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The sun was shining over the baldurian rooftops, illuminating the festhall through the grand open doors to their host’s gardens. Any politician or philanthropist worth their salt attended the yearly spring dinner at the Littlelight Estate, and Enver was quite pleased to note that he had received a personal invitation for the second year in a row.
He had attended prior dinners as a date, of course, but it was infinitely more satisfying to have earned his own place here. It was a place of opportunity, the exclusivity of the event leading to loosened tongues as nobles felt safe to assume everyone around them would agree with their less savory opinions. A banite’s dream, really.
Unless, of course, you’re stuck listening to the dullest man in the room.
He probably should be paying closer attention to what Alvar was saying, but in his defense, the half-drow had little of value to share. He was the son of a two rather brilliant businessmen, but inherited none of their intellect. In fact, the only reason he had come this far was because he had managed to benefit from Enver’s hard work. The downfall of Enver’s enemies had, unintentionally, paved the path for Alvar’s rise through the ranks.
The banite was quite ready to shake that dead weight from his coattails.
Fortunately for Alvar, that also made him valuable. Enver’s quick rise had drawn suspicion, especially from those who paid attention to the rather convenient deaths in his wake- and rightly assumed that Alvar was too stupid to be the culprit.
He’d admit, he’d gotten a bit carried away once he had the best assassin in the Gate on his side.
But, what benefited Enver had benefited Alvar. So it would only take one bit of misdirection to divert the attention- To turn Alvar into a villain, and Enver into a hardworking politician, simply trying to keep the Gate together after a tragic string of deaths.
All Enver had to do was get assassinated. Publicly.
He wasn’t sure when it was going to happen- his bhaalist accomplice had been all too happy to plan this on his own, insisting that his surprise would make it more authentic.
Enver was just slightly worried about exactly how authentic this was going to get. Asking a bhaalspawn to kill was one thing, asking him to almost kill was another. It would have been safer to ask anyone else, anyone who didn’t have Bhaal’s orders floating around in their brains.
Problem was, Enver didn’t trust anyone else with the task.
He had never met anyone quite as skilled as the bhaalspawn when it came to matters of the flesh- murderous matters, of course, not sex. Not that he’d know about Durge’s skills in that particular department. He’d been tempted, of course, but he wasn’t about to risk their partnership, and more importantly his life , over something as petty as lust.
Though he supposed that was going down the drain today- asking the bhaalspawn to hold back during a literal murder might be even more dangerous.
He staunchly ignored the small voice in his head saying that if the bhaalspawn could hold himself in check today , it boded quite well for Enver’s chance to survive more enjoyable activities.
Now was hardly the time.
His musings eventually led him further towards the immaculate gardens, abandoning conversation for just a moment. The steps leading up towards the sculpted hedges allowed him a perfect view of the mingling partygoers.
And it allowed them a perfect view of him.
Of course. He should have seen it coming.
Exposed enough for everyone to see. Far enough away from the guards. Plenty of escape routes.
It registered a split second before strong arms locked themselves around his neck and torso. His last minute realization would probably have spoiled his surprised reaction for the audience, if not for the accompanying blade in his gut.
For a moment the human tensed up, instinctively grabbing at the arms that seized him. He could only make a token effort to fight back, and it wasn’t enough. The bhaalist held him impossibly close, closer than they’d ever been, Durge’s breath heavy near his ear.
And from a decidedly more humanoid source than he was used to.
For a moment he felt his heart race at the thought that someone else had gotten to him before Durge.
The hand keeping him in place was ungloved, on display for everyone to see- and definitely not a dragonborn’s.
A disguise, and well chosen for the occasion. The distinctly purple hand of a drow was a sharp contrast to Enver’s own skin tone, ensuring that everyone noticed exactly what the assassin was.
Even the dumbest nobles in the crowd would be able to draw a connection to the half-drow he was framing.
“Don’t move.”
It was Durge’s voice, even from under the disguise. Enver wasn’t planning on moving, all too aware of the knife’s proximity to his vital organs, but it was good to know that it was indeed his ally holding it. Even as a smug smile pressed against his skin.
“Good boy.”
