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Gortash is making a mistake.
He knows this.
He’s being short sighted. Impulsive.
But, even as he reflects on the haphazard and poorly thought out way he landed himself in this situation, he can hardly find it in himself to regret a thing as Wyll Ravengard sinks to his knees before him.
—
Gortash is used to being rebuffed by Grand Duke Ravengard. He’s well acquainted with the feeling of being turned away; with having nobles turn their nose at him despite being inferior to him in every way except status. He knows that his presence at Grand Duke Ravengard’s charity gala had been far from a failure—he’d planted a seed of doubt in the mind of another Duke’s wife, the one who’d been digging too deeply into his affairs recently. Hells, he even managed to earn the favour of another Lady’s closest advisor.
But still, his skin itched. It was a feeling that refused to go away the entire night. And the itch had burst into full blown hives when he lay his eyes on Grand Duke Ravengard’s son, Wyll Ravengard. Later, Gortash would realize that the boy had set him off with his careless, yet genuine smile—one that only a boy who had known no hardship could offer.
It irritated him to no end to see a boy like Wyll, one who had been born with a silver spoon in hand, squandering his blessings by standing off in the corner at one of the most attended galas in the entirety of Baldur’s Gate. In a haze, Gortash remembered approaching the boy with a carefree smile of his own.
“Wyll Ravengard, is it? The tales are true, you really are the spitting image of your father.”
“I’m flattered, but I can only hope that I will be able to live up to his image.”
It was simple enough to find the buttons he needed to press in order to get closer to the boy. It shouldn’t have been easy, though. The boy should have known better than to wear his ambitions and his ideals on his sleeve like that, and disdain had pushed Gortash into grabbing the Grand Duke’s son by the wrist, barely taking a moment to savour the panic that flashed through the boy’s eyes before pulling him in close to whisper poison into his ear.
“I have heard whispers that a cult of Tiamat is forming in the underbelly of Baldur’s Gate. Until recently, I thought it a mere rumour. But now, I’ve found concrete proof.”
“Why tell me this? Why not report it directly to my father?”
“They have powerful connections, Wyll. I was able to uncover much when infiltrating one of their bases, but the full scope of their operations is lost to me. All I know is that they have powerful connections—perhaps even as high up as the Grand Duke’s inner circle. He has been blinded by his trust to his advisors, and I need a fresh set of eyes to work with me on this.”
“How dare you—”
“Trust me, Wyll. I would not be making such a heavy accusation if I did not believe there to be some truth to it. As his son, you have a better perspective on the Grand Duke and his cohort than most—but we mustn’t discuss this here. Come, let us find somewhere more private.”
It was far from his best lie, but Wyll was nothing if not incredibly naive—yet another reason to feed Gortash’s irresistible urge to have the boy ruined in every sense of the way—and had given in with the slightest amount of coaxing. It had been a delight to witness the typhoon of emotions that flooded across Wyll’s boyish features in rapid succession—confusion at the accusation, then anger at the blatant disrespect to his father, and finally fear that Gortash might be telling the truth.
And oh, how sweet it had been to see Wyll’s brows knitted with confusion and to feel the skin under his hand grow damp with sweat. Beneath the perfect guise of the perfect noble heir of Baldur’s Gate was a pathetic, simpering little boy, one plagued by his own insecurities and a reckless desire to prove himself in his father’s eyes.
“Okay, I shall follow you. But know this, Lord Gortash. If what you tell me ends up being unsubstantiated, you shall face my full wrath for disrespecting the Grand Duke’s name.”
None of this was in service of his grander schemes for Baldur’s Gate. Worse even, there was little he could do with the situation to garner favour from Bane either, for control over the Grand Duke’s son amounted to little if the boy was going to end the night with his memory wiped with a spell. And yet, even knowing all that, Gortash still made the decision to lead Wyll to a private study tucked away in the corner of the estate, far away from the main banquet hall.
