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"Well," the Urge says. Their tongue flicks out, broad and flat, a thin ribbon of flesh at the tip, and it licks at the air once before disappearing back inside their mouth. He's always been fascinated by their mouth, the violet-tinged flesh within, the deep azure color of their tongue, all contrasted so beautifully with the shimmering white of their scales. "Well, well. What have we here?"
Enver's own mouth twitches. There's a near-palpable excitement in the Urge's voice, a shiver, like when they're casting, that one can nearly sense in the air. A vibration. Their tail has begun to twitch back and forth like a cat's, and they've angled their head in such a way that they have to turn it back and forth to examine him, one eye at a time, like a bird. Like a dragon.
All of this, and he's provoked it merely by stripping naked and lying on the floor.
It had started a few weeks ago, when the idea had first implanted itself in his brain. 'The exquisite tranquility of a corpse,' the Urge had said in passing. They're eloquent at the best of times, a far cry from their 'sister,' Orin, but this had been said with a hushed reverence usually reserved for those kneeling before an altar. He had never even heard them talk about Bhaal that way, their own god and father; the Urge was, if anything, very matter-of-fact about their deity, and followed the god's orders with calculated poise. To hear their voice go quiet and somber like that had given him pause, but only just. Then it had been back to business, orchestrating their little heist into the Hells.
A few days had passed, and it had come up again, this time as the Urge had stood over the smoldering body of a cambion. "Is he not so perfect in death?" the Urge had whispered, and Enver had taken a closer look at the creature, and was forced to admit that, yes, there was a...he wasn't prepared to say beauty, but there had been a composure, there, that the thing had not had in life. All of its muscles had gone slack, its eyes, sightless, staring up into the freezing, vaulted ceilings of Mephistopheles' tower. The Urge had been staring at it, at its deep blue skin, at the strange handsomeness of its face, and he had felt...
Jealousy. He had felt jealous of the thing. Of a corpse.
Afterwards, returned to their own plane and flush with victory, the Crown secure in their possession, Enver had waited until Ketheric had retired to his own quarters in Enver's upper city manor, and then it had just been him, and the Dark Urge, their eyes poison yellow and focused on him as he had said, "Wait, my dear. I wanted to talk to you about something."
What he had wanted to talk about was their mouth, and their tongue, and the ridged strangeness of their horns, and the noises they made as he had yanked their robe to the side and fastened his mouth to their neck, where all the brilliantly opalescent scales smoothed into something more approaching skin. What he had wanted to talk about was how they looked, stripped of all their clothes, both bestial and humanoid, and the flat little slit between their legs that he had stroked with his thumb until, shuddering, they had relaxed muscles he didn't even know they had, and their prick had started to peek out from inside them.
They had talked about quite a lot that night, but what they hadn't talked about was the corpses, the exquisite stillness of them, and he can't stop thinking about it. The look in the Urge's eyes. Reverent in a way that Enver has yearned for since he was a child, and first understood that men could be worshiped as gods.
Which has brought him here. Naked, on the floor of his bedroom, which is, at the very least, comfortable, with all of the plush Calishite rugs he's imported strewn about like indolent sleepers. He gives up on hiding his smirk. The Urge knows him better than almost anyone. "A patriarch," he purrs, "killed by the Chosen of Bhaal," and he holds very, very still. He has, in hindsight, picked a quite tricky position to lie in, one leg cocked coquettishly out to better display his cock, his arms above his head to highlight his chest. He had wanted to be a pretty corpse, not merely exquisite in its stillness, but exquisite in all ways. He's bathed, even, and spent a lovely thirty minutes working his oiled fingers into his arse, which he thinks most corpses wouldn't have the forethought to do.