Enver’s eye twitched slightly, the comment almost distracting him from the pain, as his gauntlet dug further into the bhaalspawn’s arm in warning. It merely earned him a husky laugh against his neck.
The arm around his middle kept the knife firmly in place, preventing him from bleeding out, but also ensuring that any unexpected movement could be his last.
That was the only injury Enver had approved, but the bhaalspawn clearly wasn’t done yet. Enver’s definition of “acceptable injury” was barely enough to get started.
In spite of himself he felt a bit of fear creep in. His voice dropped to a low hiss, passing through unmoving lips.
“What are you doing?”
A smile split the assassin’s face, hidden from view but so very close to Enver. Practically pressed against his skin. The closest he’d ever gotten to the Bhaalspawn, as they imitated a bhaalist’s most intimate act. Part of him wished Durge had kept his true appearance for the occasion.
“Making it look real.”
The momentary hesitation was enough for the spectacle to catch the attention of the other partygoers, with horrified gasps accompanying the sound of approaching guards.
Now was the time to do it.
The thought barely crossed Enver’s mind before Durge slit his throat.
His body immediately went into panic mode as the disguised dragonborn dropped him, only barely registering how shallow the cut was. The guards timed it well, letting loose an arrow that Durge allowed to hit him before he disappeared in a cloud of mist- the perfect excuse for why the assassin didn’t finish the job.
All that was left was the injured banite, gasping through a wounded throat. He knew it wasn’t lethal, at least not if it was treated within the next few minutes. But the cut was just deep enough to appear far worse than it was. Blood already covered his front, welling from between his hands and ruining his most expendable party outfit.
When the horrified onlookers crowded around him, he knew it had worked like a charm.
And when they parted to let a cleric through, he knew he would live to see the fruits of his labor too.
Even as the darkness started to creep in at the edges of his vision, he had to stop his lips from parting in a bloodstained smile.
-
Enver’s office was blissfully silent, at last. A welcome reprieve from the worried whispers of partygoers, each looking to have the newest information on his condition to gossip about, and the stern voice of a cleric telling him to rest.
The cleric’s advice had been pointedly ignored the moment he was out of the room, and Enver was back at his desk.
The dragonborn was nowhere to be found, never returning after his performance- perhaps a fair bit of penance was in order after such a blasphemous act. Enver himself had no such qualms, having solidified his position in the baldurian hierarchy in one swift stroke- one that was likely to open new opportunities for him now that he was no longer suspected of murdering other members of the elite.
He absentmindedly traced the line on his neck. It would fade with time, of course, but for now he was content to wear it for a few days, at least. A reminder for those who had doubted him, and a souvenir for himself- a memento of this victory over Bhaal’s all-consuming urges. Perfectly straight and horizontal, almost too professional to be seen as a failed attempt. The work of a man who had slit thousands of throats and left no survivors.
Until today.
An if Durge could resist killing him in a situation like that, where Enver quite literally put his life in his hands, well… What else could he do?
Forbidden thoughts made their way to the front once more, but this time… Well, there was no harm in indulging them, just for a moment. He had earned it.
He leaned back a little further in the sparingly padded chair, opening the robe that had been ready for him upon his return.
His hands gripped the armrests, taking to the chair like a throne, as he took himself back to the day’s earlier events.
The sun, the crowd, the knives against his skin.
The mental image was ruined slightly by the memory of Durge’s drow disguise, but Enver was an imaginative man- it didn’t take much to twist the vision slightly to a more palatable companion.
Towering over the crowd, too tall to properly place his arms around Enver without leaning down, leaning closer . Rows of needle-like teeth pushed against his cheek, his ear, his jaw. Cool and hard scales on the hand that cradled his jaw while placing the knife to his throat. A shiver ran down his spine at the memory of strong arms holding him so tightly, as he imagined them bigger, firmer, colder. His left hand released its grip on the armrest to trace the healed stab wound in his side.
He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he was tenting his underwear.
He knew he wasn’t the only one- he had felt it, his back flush against Durge’s front. Heavy breathing in his ear and a hardness pressed just a bit too firmly against his lower back. The bhaalspawn was excited by it. That might just be his reaction to any murder, but Enver still liked to think he was special- After all, Durge knew that it wouldn’t truly result in death. That should have killed the mood for him. But maybe the prospect of Enver’s death was exciting enough that even an almost was thrilling.
