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The hour was after midnight when Gortash awoke; he knew that much. Moonlight was no longer creeping through the window and the room was shrouded in darkness.
Someone was in the room. He knew that, too.
One hand slowly reached for the dagger he kept under the pillow. He'd just curled his fingers around it when two things happened at once—a barely-visible Mage Hand spell flared into being, grasping just under his jaw pressing down, and a pair of blazing red eyes opened in the corner.
He relaxed. Slightly. For a moment. Identifying his guest didn't make the situation he found himself in any less dangerous.
“My dearest assassin, do make yourself comfortable,” he drawled, a mix of sarcasm and delight. The dagger stayed in his hand. The eyes hovering in the dark tilted slightly, and narrowed. Gortash couldn't tell if that was a threat or amusement.
“Thank you. I will.” Durge’s voice was pitched soft enough to not draw attention. “Your security is atrocious.”
Gortash rolled his eyes. “Is a man not entitled to the breeze from his own window on a warm night? Speaking of night, it appears to be the middle of it. To what do I owe the pleasure?” A low, rumbling chuckle was his answer.
“That depends. How much do you think you can give?” Durge asked. The softly-glowing hand pressed against his neck gave a squeeze.
Frowning, Gortash said “Now wha—“ before a second mage hand abruptly shoved two fingers into his mouth, pressing firmly down on his tongue. “You talk too much,” said Durge.
Ah. It was to be that sort of visit. Still dangerous, but the most delicious kind of dangerous. He hoped his favorite Bhaalspawn wasn't just there to tease him; it would be terribly inconvenient to die now. He still had so much to do.
His lips closed around the conjured fingers, sucking firmly. He'd never thought to ask if the caster of such a spell received any sensation from the hand, but the action alone caused his blood to pound just a little bit harder. He could feel his pulse under the grip at his throat.
“Enver, Enver, Enver.” Durge's eyes canted in the other direction, never moving from their prey. “The things I could do to you. So helpless.” A new mage hand pinned Gortash's wrist to the mattress, while a twin plucked the dagger loose from his hand. “All those guards. Traps. Secret passages. And this is all you keep in here for me? I'm hurt.”
The dagger seemed to float, the hand holding it almost imperceptible, the tip resting too-gently at the top of his breastbone. Somehow, the gentleness increased the threat behind the action. He was accustomed to Durge being more forceful. A protesting sound rose in his throat, cut off by the fingers in his mouth pressing deeper and more firmly on his tongue. A short squeeze, and his breathing was momentarily cut off; a warning. He wasn't giving the orders right now.
Gortash shifted his hips, the gentle weight of the sheet, of his sleeping pants, becoming uncomfortably distracting as he hardened beneath them.
“My little tyrant. Do you know how I yearn to carve you open? To crack open your ribs, and bury my teeth in your still-beating heart?” Durge let out a long, gravely sigh. “You would taste delicious. You would be mine, my final offering, my last indulgence.”
Fuck, Gortash thought, adrenaline and arousal pounding through his veins. His breath came quickly, rasping in his throat, making his arousal plain even as he knew his ally could see him clearly enough in the dark.
The dagger-point traced slowly down his chest, the sharp tip scoring a faint line on his skin. This was unsettlingly gentle for Durge, and the blend of fear and lust drew a pathetic moan he couldn't stifle with those blasted fingers pushing his jaw open.
“So needy,” Durge murmured. A new mage hand joined the others, pulling the sheet down, while the dagger slowly, carefully, began to slice the expensive silk pants off his body. Gortash let out an indignant whine, and Durge laughed. “But I promised, didn't I? I promised to save you until the end. I suppose I'll just have to find another way to make you scream.”
Gortash meant for the groan that rose in his chest to sound like a scoff—he’d never lower himself to such base behavior. Instead, it came out a gasping, wordless plea. He needed Durge to do something. His hips rocked fruitlessly into the air, cock hard and throbbing in time with his heartbeats. A distant part of him wondered how good a dragonborns hearing was. Could Durge hear the pounding in his chest?
Blazing eyes remained fixed on their quarry, unmoving. A pair of shimmering hands dragged their way up Gortash’s body, the sensation unusually gentle without sturdy claws at the tips of them. Another finger pressed into his mouth, and he reflexively began to suckle at them as though it were Durge himself pushing hotly between his lips. There was no texture to them, no warmth, but he swore he could taste Durge on the back of his tongue.