The Urge paces around him, the click of their taloned feet muffled by the soft rugs. They haven't bathed recently, and he can smell them, the lightning of their magic and the old, dried stink of blood. Whether it's theirs or someone else's is anyone's guess, but it's a scent he's become accustomed to. Ketheric smells like tombs, dry and dusty, and the Dark Urge smells like blood. It is, he supposes, his civic duty to try and touch them as often as he can, to rub some of his colognes and soaps off onto them, but like all of his fine Calishite rugs only cover the hard, stone floors beneath, there is only so much that second-hand perfumes can do to hide the stench of blood.
"I see," the Urge says. Their tongue flicks out again, quicker, excited. It takes a great effort, on his part, to remain still. He has always prided himself on being an active lover, involved, attentive to his partners. Giving someone what they want, after all, is the first step towards dominating them. That he must now watch the Urge circle him, like a vulture around carrion, and he cannot move, and he can barely breathe, constricted by the bounds of the game he has started...
Maddening. Intriguing.
"And how long has this patriar been dead?" the Urge asks. They stop their pacing, instead crouching down beside him and hovering one clawed finger along his cheek. The ghost of a caress. This close, the blood-stink is stronger. Worked into the cracks between their scales, perhaps, or maybe this is just...how they smell. He can't recall a time when they haven't had, at the very least, a faint whiff of sanguine about them. A muscle in his thigh twitches from holding still for so long, threatening to cramp; he forces it to relax. If a Chosen of Bane cannot exercise control over his own body, he despairs for the future of their plans...but the cramp quiets, and the Urge seems just as interested as before. He wracks his mind for an appropriate response. He, unlike his companions, prefers to deal with the living.
"Four days," he murmurs. The Urge rocks backwards onto their heels, tongue caught briefly between their front teeth as they hiss.
"Eugh," they say. "Bloated. Smelly."
Not the right answer, then. They have shown a marked preference for fresh corpses, haven't they? He thinks of the cambion in Cania, wounds still oozing slushy blood as its heart had given a few final, gasping beats, and how the Dark Urge had stood over it for several seconds after that, eyes fever-bright and focused. He tries again.
"Twenty-four hours?" he offers, and the Urge tilts their head, once again predatory, raptor-like.
"Perfect," they breathe. "Stiffness will have set in by this point, but the skin...the skin is still loose. Pliable." They crouch over him, looming, from this position, and he's only human, after everything, still only a man; his heart gives a single, painful thump, before settling again. Fear, for just an instant, snagging its claws into him.
He has learned that fear, at a certain angle, tends to look almost exactly the same as worship.
The Urge drops to their knees, the soft material of their trousers brushing his side as they crowd closer to him, leaning down into his space and inhaling deeply, noisily. Enver holds still, but in that stillness he is made more sharply aware of all the things his body is doing without his permission: sweat beads at his armpits, along his brow, at the crease of his thighs, and he must breathe, still, so his chest rises in shallow, stilted motions. The Urge puts their broad palm in the center of it, claws scratching through his chest hair, drawing little lines of fire across his skin. They watch as his nipples pebble up, whether from the touch or the cool air, he isn't certain.
"Right after death," the Urge murmurs, "there is a period of time when bodies will still twitch, and quiver. If you prod the right places..." A claw scrapes over his nipple, and Enver shudders. "...it is almost as if they are not dead at all. But they are. It is only the last death throes of their brains, struggling. If you're careful, the brain will be the last thing to die. You can watch them suffocate in their own skulls."
Enver says nothing. He is, at this moment, playing a corpse, albeit a very handsome one, one with oil coating its arsehole and a slowly-hardening cock against its thigh. It gives him a strange sort of freedom. He's not expected to do anything except lie here and be moved, and acted upon; he doubts that most corpses would get quite so much titillation out of necrophilia, but he's quite enjoying himself. It forces him to be more aware of what is being done to him.
Currently, that is the Urge's sharp claws continuing to flick over first one nipple, and then the other, until both are red and tight and tingling, and there's even a tiny spot of blood glimmering just through, where, in their excitement, they pressed too hard. He can only just barely see it if he rolls his eyes downwards, but it appears to have caught the Urge's attention and held it, because they growl, deep and animal, and bend their head down to begin licking at the tiny wound. Their tongue is nothing like a human's, nearly silken in texture and flexible in a way that he has previously quite enjoyed, and which he now enjoys again, as it flicks and laps until the bleeding, scant as it already was, has stopped. Then it drags over the nipple that the Urge had been tormenting, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from hissing, from demanding more, touch me, damn you, more.