—
It’s dark in the room, but a quick snap of his fingers ignites the lighter nestled within the intricate machinery of his gauntlet and allows him to light the singular lantern in the room. It’s still dim, but there’s enough light now that Gortash can take in the tantalising sight of Wyll’s worst nightmares made reality. The harsh shadows casted by the candle light do little to conceal the soft baby fat that still clings to Wyll’s face. If anything, the contrast only serves to make him look even more naive and foolishly doe eyed.
Wyll stands in the middle of the room, trying his best to look brave but failing miserably due to the near imperfections trembling of his hands. He’s too busy racing through all the possible outcomes of this encounter that he likely doesn’t notice it when Gortash locks the door behind him. Gortash is so repulsed by the display of weakness that he cares little if the tingling in his bones came from his God’s disapproval or if there’s another presence watching the two of them as he lays out his terms:
“I shall tell you all that I know, but first you need to do me a favour. You see, dearest Wyll, everything comes at a price,” he says, taking a step forward. Wyll, as expected, matches his movement with a step backward. “And your father has failed you in allowing you to grow far too comfortable with receiving information for free.”
“The price of things is determined by how desperately the other party wants it,” Gortash continues with another step forward, then another, and another until Wyll’s back hits the wall opposite the door. “How great is your desire to save your city from this potential threat?”
Wyll takes the time to mull over Gortash’s words even with his back against a literal wall. Admittedly, it earns the boy a bit of respect in his eyes, but it wasn’t nearly enough to convince Gortash to back off.
“More than scum like you would ever understand,” Wyll spits out. His eyes blaze with brightly righteous fury, but the flames are quickly tamped out by Gortash’s lack of a reaction.
“You misunderstand me, Wyll. I, too, wish to save the city. Why else would I be offering this information to you? This city is as much my home as it is yours.”
Wyll grits his teeth at that, and it’s an achingly familiar sight to the expression he’d made at his own parents as they bargained his soul away to a warlock.
“Fine, then. What is it you want from me?”
Gortash allows himself to smile for the second time that night, and cruelly enough, this one is far more genuine than the first one he had offered the boy.
“Kneel.”
“What? I don’t—” Wyll’s eyes widen with confusion, and it sends a cheap thrill up Gortash’s spine. He never fails to derive satisfaction from his prey realizing that they’ve trapped themselves in his corner with no way out other than to go through him.
“Understand? On the contrary,” Gortash continues where Wyll had cut himself off. “You’re a clever boy. I’m sure you know how to get on your knees.”
The boy looks terrified as he slowly sinks to his knees. Gortash clicks his tongue at that, pleased at not having to force the boy down there. Wyll’s eyes are wide and skittish, darting constantly to the window, then the bedroom door as if he has any chance of escape. His hands are curled up in his lap, prim and polite. Wyll would make for the perfect picture of nobility in that moment were it not for the golden claws pressing into his jaw.
“A mouth such as your is wasted on you.” Gortash scowls. “Perhaps I ought to cut your tongue out and keep it for myself. At least then it will see more use than where it is currently.”
“How many opportunities have you wasted? How is it that you continue to live in the lap of luxury when you’ve done nothing to earn your place?” Gortash digs his clawed fingers into Wyll’s tender flesh, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to earn him a startled gasp from the boy. It’s almost deafening in the quiet of the room, and when it’s paired with the audible spark on Wyll’s heart rate, Gortash feels ever-more encouraged to ruin him.
“It is time you make the first real exchange of your life and accept all the consequences that come with furthering your ambitions. Now, open.” Gortash releases Wyll’s jaw for long enough to press his fingers into the boy’s mouth, prying his mouth open and holding it there as he slowly undoes the laces to his pants with his other hand.
If the panic hadn’t set in before, it was truly beginning to sink in for Wyll now. With his mouth stuffed full of metal and flesh to the point of nearly gagging, it’s impossible for him to bite down, let alone scream for help. Gortash has Wyll’s head beached against the wall as he fishes himself out, half hard from the acrid scent of Wyll’s terror alone.
