Work Text:
The Urge has the biggest pair of doe eyes Enver has ever seen.
It's off putting, knowing what he knows about her. She is a merciless killer. She is insane. She is angry and vile and murder incarnate.
She has an innocent, sweet face, and large, sad, soul-crushing eyes.
The complete opposite to her sister, Orin, who is all sharp angles and pale skin, and strikingly beautiful.
The Urge is half-drow, soft and small. She has tangled long dark hair, dark grey skin, and inky black eyes. It's as if her entire being is made to swallow up light.
She is a rotten, wretched, lovely creature.
He thinks as much when she removes herself from his embrace, panic and disgust on her features.
“We shouldn't have done that,” she says, but she has never been a good liar. She doesn't regret, but he knows the thoughts of her father are plaguing her. Admonishing her for her sin, her weakness. He wishes Bhaal would be silent for once. He keeps getting in the way of his machinations.
Enver thinks falling into bed together was a foregone conclusion. The culmination of their partnership, of Bane’s Chosen bringing the child of Bhaal to heel. It's his destiny to rule, to have dominion over all. The only one who need not fear the murder god’s most perfect weapon. She'll make a perfect right hand. She was made to be servile. She follows her god, her own father, without question. He's glad that she's the Chosen, instead of Orin, who is wild and unpredictable. The Urge suits him better.
But he wishes she wasn't so miserable about it. She is constantly wracked with guilt and paranoia. Maybe one day she can escape these feelings of self-loathing, but he wouldn't bet on it. It took him years to get her to this point, into his bed. He has no intention of letting her go so easily.
She has been a marvelous ally thus far, and he plans on rewarding her with what she craves most. Even if she doesn't know it. Freedom.
At the end of it all, he will kill her, and she will be free of the burden of her birthright. Of her curse as a bhaalspawn. She'll probably even thank him.
“I should kill you,” she whispers, “And then myself,” she bites her lip so hard it bleeds.
“Considering all your previous bed partners have been corpses, I'll try not to take what you're saying to heart,” he says, and the Urge winces.
He watches her dig her nails into the palms of her hands, and blood smears around her fingers. A reflection of what was done to his back, no doubt.
“Stop mutilating yourself,” he grabs at her wrist, and she snatched it away, panic in her eyes.
“You should not touch me so easily,” she snarls, but there is no bite to it. She's spiraling.
He feels a sense of smug satisfaction at seeing her like this. He's the only one alive who gets to. When she's around her sycophants, around her sister, she is all demented smiles and crazed laughter. She plays her part well, blending in with the rest of her cult as a perverted deviant, aroused by blood and massacre.
It took a long time to break through that facade. To reach the vulnerability underneath.
She is still a monster, bloodlusted and insane.
These moments, where the daughter that Bhaal had crafted crumples, and the girl she might have been, emerges, are a gift.
If anyone else sees her like this, she'd be ruined.
“Come here,” he cooes. He grabs her by the hair and pulls her back, and she lets him.
“My dearest,” he kisses her shoulder, and she shakes with barely restrained fury.
“My favorite,” he licks the shell of her ear, and she snarls and catches his mouth with her own.
She bites, and he pulls back before she tries to tear his tongue out. He's seen her do it before.
“I really hate you,”she curses, and she throws her arms around his shoulders to kiss him again. She's terrible at it. He tries to keep his sickness down, knowing that the only others she's kissed are her decapitated prizes.
“I know,” he laughs, and uses his weight to press her down in the sheets. She protests, kicking her feet and squirming, and he spits on his hand to slide his fingers into her cunt. He really shouldn't have. She's slick, both from her own arousal and his previous spend.
“Stop,” she struggles, and he ignores her. If she really didn't want this, she'd pull out the needle she has hidden in her hair and stab him in the eye.
She bucks her hips, pantomiming her resistance, like she's trying to push him off, but she only succeeds in riding his hand, and she gasps and groans like a dying animal.
The Urge sobs, frustrated, and pulls him close, trying to find friction on her neglected clit. He almost wants to take pity on her, but he resists. Instead, he bites the nipple closest to him, then soothes it with his tongue, catching the blood that swells from her wound.
