails hanging from their arms, bits of skin caught on their blade-like nails, blood soaking through their clothing and hair. Enver couldn’t help but feel a fascination at the consuming nature of this “urge”. He still readied a dagger just in case.
It was several minutes before the bhaalspawn seemed to come to themselves. They had been in the middle of sawing off the wrist of the man on the table, or what was left of him, at least. They dropped the bone saw, standing still like a crimson statue.
Enver was even more shocked at what he saw next. They fell to their knees and started to sob. Deep heaving sobs while they quietly uttered a prayer of apology over and over to their father. He thought of revealing himself but decided to give it some more time and distance between the vulnerable state they were in and his unwanted appearance.
◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥
Blood and meat covered the bhaalspawn like a blanket. A blanket that was once warm and comforting but turned to an overwhelming heat. They could feel the pieces of flesh under their nails as the blood dried and cracked on their skin. The taste of iron lingered in their mouth as they swiped their tongue across their teeth.
They slowly forced their body up from the floor and began cleaning the mess. They unlatched the sabotaged experiments from the wall, the remainants piling on the ground. They pushed the brutalized meat on the table into the pile, joining the others in a homogenized mixture of carrion and sinew.
They stared at the writing desk where notes had laid open, in process studies strewn across the surface, now covered in blood. If they weren’t ruined, it would take days to transcribe it all. They sighed and it turned into a low dissatisfied growl. This was their punishment. More than losing their mind, more than the red haze taking over their body, this - their fascination with the mortal body and interest in discovering its secrets, destroying the lucid days of study devoted to it. That is why they suffered their Father’s lash.
They suffered the lash of Bhaal and still learned nothing. The wresting of control did not deter them. It was a momentary hiccup. Their Father didn’t understand, same as every other soul who knew of their interests. They needed to understand the mortal body to better utilize the meat sacks for their Father’s purpose. It was a half-lie they told themself on repeat. A lie they told themself now as they gently dabbed the sweet red juices from the ruined pages.
“Ahem”
They drew their knife and threw another barely missing the intruder as he cleared his throat behind them. Their eyes widened in shock, then quickly narrowed in anger when Gortash’s visage became clear.
“What are you doing here?” they spat out. “Get out, now.” They didn’t raise their voice, but the demand was laced with venomous unsaid threats of what defying it would mean for the Tyrant.
Gortash pulled the dagger from the wall behind him. He wore an easy, almost cocky smile as he stepped closer to the bhaalspawn, handing them the dagger hilt first.
“I had a gnawing feeling you were in need of aid, and it seems I may be correct.” He sounded confident, all of his usual charm edging through his words. The sound of his voice was enough to ground the bhaalspawn and they hated it.
“That is very presumptuous of you, Tyrant.” They grabbed the dagger, resheathing it in a quick fluid motion. They eyed him wearily like one predator sizing up another. They felt the saliva catch in their throat the longer they took him in. An irritated grunt left their lips without permission and they tore their eyes away from him.
He gave a small chuckle at their annoyance. “I know we come from very different… backgrounds, but I feel as though we share something in common.” He ran a finger over one of the shelves holding the alchemy supplies. They studied him closely, waiting for the reveal of his observation.
Gortash smiled at them, causing their heart to pick up pace. “We have brilliant minds, you and I.” He walked to the viscera-covered bookshelves. “Minds that many underestimate, devalue, and would leave to rot.” He candidly kicked some entrails out of his path, circling the bhaalspawn like a vulture. The Bhaalist stood unmoving but watched Gortash as he moved about their study, eyes never leaving him, and their hand never leaving the hilt of their blade.
“I always knew you were capable. Retrieving the Crown from the Hells proved that much. However, your brilliance, your intellect, it’s something that slipped through my notice, until recently.” He picked up one of the books and flipped to a clean page. It showed sketches of the mortal body and notes about the brain specifically.
One part of them wanted to snatch the book away and drive their dagger through his haughty, overly confident heart. Another part was frozen, treading unfamiliar territory. The Tyrant was praising them for their revolting interests. He seemed intrigued by it rather than put off. This alone was enough to allow him more of the floor in their conversation.