The Urge leans back after only a second of teasing, licking their lips with exaggerated care. "In the first day..." They swing their legs over him, holding themselves up on their knees so that they make no contact with his stiffening cock. Their tail still wags slowly, back and forth, and periodically he feels the tip of it scraping against his calves, raising gooseflesh in its wake. "...a body will not rot, not yet. It is still dying. The guts die, and release all of their contents, and the blood dies, becoming cold and thick. The muscles die, growing...stiff." They hold his gaze as they lower themselves, slowly, rubbing along the whole length of him, soft robes dragging against his chest, soft trousers frotting against his prick. Enver bites his tongue again to hold back a moan, and tastes the metal tang of fresh blood.
"Mm," the Urge hums, and reaches down between them, finding Enver's prick with their smooth-skinned palm and giving it a single stroke. "Yes, the muscles grow very stiff." He would laugh, in any other situation – such tawdry pillow talk is usually a source of amusement to him, not arousal – but it is the way the Urge says it that gives him pause, and makes his blood heat, and makes his cock twitch in their hand. They say it with...with confidence. With satisfaction. It makes him wonder if there have been others before him, others who were, perhaps, not playing at being corpses.
Far from provoking disgust, he feels the same hot surge of jealousy that he had felt when he had looked at that blasted cambion. Then the Urge gives him another slow, even stroke, and the acidic discontent melts away. It's not the cambion currently lying on his bedroom floor, it's him, and the Dark Urge kneeling over him, eyes wide and fascinated, horns and scales gleaming in the low candlelight. Oh, they are stunning like this, a sleek, devouring thing, and he can see why Bhaal chose a Dragonborn as his progeny, for what creature is more devastating than a dragon?
The Dark Urge hums again, wordless, and lets go of him in order to run their palms along his sides. It leaves his cock aching, fallen against his thigh; he can't see it, but he can imagine how flushed it must be, how swollen, the foreskin pulled back to expose the blood-darkened head. He doesn't expect it to be touched any further tonight; a corpse has no need for release.
"You would make such a beautiful corpse," the Urge whispers. They stroke softly up his sides, tickling along his ribcage with their claws, and then back down again to cup his hips. "I would make such art out of you. Preserve your lovely face as much as possible, but the rest...I think. I would open you up here." Their claw skates down the center of his chest, and then outwards, mimicking wings..or flaps. "I would be so, so careful, Enver. I would keep you very cold at first, so that your blood would thicken, and wouldn't make a mess. I know you hate a mess."
He does. It comes of growing up poor, he suspects, that even now, so many years later, he cannot abide the feeling of being dirty. One only needs to contract lice once in order to decide that it must never happen again. That the Urge has internalized this, however, makes him feel...
Well. It makes him feel. And isn't that something?
"I would cut here," the Urge says. "And here. And then spread you open, so I could reach your ribs. And then I would cut them, very slowly, so I could open them. There is a specific saw that one can use to cut bone, you know. Smaller. Lighter. No need to disturb anything else, but when I opened you, there it would be. Do you know what it is, Enver?"
He wants to arch his back, to press closer, to wrap his arms around those broad, cool shoulders and demand to be fucked, or to drag their head down and feed his prick into their mouth, between all those gleaming, sharp teeth. He does none of this. He holds still, and stays quiet. The denial is, in itself, a sort of pleasure; his cock is throbbing, and he's acutely aware of how empty he feels.
"Your heart," the Dark Urge breathes. They lean down, pressing their forehead to his; their breath mists across his mouth, sharp with cold, but no hint of blood. For him, they wash out their mouth before taking him to bed. For him, they remove blood-soiled clothes and scrub underneath their claws before they touch him. For him. There's not a corpse in the world that can say the same.