“Enver,” she groans, and that makes electricity spark in his spine. He could fuck a hole in a wall, with how hard his cock is, grunting his name like that.
“Get off,” she snarls, and still, he ignores her.
“No,” he chuckles, and he tears his hand away, and he relishes her cries of frustration, before he adjusts himself and slides home.
She's still tight, even from the frenzied fucking from earlier, and the rough fingering besides.
She's tensed, body like a hot wire, spine rigid. She digs her fingers into the flesh of his shoulders, anchored in. Her thighs tighten around his hips so hard they're bruising. Every point of contact is punishing, painful. The only bit of bliss is the hot muscle of her cunt wrapped around him. She's hot and wet inside, she feels like honey around his cock.
He only takes a moment to savor how glorious she feels before he starts to pump his hips.
Gods, she feels like paradise.
“Perfect,” he grunts, while she shudders and cries.
“You're dead,” she groans, “You're dead, you're dead-”
“I'm not,” he tells her, “I'm alive,” and he punctuates this with a vicious thrust that has the bedframe slam against the wall.
“I'm going to kill you,” she vows, crossing her feet at her ankles and urging him deeper, “I'll kill you, you're dead, I'll tear your cock off with my teeth-”
“Be quiet,” he commands, and he sneaks a hand between their bodies to try and find her clit. Maybe that'll shut her up.
The Urge takes that moment of distraction and she rolls him, and he gasps in surprise. Now she settles atop his hips, and a second later she sinks back down onto his cock.
Enver groans, and thrusts up into her, trying to buck her off, but she holds fast, leveraging her knees and slams her hips to meet him. He sinks deeper than before, certain he's brushing up against her cervix, and she screams in pleasure.
She pins his hands above his head, and he allows her. The Urge rises on her knees until only the head of his cock remains inside her, and he can't help but stare at where they join. He groans low in his throat at the sight. His cock head stretching her opening, his cum and her slick mixing together and slipping out of her to coat his length. It's utterly pornographic. He wants a painting of it to hang above his bed. He won't be able to look at that particular shade of gray and dusty pink without thinking about the silky folds of her pussy.
Finally, she sinks down, and she cries so sweetly in pleasure.
The Urge throws her head back, he can feel her long hair tickling his thighs, and he watches as she rides him like she's getting paid to do it.
Every part of her hypnotizes him, from her pussy lips shining with slick, to her small breasts bouncing, her dark nipples hard and tempting. He groans when he spots her darkened flesh from his teeth, bruised and angry.
He forgets his hands above his head, so enraptured by her display. When she picks up the pace and begins to pant does he snap out of it. Gortash quickly places his palms on her tensing thighs and rubs one thumb on her neglected clit. She's so wet, the sensation alone is enough to make him growl with lust.
After he swirls the pad of his thumb around her, she jolts, shuddering, and then he quickly finds his breath being cut short.
Her hands, small but powerful, are wrapped around his throat. She squeezes, cutting him off from air.
He gasps, able to take in some gulps of air, and it causes her to tighten her hold. He looks up at her, and stills at the smirk on her face. Her eyes, black voids, flash with barely restrained delight.
“Is this what you wanted?” She asks, rolling her hips. Enver chokes, and she relents, softening her grip, but only slightly. Just enough to let him breathe.
“Is this what you were looking for, my Lord?” Her breath drops to almost a whisper, he has to strain his ears to listen.
He feels his heart hammering in his chest, and there's fireworks going off in his head. That this is bad. Very, dangerously bad.
But he is still hard and hot inside her, cock aching. He wants so badly to grab her by the hips and fuck that smirk right off her face.
He feels like his skin is sizzling, blood boiling, his hair is wet and damp on his forehead, in his eyes.
“Did you think you tamed me?” She asks, resuming a merciless pace, as she rolls her hips, hands tight around his neck, “How boring of you. Isn't this better? Don't you want more than a tamed beast?” She presses against a pulse point, nails sharp and biting.
“Don't you want to stick your dick in something dangerous?” she whispers against his cheek, panting like she's the one being throttled.
She tightens her hold at his silence, and he realizes she's waiting for an answer.
“You're out of your mind,” he grunts, and she laughs.