He shut the book, setting it down again. “I believe I can help you. If you’ll let me.”
He waited for their answer. The assassin thought through the offer carefully. This dilemma was the result of their shared plans. It wasn’t strictly Bhaalist business. They took in the sight of the half-cleaned study and failed experiments decorating their shameful, secret dwelling. Their mind raced through all the possible ways the Banite could use this against them, all the ways he could betray them, all the ways he could leverage the aid he seemingly freely offered. They sighed in exasperation.
“Fine.”
—
The two chosen spent hours together. Gortash seemed barely bothered, if at all, by the remaining gore that lay about the room. Eventually, the bhaalspawn called for their faithful butler to clean the mutilated bodies, ordering him to repurpose what he could. Waste not, want not.
They detailed their idea for the staged murders. The rituals had to appear of The Absolute, not of Bhaal, so their usual methods wouldn’t suffice. They decided that a “god” who communicates and works through telepathy would use the same means to kill. This Absolute would want sacrifices that gave the brain of the victim to the “god”.
“This already aligns with how weak brains reject the tadpole, when the infection is too much.-”
“The brain hemorrhages. Brilliant.” Gortash grinned with excitement. The bhaalspawn felt a renewed vigor for their ideas. Just having one person share in the thrill of puzzling through it set their blood aflame in a way they hadn’t felt before.
“I also thought so.” A smug smile flashed across their face. They pulled out their most recent notes on the varied toxins and poisons they’ve attempted to mimic a hemorrhage.
“The part I am …stumbling over is making the brain bleed look divinely spontaneous, no evidence of blunt force trauma, or piercing pokers can be left behind. I was hoping a potent poison could achieve this. I have found a toxin that results in a very fitting secondary symptom, but haven’t had much luck with the star of the show.” They showed the combinations and the results to Gortash as best they could through the blood stains.
Gortash reviewed the summary of experiments in earnest. A few moments of silence passed as he read. The bhaalspawn watched his fingers, dressed in the gold of his gauntlet flip through the pages of their notes. They analyzed the way he deliberately and delicately at the same time manipulated the frail pages. Their body felt a jolt of something shoot from the base of their spine to the neck. Like lightning had found its way into their spinal fluid. Their fingers twitched from the feeling.
The Tyrant made a reserved but triumphant exclamation. “I think I’ve got it.” He snapped the book shut with one hand, offering it to them. The assassin lurched forward to grab it, excitement written over their face.
“What? What is it? Out with it, Tyrant.” Their words might have been demanding, but their tone was anxious and supplicant. Gortash grinned with the power he held over them.
“Patience, dear Assassin.” He inspected the bottles of poisons and toxins that were all meticulously labeled. He picked one at the back, labeled “Rat Poison.”
“This is what you’re looking for.” He handed the bottle to them. They glanced at the bottle in their hand.
“I’ve already tried this, it causes hemorrhaging, but it’s of the gut.” The delight in their eyes faded. The Tyrant clicked his tongue in a chiding manner and lifted their chin with one sharp golden finger. They should slice the finger from his hand, they should spill his entrails on the floor before them for daring to touch Bhaal’s Chosen. They’ve done worse for less. Their eye twitched at the touch, and their body tensed in anticipation, but they held still, glaring up at him through what little restraint they possessed.
“You didn’t let me finish.” He dropped his finger from their chin, and their body immediately relaxed.
“We adjust the dose, pair it with the toxin you already have for the seizures, then apply it to the barrier between the brain and-”
“The blood-brain barrier! Of course! Gods, how could I not see it? We need to induce a stroke, so stressing the blood vessels locally would cause mass bursting - this is ingenious. We’ll need a binding agent and a few tweaks to the base solution to ensure the seizure toxin won’t be affected. Get the two working synergistically rather than-”
Their rambling was cut short by Gortash pressing his lips to theirs. Their words caught between the joined lips. They made a muffled noise of displeasure and pushed him at an arm’s distance.