He doesn't know if a creature like the Dark Urge can feel things other than bloodlust, but he flatters himself that, if they can, they feel those things for him.
"I want your heart to stay in your chest," the Urge says. "I want to look at it as I open you up on my fingers. I would trim my claws, to make sure that every other part of you is pristine...no messy blood, just for you. Just me and your heart, face to face as I fuck you. Watching it shift and bounce in your chest cavity. Still moving for me. And if I was very quick, if I was very careful...maybe there would be a bit of your brain still alive." They lift themselves up, and for a moment he's worried that he's somehow done something to ruin the game, sweated too much or moved accidentally...but now, they're just loosening the tie on their trousers, haphazardly shoving it down enough to expose their vent, already swollen-lipped and pouting open. He can just see the tip of their cock emerging, a deep, indigo blue surrounded by violet-tinged pink flesh. They sigh as the cool air hits them, and a bit more of their cock slides free, not human at all, a narrow-tipped thing that flares wider and wider until it reaches a thick, firm base; he has fond memories of that cock inside him, and fond memories, too, of them lying beneath him, panting and groaning as he'd fucked into their vent, just beneath the fat base of their prick, and inside they'd been hot, hotter than a forge, searing him down to cinders.
They lean back down, and this time it's to kiss him, clumsy and earnest, open-mouthed, tongue prying his lips apart and slipping between his teeth. He plays his role, no matter how much he wants to react, to sink his teeth into that silk-strong tongue, more, harder, gods damn you, and he's rewarded with a whimper from them. Bhaal's chosen, mewling like a kitten because they want to fuck his corpse so badly. Give them what they want, and you own them forever.
"I want that to be the last thing you know." They fumble their hands lower, grabbing hold of his thigh and hiking it up towards his chest, exposing him to the chill of their scales and the pulsing heat of their cock. He almost wishes for a mirror, vain thing that he is, so that he could see the color difference, that sullen blue slickness against the twitching pink skin of his hole. Alas, it's not to be, and the next thing he feels is the tip of the Urge's cock touching him, and then sinking slowly in, a little bit at a time. It's so fucking much, and the gasp slips out from behind his teeth, lingers there in the hot space between their mouths; heat flushes from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, embarrassment at being caught out, but the Dark Urge throws their head back in rapturous bliss, exposing the pale, soft swan's column of their throat.
"Yes," they hiss, and sink a bit deeper, rocking their hips in painfully slow increments. "Yes, some bit of you still alive and knowing, trapped and looking at me, the last thing you ever know, not pain or pleasure or sound, just me. Every other part of you dead meat, but this...!" They let go of his leg, necessitating a bit of quick thinking on his part, made more difficult by how pleasure is sparking fireworks off behind Enver's eyes. They are so big, long and thick, touching places inside him that he's only ever been able to reach with the aid of toys before, and his prick leaks and twitches where it's trapped against his belly, caught under the Dark Urge's weight as they push a bit further inside, and with both hands seize the sides of his skull, and cradle him as they peer directly into his eyes.
"This," they say again. Quiet. Worshipful. "Your mind. Focused on nothing but me."
They give one more fierce push, too fast, too much, but the pain is perfect. Incandescent. He shudders all over as they seat themselves, the wide base of their cock plugging him unbearably full and drawing another hissing gasp from him. If the Dark Urge minds, they don't speak it; they keep their palms framing his skull, holding him as carefully as a newborn as Enver wraps his legs around their waist, hikes himself up to try and keep them inside him as they set a quick, punishing rhythm. Their hips slap his arse, the scales chafing the soft undersides of his thighs, catching at his hair, each new pinprick of sensation making him harder, more desperate. He's given up entirely on playing dead, caught, as he always is, in the whirlwind that is Bhaal's chosen, in their energy, not like a mortal thing but like a storm, scouring him bloody until nothing remains but his ambition and their viciousness.