“Why are you twitching inside of me, Enver?” She crows, “The Black Hand of Bane, hard for my show of dominance? Isn't this taboo for you, my Tyrant?” she taunts, “You're getting harder, I can feel it,” She swirls her hips and he moans, long and loud.
“I see you,” she says, “Deep down you want to be as vile as I am. You want to get in the dirt and play with the animals.”
He can barely hear the slapping of skin as she bounces, his hips smacks against her ass as she gasps and groans and sighs. There's blood rushing in his ears, his head foggy, as he gets less and less air, until she cuts him off.
He feels like he should be trying to push her off, but the part of his brain that houses his self-preservation is gone. All that's left is lust. He wants so badly to come, he has to rely on her restraint. He trusted her. He knows her.
He thinks she won't go too far. She's not Orin. She has some semblance of self-discipline. She knows that if she kills him now she'd never be able to pull off their scheme alone, never bring Bhaal the deaths in droves she craves.
She's not stupid. She's not that insane.
She's strangling him and he makes no move to stop her.
But then he looks up at her, and she's delighted. She's laughing, smiling and self-indulgent, and Enver realizes.
She might not stop. He has no idea where her limits are right now.
He doesn't know, honestly, what she might do.
And that thought-
Enver chokes and cums, screaming but he makes no sound. He thrusts up so hard she bounces, almost falling off, but that evil creature regains her balance and slams down, draining him dry. She finally releases her hold on his neck and he sucks in air, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind being split in two.
He's never orgasmed so hard in his life. He's bucking his hips wildly, without a thought, and she giggles and rides him, slamming her small cunt down to drain him. He hears her muttering under her breath, “Give it to me. Give me all of it,” and her hands find her clit, and suddenly she pulses around him.
He is a being of sensation, and he can feel her fluttering around his cock, her muscles spasming and tightening as she shudders over him. She leans back on his flagging cock and finally lets him slip out of her. His cock twitches faintly at the sight of his cum dripping out of her.
His exhaustion catches up to him, and he shuts his eyes and feels himself falling unconscious. The last thing he feels and hears before slumber is her curling up next to him, hissing, “Shove over, will you?”
It's a dreamless sleep.
—
He awakes, cold and alone, and incredibly sore. His throat is on fire, and he already knows without looking that his neck will be bruised black and blue. He grumbles and almost regrets pushing her so far.
He finds a scribbled out note on the nightstand, the page torn out from a nearby book, and blotchy from her messy scrawl. It's been an age since they left notes to each other. The last time was right before the heist into the hells, when they retrieved the crown.
Her familiar handwriting dances across the page, but it's uncoded. How sentimental of her.
It simply reads, “Meet you at the towers,” with no signature.
He laughs, crumples the note and tosses it.
Months and months later, he will find himself digging through the garbage in the false hope that it will still be there.
—--
When Orin announces that she's alive, Enver dares not to hope that she's telling the truth.
He had long since accepted her passing. He had let go of that attachment, if nothing else because he did not want Orin to see how she had shaken him.
How she had made a fool of them both.
He can't be sure exactly what happened to her, only that she was gone, and he was not going to beg Orin for details. She taunted him endlessly, dropping little scraps of information, no doubt hoping that he would cry for more, to try and see him laid low.
She was furious that it didn't work, that he denied her the satisfaction. His only solace is thinking that if the Urge could see him, she would be proud. He wouldn't allow Orin to make a mockery of her death by using it as a way to torment him. She was worth more than that.
He had been planning on betraying his allies before, but now it's personal. He relished at the thought of how he would massacre Orin, for what she had done.
Enver did not like to lose, and he especially did not like losing something he had long considered to be his. He only had her once, but it will have to be enough.
He vows that he will not fall for Orin’s tricks again.
But he finds that she is still as unpredictable as ever.
When he lays eyes on the Urge again, from the mind of his Steel Watcher, he has to pull away to hide his choke of disbelief.
She'd be disappointed at his show of weakness, especially in public.
He empties his mind and allows the politician to take over, inviting her and her ‘companions’ to his coronation.
He feels the phantom grip of her hands on his throat as soon as she appears before him, in the flesh.