“How dare you?!” They gasped for breath, their pulse unstable, causing their words to lose footing. Gortash smiled a wry grin. He saw through their veiled disgust. Knew their strained words for what they were. An attempt to do what they should. Attempts to cow their obvious desires. He chewed on his bottom lip as he shifted closer again, finding little resistance from the hands against his chest.
“By all means, Assassin, tell me to stop.” He pushed even closer. The bhaalspawn was pressed up against the table behind them, their hands finding the surface, attempting to steady their stance. Their piercing glare focused from his eyes to his lips. A low growl under their breath was their only response. Gortash closed the gap between them, his thigh pressing against their groin. He leaned in close, his breath hot and prickling against their skin. In a low husky voice, he continued.
“Say you don't want this, and I won't give it." He rubbed his leg enticingly against them, the friction sending heat coiling tight in their core. They didn't stop him.
Gortash captured their lips in his once more. They returned the kiss this time, needy and all-consuming. Growls of frustrated pleasure escaped them as they writhed against his thigh, causing the Tyrant to groan with delighted satisfaction.
The bhaalspawn moved their hands to his chest and drew their nails down the exposed skin. Gortash parted from their lips with a moan. Blood trickled from the scratches and they went to lick it up, fulfilling the fantasy that had plagued them.
The blood was sweeter than anything they'd tasted. It filled their senses with a different haze. They purred at the euphoric thrill of it all. They nipped at his neck and kissed at the vein they could feel pulsing under his skin.
His hand gripped the bhaalspawn's throat. He applied pressure to the sides as he pulled their face away from his skin. They grimaced with a whimper. They felt pathetic, yet the shame melted away with the intoxicating pressure on their neck.
“What did I say before, Assassin? Patience." He moved his grip to their jaw, positioning their face to look at him. He planted one last claiming kiss on the bhaalspawn. When they parted, he brushed his thumb over their wanting lips. He gave a small, satisfied chuckle before dropping his hand. He moved back to the ladder's base, glancing back at the wanton creature.
"Find me in my workshop, tomorrow. You can repay the favor by helping me with a problem in turn. Quid pro quo.” He smiled a devilishly coy smile. “Tonight, you have a breakthrough to document."
He left them reeling in their twisted lust and anger. The two emotions mixed terribly at first but settled out like an acid mixing with base, creating a neutral feeling as the pounding in their chest calmed and quieted. They finally let the death grip they had on the table relax.
They pulled a blank sheet of parchment and scrawled desperate prayers.
‘Forgive me, Father…’
This was supposed to be a smut oneshot - a self-indulgent Durgetash deranged smut-fest. BUT I guess we're here now.
Reblogs since I seem to have some more Gort fans around lately. Durgetash fic that is WIP still, smutty in chapters 2&3 (and 4 that is WIP currently).
wixed reblogged
the end of the
SHADOW OF DURGE
so, this is a bonus scene of SHADOW OF DURGE that I had in my head for a while.
this is the end of the shadow of Durge, and his final goodbye to one of the most important person he had in his past.
it took me a bit to do it, but I'm quite happy how it look like^^
tell me what you think!
wixed reblogged
The Scent of Cinnamon 4 - The Morning, The Tailor, and The Fit of the Glove
Raphael wakes up to the consequences of the deal he made the night before, and realises Haarlep has no clothes to wear save for his own which are somehow a poor fit on his copied body. A trip to Waterdeep sparks more conflict as the two fiends begin to find their places with each other, pushing each others boundaries. Haarlep also has to reckon with the consequences of their end of the bargain, with shadows of their past biting at their heels. 5,139 Words - AO3 Link Click Here
--- Summary: The pair head out to Waterdeep to a tailor who can make something for Haarlep to wear other than Raphael's old clothes that feel like a poor fit on the incubus' borrowed body. Pairing: Raphael/Haarlep SPICE Rating: 0.5/5 Content Warnings: Mild Power Play, Mild Angst,
Spoilers Vague House of Hope and Act 3, but most of this series is focused on what came before. Canon Compliance The mention of a certain mad mage should match up roughly to the time he was actively in Waterdeep. But even the official lore is inconsistent on that one so we're running Rule of Cool. Also, the perfume is the exact canon scent according to 2 pieces of in game lore (Yurgir saying Raphael smells of cherry, and a letter of Raphael's that carries the scent of Palmarosa and Black Pepper in his perfume) Other Notes This is really to explore the dynamics between the two as they get to know each other outside the boudoir...don't worry, they'll be back there soon enough.