"Harder," he gasps, breaking his silence, and they make a deep, bellowing sound low in their throat, like an alligator, a grunt that vibrates his bones and goes down to the very heart of him. "Harder, damn you."
A chuckle rumbles against his throat, and the Urge licks a long stripe there, all the way up to his ear. "Anything," they hiss, "anything for you, my beautiful corpse, my tyrant, only say the word and I will make you eternal."
He doesn't need to ask what sort of eternity the Dark Urge offers; he's seen it in their little lair under the city, seen the mummified, skewered remains of Orin's mother, one arm crossed over her chest to display the perfectly bloodless stump where a hand once was. Still, the thought that they would keep him, forever, displayed and perfect in their eyes when every other body has been ripped apart, a glorious sacrifice to their father...
Enver shudders again, and comes with a short, harsh shout, pulses of spend warm across his belly as the Urge snarls their pleasure against his throat. They fuck him harder in response, bending him nearly in half, pressing him down into the plush pile of the rug and forcing punctured gasps from him, desperate ahs as their cock pierces him through. His own softening prick gives a feeble little twitch, the pleasure of his peak swiftly turning too much, fiery insect bites along his nerve endings, yet thrilling because he is doing it, he is standing in the eye of the storm, the winds tearing at him, threatening to flay him down to nothing, and yet...
He turns his head, pressing a tender kiss to the curve of the Dark Urge's brow. "My dear," he whispers, and with a stilted cry they shove as deeply into him as they can, their prick twitching as jets of startlingly-hot seed begin to fill him. Shivers wrack them as he reaches languidly up, stroking their horns with his fingertips, flittering down to follow the ridge of their brows, the surprising-soft corner of their eye. When he touches their mouth, they don't so much as growl; when he slips a finger inside to stroke their tongue, as silk to the touch of his hand as it had been in his own mouth, they remain pliant, made groggy and supine with pleasure. Made tame with little more than a single word and a bit of clever planning, a beautiful, leashed attack dog.
Enver continues to stroke their face, until the Urge's breathing has calmed, and their cock has begun to soften in him, and his legs no longer feel like a newborn lamb's. When they slip free of him he hisses at the sting, the sudden cold, the emptiness, and the Dark Urge cracks open one eye, their pupil a huge dot of ink in a poison sea.
"I could make that better," they offer, solicitous now that they've taken their pleasure. They tug free of his grasp, eeling down Enver's body and laying between his legs, watching with fascination as their spend drips out, painting Enver's thighs and arse slick and shiny.
"You are allowing the rug to be ruined," he chides, and the Urge clicks their tongue at him.
"Your fault," they say, "for making such an enticing corpse." Then they bend their head, and he feels their tongue, strong and nimble, lap over his hole. It makes him hiss in startled discomfort, which softens into a sigh as they work their tongue deeper into him, fastidiously licking out their own seed. After a few moments of this he sighs again.
"What would you do with it?" he asks, and the Dark Urge gives his hole one more lap before they lift their head, tongue running across their lips.
"It?" they ask, blinking slowly. Enver nearly leaves it there. Nearly doesn't ask. It's not worth knowing, after all – it doesn't change anything. But still...
"My heart." He curls his legs around their shoulders again, more for his own comfort than theirs. He's been holding still for quite some time, after all. "What would you do with it, after you'd fucked the last breath out of me?"
In the firelight, their eyes look less yellow, and almost gold. Like a true dragon's eyes, perhaps.
"I would eat it," the Dark Urge says. "And your heart would become a part of me, and you would never leave me."
Then they lower their head, resting it against his belly, that most exposed and defenseless part of him, their teeth poised mere inches from a half-dozen different vital organs, all of which would surely kill him if they only opened their mouth and bit...
...but they don't. They lie there, quietly, listening to the constant workings of his insides through the thin shell of his skin.
A leash, by necessity, goes both ways, he thinks. What is it that you want, Enver?
He cups a hand to the curve of their horn, and says nothing.