Orin had mangled her, like she promised. She was no less glorious for it.
Her long dark hair is cut off at her shoulders, tucked behind her pointed ears, which she used to hate. She shows off the scars along her cheeks and neck with her hair pulled back, away from her face. One of her eyelids droops, possibly from the damage. She is severely underweight, but she stands straight and defiant. Her lips are cracked from travel, and she shows not an ounce of fear in her eyes.
Instead, they radiate distrust.
He goes to greet her, and she tilts her head in confusion when he addresses her so familiarly.
It's then he realizes the scope of what Orin has taken from him.
He reveals little information to her, superficial knowledge that might jumpstart her memory.
But he can tell that nothing he says resonates.
It feels awful.
“I see we have much to discuss,” he deflects, “Please, it would honor me if you stayed to witness my coronation, and afterwards, let me clear up some mysteries. We share so much history.”
He thought he couldn't be more surprised than he already is, but what happens next absolutely dumbfounded him.
The Urge moves minutely, and she flickers her eyes to her ‘companions,’ the Prism-Bearers, and he can tell they're all communicating with her, silently. One of them, a pale elf, even nods his head, as if giving permission, and he realizes that she is deferring to them.
Her voice drips with sarcasm as she finally answers, “The honor is all ours,” and the elf giggles. Enver wants to command his steel watchers to make him a smear on the floor.
When he is named Archduke, he smiles and refuses to feel anything other than triumph. He will not let Orin take this from him too.
—
He masks his surprise when she comes to his office with half her companions in tow. Does she not go alone anywhere anymore? Must they all be attached at the hip?
The elf is there again, along with a githyanki, and a familiar looking drow woman. He wonders what their dynamic must be, for the Urge to chose these three to accompany her.
“The invitation didn't extend to your guests,” he warns, and she tilts her head in consideration.
“Orin has already made a fool of me,” she starts, “I'm not about to let you do the same.”
There. A small spark of the woman he knows. Maybe all is not lost.
“I'm saying this out of good faith,” he smiles, “But a topic such as this is best said privately. I happen to be privy to some sensitive information.”
“Anything you have to say can be said in front of us all,” she doesn't budge, “No matter how sensitive.”
He grits his teeth.
“How fortunate that you have such close companions,” he tries his best to smile past his frustration, “But I'm not someone who likes to kiss and tell, so to speak. I'm afraid I'll have to get better acquainted with your friends before I start regaling them about how I used to fuck you on this desk.”
He says it to embarrass her. Hopeful that she'll be shocked enough to usher her little friends outside. Maybe it'll sow seeds of distrust between them.
She doesn't so much as bat an eye, and her companions don't react much either.
Only the insufferable pale elf, who is standing way too close to the Urge, moves. He grins, fluttering his eyelashes, and tilts his hips to lean closer to her. He whispers something conspiratorially into her ear, and she snorts.
Enver feels himself burning with jealousy.
“Fine,” she says, but she's not speaking to him. She's looking squarely at the elf.
“Thank you dear,” the elf says, “Don't do anything I would do,” he laughs, high pitched and haughty.
She turns to look at her friends depart, and waits for the door to click shut before she turns back to look at him.
She crosses her arms and asks her questions.
“Do you know who I am?” She begins.
He doesn't. This woman standing in front of him is a stranger, with only a spark of her former self left. But a part of him hopes.
Maybe it's enough. Maybe he can ignite that glorious bit of her.
This might be an opportunity, to salvage what he can, and build her back up again. But better.
More devoted to him, the benevolent link to her past.
“My nearest and dearest, my favorite assassin,” he tells her these honeyed words, hoping to prey on her weakness for praise. The praise she used to crave from her father, he can supply instead.
“We were more than allies, we were partners,” he tells her, “You were my closest friend, my confidant, and eventually, my lover,” he spins his tale.
“I was devastated when you went missing, and then Orin went and claimed she was the new Chosen, that Bhaal had disinherited you. I tolerated Orin, but it was you who I wanted by my side.”
“She attacked me at Moonrise Towers,” the Urge reveals, “and implanted a mind flayer tadpole into my skull. I woke up on a nautiloid with no memories, nothing of my past life,” she continues, “The only thing I had to go on was this terrible urge to kill.”