Song Pairing Everything You Hate by Project Vela "Looks like the time has come to pull the plug on the weak Your independence gone, control is not what it seems It's time to rise up and take it into the streets The life support is cut, the transformation complete
My actions don't seem so clean You're out there pulling the strings Anything any cage that couldn't hold Has escaped and it's out of your control Everything you ever hoped that you could be Only exists in a fake reality
You and I are one and the same One reflection bound by different names Recognised that you have become everything you hate Everything you hate"
--- FULL CHAPTER BELOW THE CUT --- ---
wixed reblogged
"Are you alright?"
Short blurb below
wixed reblogged
it frustrates me to see people saying modern Gale would be an AI bro. Modern Gale would hate AI because there is no soul in it, no creativity; it is attempting to 'solve' art with math and he would find that stifling and depressing.
GORTASH IS THE AI BRO stop robbing him of his title. He would be blackmailing people with ai-cloned voices and likenesses, living his best life.
WHAT?!?
Gale an AI bro?
Gale Dekarios? The Highly Studied 'Magic is like music of the soul' Wizard that will look a Naturally Talented MAGIC INNATE Sorcerer in their eyes and tell them that just because they were born able to CAST MAGIC doesn't make it "REAL MAGIC"?!?!!? Because it didn't require years of intense study, dedication, and passion to achieve on their part?!?!!
Are y'all serious out here?!?
Disrespectfully, if you believe Gale would support AI you're objectively wrong.
How can you have such a vast misunderstanding of a character?
Gortash backs AI.
As both a Gortash Simp and Gale Stan, this post speaks truth. Gortash Simp stamp of approval.
Tavlin's Adventures in Faerûn
A collection of shorts about my gay, transmasc Tav, Tavlin, and his developing romance with Gale. Lots of mutual pining and yearning, some angst, some hurt, mostly comfort. These were done as part of a February writing challenge, so they're all based off the prompts which act as the titles.
(Find the master list below the cutest edit of him and Gale)
Part 2 - Voyeurism
Part 3 - Body Worship NSFW 18+
Part 4 - Camp Chores
Part 7 - Heated argument with a companion
Part 9 - Exhibitionism NSFW 18+
wixed reblogged
SHADOW OF DURGE 2/4
here he comes out banite lord❤️
so, after some adjustments I divided the story in 4 0art, because the last one is .....a lot gory...
but still, enjoy!
wixed reblogged
Hey hotties, what do you think Gortash kiss animations would be like?
If we ever got a romanceable route with him, how would he kiss Tav?
I've got some ideas:
- Gortash grabs Tav by the back of the neck and pulls them in for a deep kiss with some tongue ;)
- Pulls Tav in with his two hands at Tav's waist that slide down to squeeze their ass during the kiss
- He strokes Tav's cheek gently then roughly grabs them by the throat and kisses them, a little bit of sweet little bit of salty
- Tav initiates with a hug throwing their arms around his neck and Gortash smiles and picks Tav up spinning them around and then puts them back down and kisses Tav slowly
What do we think? Would love to hear your ideas Gortash nation!
By the Black Hand, I love these! 3 is just 🔥. Some thoughts of my own:
5. Gortash tips Tav's chin up with one gauntlet-covered finger, holds them there while he looks them up and down, then gives them a slow, lingering kiss.
6. Gortash grips Tav's head with both hands and gives them a forceful kiss. (I was going to say tips their head back by their hair but that wouldn't be possible to animate with the different hair styles)
7. Tav pecks the scar on Gortash's chin. He raises his eyebrows at them sternly, then they peck him on the lips.