“You’ll want to do a good job at this now, Wyll,” Gortash says as he nudges the blunt head of his cock against Wyll’s upper lip. “The better you do, the easier the next part will be.”
Wyll’s throat flutters around his clawed fingers, almost ticklish with how the muscle reflexively clamps in fear. He suppresses an indulgent groan at the sensation and rocks his hips forward, replacing his fingers and burying himself to the hilt in the young Ravengard’s throat.
Wyll’s clasped hands fly up to Gortash’s thighs, palms slamming against them as he fights against the intrusion in his mouth. Already tears prick at the corners of his soft eyes, torn apart with full blown panic. He pushes, and pushes, but there’s little leverage for him to take advantage of, not when Gortash only needs to lean forward for Wyll to lose all ground.
Wyll is awful at it of course, and Gortash doubts the boy has done anything other than kiss other boys and girls his age. There’s barely any suction other than his poor attempts at suppressing his gag reflex and he doesn’t know how to tuck his teeth under his lips so as to not graze the sensitive flesh in his mouth. Gortash doesn’t mind it though, likely to the boy’s despair—he himself has been with far teethier individuals, after all.
It’s fascinating to watch as Wyll learns how to navigate the once simple task of breathing with a wrench thrown into the mix—his eyes are just over the edge of being dangerously glassy when he finally realizes he has to seal his lips around the cock in his mouth before he can take a sharp inhale through his nose.
Perhaps a well timed praise would do the both of them some good, but Gortash settles for gripping the base of Wyll’s throat instead. Beneath all the metal of his claws is Wyll’s fluttering pulse, so alive and full of fear as Gortash pushes deeper still, forcing Wyll to bury his nose in the thick thatch of hair at the base. Spit spills from Wyll’s mouth and tears stain his full cheeks; his eyes are red from crying and the noises he’s making are growing raspier by the second.
But just as Wyll was getting used to the feeling of Gortash in his mouth, a few misplaced swallows brings Gortash to full hardness and suddenly there’s even less room to breathe. Gortash watches, amused as Wyll’s eyes roll into the back of his head and his fingers dig into his thighs. The poor thing is gagging on his own spit and Gortash’s thick cock, unable or perhaps unwilling to breathe through the skin of Gortash’s groin nestled right against his nose.
Just as Wyll’s broken noises reach their fever pitch, Gortash pulls out to the very tip, savouring the wet, velvety drag of the young Ravengard’s mouth. He fully intends to force himself back in, but before he can, Wyll spits out Gortash’s dick and begins coughing violently. The sound echoes against the walls of the tiny study, visceral and unsettling to any sane person’s ears. Wyll dry heaves, and it’s the sweetest sound Gortash has heard all night.
Gortash wraps a hand around himself and gives his cock an experimental tug. Pleasure shivers through his nerves, the glide of his gauntlet aided solely by the spit that dribbles out of Wyll’s mouth and splatters onto the floor.
“This will do. Stand up and turn around.” Although he’s coated in saliva, it’s sure to dry by the time he gets to what he has in mind—not that Wyll is exactly cognizant enough to recognize that.
Wyll blinks at him, dazed and confused as he struggles to his feet. He seems to remember himself then—
—and tries to make a break for the door.
He doesn’t get very far, though. He’s unsteady on his legs and half out of his mind as he lunges forward. All Gortash has to do really is step out of the way and watch as the boy goes crashing to the floor. The boy barely reacts to the impact of it before he’s crawling forwards on his hands and knees, and for that Gortash allows Wyll to reach the door before putting a stop to his escape attempt.
Gortash brings his foot down hard on Wyll’s back. He knows exactly how much force is needed to bruise ribs rather than break them, but in his excitement he nearly crosses that line several times over. He relents just in time to leave what he suspects will be hairline fractures along Wyll’s ribs before leaning down to whisper directly in his ear, digging his heel in as he does.