He allowed himself to indulge in that fantasy for a moment. Allowed himself to imagine how far Durge would have pushed it if not for their audience.
He allowed his left hand to move downwards to cup the growing bulge between his legs, so his restless hips would have something to move against.
His gauntlet pressed against his chest, just hard enough to feel like the tip of a blade. Unlike the images conjured up by his mind, his hand didn’t break skin- a cleric would be by to check his healing as soon as the sun came up, and he wasn’t keen on adding any embarrassing new injuries to the mix.
But the mind wandered.
Would Durge be content with simply breaking the skin, or would he push until the steel met bone?
Fingers pushing past his skin to trace his insides. A large tongue pressing firmly against his chest to catch the blood.
How far could he push it without killing him? How far was Durge willing to push the limits of blasphemy for a taste of Bane’s chosen?
After all, he’d already pushed the limits, and Enver had yet to give him anything beyond a tentative friendship.
With very little to do in this time where he was meant to be resting, he allowed himself to go further.
Durge’s weight planted firmly on top of him, a familiar dagger in hand, pressing him into the mattress, daring him to push back. Blood on his sheets, his own claws digging between scales to leave red marks against white, spilling the divine blood that the bhaalspawn was so damned proud of.
His gauntlet traced a path down his chest, mirroring the image of a blade in his mind. The thought of the bhaalist’s dagger getting anywhere close to his most sensitive areas was both terrifying and arousing all at once, as he allowed his claws to mimic the bitter sting of a blade amidst the dark curls between his legs. His cock twitched just below it, prompting him to replace his bare hand with the harsher feeling of his gauntlet against the sensitive skin. It was incredibly uncomfortable, his own precum not serving as sufficient lubricant for the metal, but it made it feel all the more real. Durge was not a gentle creature, made for comfort. He was sharp edges and hard planes, made for pain before pleasure. The gentle caresses of a knife that Enver’s mind could conjure up were likely a kind alternative to the raw touch of the killing machine.
The mere thought of it dragged a moan from his throat.
For a monster to use a weapon of death to caress his lover more gently than his own body could- Enver wanted that. He wanted the cold of scales and steel alike against his skin, to see his blood spilled with the same care and precision Durge had shown when slitting his throat. To know that he was too important to kill, while dangling the temptation before the bhaalspawn’s eyes.
He could almost feel that heated gaze against his skin.
His free hand made its way upwards once more, dull human nails a poor imitation of the sharp edges in his mind- but it hardly mattered when the sensation around his cock was so real.
He pushed himself closer to the backrest, as if he could pretend it was the dragonborn’s chest. As if he could be back there, for just a moment, reliving his own assassination. The thrill of it, the trust he so foolishly placed in a bhaalist’s hands, and the satisfaction when it paid off.
His hand upped its pace to match the increased rhythm of his heartbeat. He could almost imagine the arm wrapped around his middle drifting lower, a large hand replacing his own in his mind’s eye, knife still placed firmly against his throat. Lips pressed against his neck, the smile that almost convinced Enver that he was about to die…
“Good boy.”
His dull nails dug into the scar on his throat hard, and it became too much to bear. A full body shudder accompanied the best orgasm in recent memory, forcing his eyes closed as he made even more of a mess of himself. He even dragged his hand along his length a few more times, grimacing at the cruel bite of overstimulation, extending this feeling just a little longer.
And then it was over.
The vivid imagery in his mind faded as reality crept in once more, leaving him all too aware of the new raw aches he had inflicted upon himself. He never considered himself much of a masochist, never seeking it out for his personal satisfaction, but he evidently had to reconsider that stance when it came to the bhaalspawn. The frustrating, fascinating, utterly destructive bhaalspawn.
Enver wanted it.
He wasn’t the kind of man to settle for midnight fantasies and his own hand for company, not when his prize was so very close.
Not when he was so certain that he might actually survive it.
He pulled his gauntleted hand from his pants, observing a small drop of blood trailing down the metal in the faint candlelight.
Not when he was so certain that the bhaalspawn would want him too.