There were more hands, now, gliding all over his body, more than he could keep track of. Not a single one of them touched him where he needed to be touched. His feet tried to get some purchase on the slippery sheets, anything to lift his hips, get more pressure, coax more sensation out of those torturous appendages.
“Beg for me, Enver,” said Durge, and Gortash tried, he tried to shake his head. Wanted to be defiant. He felt dizzy, intoxicated, and all he managed was a whine.
“Good little tyrant.”
The smallest motion rustled in the corner, Durge's pale fingers briefly visible as he sketched a shape in the air, and Gortash felt the firm pressure of an unseen finger against his ass, tracing slow circles. Unlike the other hands still roaming over his body, this one felt.. slippery.
How did he—?
The thought died in his head as one finger slid inside him, and Gortash could swear it felt eager, hungry. He was already dripping a small puddle on his belly. The probing finger inched deeper, began to stroke the sensitive little bundle of nerves once, twice—
He would have shouted as he came, damn the consequences, if his throat wasn't compressed at the same moment his hips bucked off the bed. Warmth streaked across his chest and his vision blurred, pleasure racing through his nerves. Air began to seep down his throat again, and vaguely he felt a little disappointed. Those blasted hands hadn't even touched him properly!
Until another finger joined the first, pushing into his hole, beginning to thrust with more enthusiasm, and he realized Durge wasn't done. Of course he wasn't, this wasn't costing any real effort on his part, he could maintain the spells for hours, most likely.
Fuck.
The hands were relentless, constantly shifting and sliding across his skin. He couldn't tell where one ended and another began. In his mouth, the fingers took up an urgent rhythm to match the ones driving into him below, the collection of hands seeming to congregate around his hips. They held him down, pinning him in place, and it was too much and not enough. There wasn’t any air left in him to protest, only for desperate panting that bubbled through the saliva leaking past his lips, down his cheek.
“Look at you,” Durge murmured, and Gortash burned, desire and depraved humiliation twisting in his chest. “So hungry to be put in your place. This is what you need, isn't it? To give me control.”
He could swear the fingers pounding into him grew, thickening and lengthening, setting a pace even a dragonborns stamina would be hard-pressed to keep up with. He felt utterly filled, stuffed, and yet still they demanded more from him, tirelessly.
Ever so slowly, taunting him, the hand at his throat began to squeeze again. He fought for breath, a blank white void descending over his mind, his neglected cock straining once more against empty air, and another overwhelming shock of pleasure jolting through him.
As thoughts began to creep their way back in, he was uncomfortably aware that while many of the extra hands had dissipated, at least one was still blazingly present—although reduced back to its normal size, there were slippery fingers still slowly moving, gliding in and out of his abused hole.
“Done so soon?” A white shape was suddenly very present, taking up the whole of his view. Gortash bit down on a protest. He couldn't keep going, he couldn't, yet he refused to acquiesce for Durge's amusement. Possessiveness and pride gleamed in those glowing eyes. “You're so good for me, Enver.”
That rumbling voice seemed to settle in his ribcage, a thrill shuddering down his spine. A clawed hand fisted in his hair, pulling firmly, and yes, there was the pain he needed. His hand shot up, clutching at one of Durge's horns for something, anything to anchor himself. He was adrift, his being narrowed to the twin ache of his scalp and ass.
Durge leaned forward, and lapped long, wet streaks over his body, diligently cleaning up the mess Gortash had made of himself. The sight alone, that dextrous tongue seeking out every drop, was anguish. Durge had still not touched—
Scaled fingers wrapped around him, almost too tight. Almost. The hand gripped in his hair pulled, and suddenly Durge's weight pinned him, and it couldn't be called a kiss, not exactly, a dragonborns mouth wasn't shaped for that, but a long tongue probed into his gasping mouth and he tasted himself on it. Against all good sense, his hips ground up against Durge's hand, craving more.
Through it all, that damned mage hand continued to work inside him, sending unbearable pulses radiating down his nerves. His exhausted muscles seemed to act of their own will, refusing to relax, fiercely chasing more sensation, rutting into Durge's rough palm. Dangerously sharp teeth pricked his cheeks, piercing the skin so carefully, and the warm wetness of small drops of blood bloomed only for Durge to lick them away and bite again.
Gortash tensed. Durge growled, the sound vibrating between them. “Mine.” A wave of excruciating bliss slammed into his body, and it seemed to go on for hours.
He was left with damp sheets and a vague memory of a gravelly chuckle close to his ear before sleep descended. “Rest, little tyrant. You'll need it.”