“Wyll, Wyll, Wyll. Are you really about to run before I’ve even told you what it is I know?” Gortash says, dragging a single clawed finger down Wyll’s spine. Perhaps he ought to strip the boy entirely, if only to see the gooseflesh that has surely arisen underneath his chemise. “The city’s livelihood is at stake here. Surely you can hold on for a bit longer.”
“Or perhaps,” Gortash muses aloud as he trails hand back up to grip at the base of Wyll’s skull, careful to not ruin the delicately braised hair there, “you’re just as much of a spineless coward as Ulder is.”
“Get his name out of your mouth,” Wyll curses Gortash, but the weight of it is lost entirely due to the way his voice quavers around the syllables. “You don’t deserve to call this city your home.”
“Settle down now, we’re almost finished.” Gortash soothes Wyll by gently scratching his clawed fingers against Wyll’s scalp in a way he knows makes people shiver with delight. Just as expected, Wyll leans into the touch one moment and utterly horrified the next at how his body betrays him.
Were he in a more sadistic mood, Gortash would’ve kept the gauntlet on as he pulls Wyll’s bottoms and britches down, exposing his bare flank and pulling the cheeks apart. Instead though, the only thing that touches Wyll’s tight hole is his bare fingers, and they’re coated in the small amount of saliva he was able to pull from his dick after fucking Wyll’s mouth.
It isn’t going to be enough, but Gortash thinks he prefers it that way.
In order to stop Wyll from squirming away, Gortash plants his other, still clawed hand against the dip of Wyll’s back. The boy is drawn tighter than a bowstring, and his body trembles with tension.
“How familiar are you with this?” Gortash asks, rubbing his fingers against Wyll’s rim to coax the other into relaxing just enough for him to push the tip of his index finger in.
Wyll hisses at the intrusion, and just as predicted, immediately tries to buck Gortash off. His struggling is met with the insistent press of Gortash’s hand against his back, shoving him flatter against the tiled floor. His insolence is answered in kind when Gortash pushes his index finger in all the way, hardly giving Wyll any time to adjust.
“I asked you a question, Wyll.” Gortash tuts disapprovingly, rubbing the dry tip of his finger against Wyll’s walls just to feel the boy squirm in pain.
“I don’t, I’ve never—” Wyll gasps out, the sound wet and broken as he no doubt begins crying once more. “Please, no more—someone, help, please—”
"Save your breath, Wyll. No one can hear you here." Gortash interrupts. He was never particularly interested in Wyll’s answer, really. In fact, under normal circumstances Wyll might stutter and blush at the question before saying that he’s waiting to meet someone special first.
How utterly dull.
It’s far more entertaining to hear Wyll choke around his words as a second finger joins the first. The pain must certainly be bordering on unbearable at this point, but still Wyll does not scream. Gortash scissors his fingers apart, relishing in the way it causes Wyll to tremble as white hot pain undoubtedly surges through every fibre of his being. He resumes his rubbing and prodding at Wyll’s walls, inching ever closer to the spot that makes even the proudest of men collapse in on themselves.
It should feel good, but when your as wracked with pain as Wyll is, having your prostate stimulated will have him begging for it to stop—so naturally, Gortash does exactly that.
He curls his fingers towards Wyll’s stomach and presses down hard . The reaction is immediate—Wyll’s soft dick twitches with interest and a pained Moab escapes his lips.
“Wh-what are you doing ?” Wyll gasps out, clawing at the floor beneath him as the sensation of painpleasurepain nearly overwhelm him. Gortash can tell from the quaking of his voice and the fluttering of his hole that the boy is close to having the worst dry orgasm he’ll ever have the misfortune of experiencing.
Gortash instead chooses to press a third finger in and slips a hand underneath Wyll to tightly squeeze the base of his half hard dick. Another cry of pain, this one more garbled and desperate than the last that it’d be a full blown scream if it wasn’t so broken . Just a little bit more and Gortash can sink himself into that all consuming heat that currently envelops his fingers.