“Yes, I know,” he takes on a comforting note in his voice, “The Dark Urge, it was your title. Your name.”
She goes silent at that, and then reveals something new.
“Not anymore,” she says, “There was another name. In my head. I think it was my name before. Sceleritas didn't want to tell me either way, so I think I was right.” She pauses and says, “It's Talice.”
His immediate thought is that it's ill-fitting. The name does not suit her at all. Her demented butler was right to try and keep it from her.
“It is your name,” he says gently, confirming it like he knew all along, “You made me promise to never say it,” he lies.
“If we were so close,” she probes, suspicious, “Why didn't you look for me?”
Because it would have been weak. And he couldn't afford that weakness, not to Orin, and especially not to Bane. Weakness was not forgiven.
“We swore to stay out of each other's affairs,” he tells her, “We were the leaders of our own respective Temples, and worshipped different gods. As you were loyal to Bhaal, I am loyal to Bane. I promised to respect your wishes.” He lies, “I knew better than to meddle.”
“You knew better?” Her voice dips low, and the hair on the back of his neck rises.
“I thought you were dead,” he deflects, “And the last thing you would have wanted was for to me to stop the plan to look for your body. And I'm sorry for that,” he says, “I'm sorry that I didn't want to go digging for the corpse of my dead lover.”
She is silent. He takes it as a sign to continue, to narrate his role as the grieving paramour, to paint a picture of lost love.
“But you're here, now,” he says, “It's a miracle. A sign. Bane blesses our union, I'm sure if it. We can rule together, just like we planned. Together, we'll dominate the Elder Brain, and then the Sword Coast.”
He moves to reach her hand again, but she takes an immediate step back.
Her face is full of fury. He sees his hope about to flicker out like a dying flame.
“It wasn't a miracle,” she seethes, “And you are a liar.”
“I was there, in Moonrise,” she says, “I saw everything. I know you were there, Lord Gortash, while I rotted away in my own illithid pod, not even twenty feet away. I saw your little lab, your experiments on flayed minds. Did you cut me open too, Gortash? Did you contemplate putting my brain in a jar to keep?”
He freezes, a protest bubbling up in his throat, but it dies from the confusion, and another feeling that burns right through his chest.
He can't remember the last time she called him Gortash.
“How long did you let Orin keep me there, before you threw me away?” she half screams, “Did you both laugh at me, when she read my sorry confession, about what I felt for you? How I begged my father for forgiveness over my weakness?”
“When did you get bored of slicing me open, before you let Balthazar’s pets have my body? Did you celebrate when the worm took host in my brain? The first successful implantation? You see, Kressa told me everything. She was so proud, she was practically glowing,” she seethed.
He's reeling from the shock. The first successful implantation? He sees in her eyes she believes what she's saying, and if that was true-
Orin had staged her coup a lot earlier than he had initially thought. Maybe even the day after she left for Moonrise, the first and only time they lay together. He had been certain the betrayal came much later.
It meant that Orin had to have been masquerading as her for longer than a few days. He recalls glimpsing the Urge walking around Moonrise and retreating to the oubliette. He had just assumed she was too busy with her own experiments to spend much time with him, it wasn't out of character for her to get lost in her work. He had been busy too. There was still so much work to be done, and he barely had a moment to himself, let alone with her. And then she started acting suspicious. Finally Ketheric and him had confronted her and Orin had revealed herself. He couldn't be exactly sure just how long she paraded around in disguise, but he felt some level of shame for not realizing sooner.
He remembers Ketheric reporting back that all was fine in Moonrise, that the Urge had arrived on schedule and was diligently making progress with her own experiments. He didn't think the man would have any reason to lie. But he can't imagine Orin putting on that charade for months.
But Ketheric had always hated him more than Orin.
It would have been the strategic thing to do, in retrospect. Ketheric wasn't an idiot, and he was well aware that the Chosen of Bane and Bhaal had a close relationship. If he had sent word to Enver about Orin's betrayal, he would have risked the chance that Enver would retaliate, and the plan was in too delicate of a stage to risk open hostility.
It would have been a stroke of luck for Ketheric, to keep something vital from Enver, and replace his ally with someone he distrusted. Especially since they were all well aware that they were planning on betraying each other. Ketheric would have had the upper hand in that regard.
He didn't think the old man had it in him.
Even so.
How could have Orin fooled him so completely?
“Apparently I'm a lot of people's favorites,” she continues, “I was Kressa’s favorite body to cut into. Everyday, she cut me open and stitched me back together. Playing with my insides, I guess that's something you two have in common. But at least she cried when I left,” the Urge laughs, voice twisted.
“Stop,” he says, “You are misunderstanding, I can explain everything if you would just be silent,” he tries to sound commanding. Bane grant me steel, he prays. It would have worked on his subordinates, and maybe her, once.
But no longer.
“Stop lying to me,” she threatens, “Or I will walk out that door, and the next time you see me it will be to rip out your deceitful tongue.”
Oh, how dare she threaten him.
“I couldn't look for you, don't you understand?” He almost shouts, “Bane would have never permitted it. It would have shown weakness, and he does not allow it,” his voice gets louder, “But I swear, if I had found you, I would have brought you home.”
Suddenly, there is only silence. The air is tense between them, and he regrets shouting. “I didn't know you were there,” he confesses.
The sudden silence makes his ears ring.
“A wall separated us,” she reiterates, “And I was tortured, for months, while you were down the fucking hall. Just a three minute walk away.”
“I don't believe we were ever lovers, because you would have heard me screaming and recognized it,” she spits, “Unless the sex was so bad you never made me scream. Astarion never has any trouble with tha-”
Enver moves, and suddenly he has her in his arms, but he's slamming her into a wall, as she kicks and scratches his hands bloody. He's so close he can smell her, but she doesn't smell the same anymore.
Astarion was a traditional elvish name.
“You better not be fucking that elf,” he warns, “Because I will gut him, chest to naval.”
“Try it,” she smiles, demented, and he knows that smile, “I dare you to try it. I hope you do. He'll rip your throat out with his teeth. I've seen him do it-”
“My darling says such sweet things about me,” a voice cuts her off, and there's a dagger pressed against Enver’s neck.
Is it-?
Is it that fucking elf?
“Now, as entertaining as this has been,” he continues, voice sickening Enver down to his gut, “You should let her go, before we both do something I won't regret,” and he giggles again.
How he longs to slit his throat, and hear his blood bubble from his mouth.
Instead, he gentle releases Talice, and raises his hands in mock surrender.
“There we go,” the elf sings, “Now we're all friends again~”
“Thank you love,” she says, like it's nothing. Like it's easy.
She looks back at Enver, and he's slowly starting to realize.
All the hard work he had put in to break down her walls, to unearth the girl she could have been, had she not been born a bhaalspawn.
She is here.
And he had never known that girl at all. Everything about her is different. She doesn't even stand the same, smell the same.
Not even the clothes she wears resemble her. Where she once favored red, she is adorned in greens, pale blues, and gold.
She stands before him, happier and braver than he has ever seen her.
And it's such a waste .
“Orin wants me to kill you,” she says, “So far, I see no reason why I shouldn't,” she threatens.
“You need me, and don't forget, my Steel Watchers won't let you leave here alive if you turn against me,” he warns, “You might have Ketheric’s stone, but you can't control the Elder Brain alone. Once it's finished with it's current orders, it will start breaking free. Right now, the only thing that's keeping you from turning into a mind flayer is the Prism, but that won't work forever. And Orin will never agree to ally with you. I'm your best chance,” he lets his honesty pour over his words, “She wants you dead, but I still want you by my side. My ally.”
She is silent, and she looks over at the elf again, Astarion, and they're communicating, without opening their mouths.
After a few beats, she nods, and turns to look at him, eyes fierce and full of conviction.
“I will call on you again,” she says, like she's the one in charge, “And I will tell you what we decide.”
With that, her and the elf vanish, likely from an invisibility spell. And Enver stands in his domain, shocked still, until he is sure they are gone.
The silence stretches, and he walks over to one of the busts he has decorated in his study, picks it up, and smashes it against the floor, wishing that she was still here so that he could bludgeon her to death with it.
—-