The struggling has all but ceased; the squirming has been replaced with the weak, aborted rocking of his hips and a hoarse whimpering. The motion of pulling out his fingers and lining up his cock at Wyll’s entrance happens in a blur. The first press against Wyll’s hole is so, so very tight, even with all his preparation. It takes several tries before he’s even able to get the head in.
When it does breach Wyll’s entrance though, both men groan at the sensation—Gortash because of how tight and hot Wyll is around him, and Wyll because the fingers were not nearly enough to prepare him for just how full he’d feel. With proper lubrication and stretching, Gortash would be able to slowly sink his way into Wyll’s hole.
But Wyll received neither of those in an intentional act of cruelty on Gortash’s part. As it stands, the act of bottoming out is a long and drawn out process, one that Gortash is sure will cause Wyll enough pain that he might black out if he isn’t careful. Rather than smoothly pushing his way in, Gortash has to constantly rock his hips back and forth, with each forward motion pressing him in just a little bit deeper each time. Wyll gurgles brokenly around his own spittle and tears, but Gortash pays it no mind.
When Gortash finally bottoms out, it’s dry.
Uncomfortable .
The drag of his shaft against Wyll’s rim is too tight, the skin stretched too thin—any more and the delicate muscle might tear apart. By all means, it should be a viscerally unpleasant experience for the both of them. Judging by the pained whines coming from beneath him, that sentiment rings true for at least one of them. For Gortash though, the physical discomfort pales in comparison to the borderline euphoric rush of having someone wholly under his control, especially one with as much blossoming potential as the Grand Duke’s prized son.
To think that the boy had begun the evening so proud, if a bit withdrawn from his peers. Whatever plagued him at the time and caused him to pull away for a breather was surely inconsequential in comparison to the humiliation of being pinned beneath a man whom he barely knew the name of.
Wyll was saying something, and rather than caring to understand, Gortash finds himself more surprised that Wyll still has it in him to beg. What Gortash does next is far from a reward in Wyll’s mind, but that’s solely because he fails to see beyond what is happening right this moment.
Gortash presses his chest flush against Wyll’s back instead, enveloping the younger, smaller boy with his entire body. The new position gives him an even better angle to drive himself deeper into Wyll, fucking his hole open until it molds itself perfectly around Gortash’s cock. Every noise Wyll makes is winded, like it’s being punched out of his lungs with little to no air to support them thanks to Gortash nearly smothering the boy. Each thrust burns like fire, hot and sticky from the drying spit and streaks of blood that leak from the torn skin at Wyll’s entrance. He grows closer with each dry thrust—the lewd sound of flesh on flesh, Wyll’s shattered whines, and Gortash’s breathy grunts are the only sounds in the room now. Both parties are beyond words, and even Gortash finds his mouth stuffed full of cotton as he nears completion.
In a lust-fuelled daze, he wonders absently if this is what Ulder Ravengard would sound like when his mind is broken by the plans Gortash has in store for him. What lengths would his son be willing to go to in order to save him? The thought of bringing ruin to the prideful Ravengard family to its knees as a lowlife that clawed his ways into their ranks sends a pleasurable shiver down his spine.
With a gasp, Gortash’s orgasm rips through his body, white-hot and all consuming as he paints the insides of Wyll with his spend. Through the ringing in his heads, Gortash can half-hear the noise of disgust and shame that spills from Wyll’s lips as his hole continues to work Gortash’s twitching cock.
Gortash tilts his head to the side where Wyll’s face is, and darts his tongue out to steal a quick taste of the tears that marr Wyll’s handsome face. It tastes like salt and ashes and it’s the sweetest thing he’s tasted all night.
“Good boy,” Gortash finally says. Wyll wrenches his eyes shut then, but the action makes his full body-shiver all the more apparent. What a delightful little thing. So full of love and yet still so very desperate for approval; for recognition that he’s doing the right thing.
This time, when Gortash pulls out, it’s fair easier than any of his attempts to push in. Cum leaks from Wyll’s hole, partially stained pink by the blood that’s been mixed in. His hole has been fucked raw, the rim puffy and an angry shade of red that utterly fascinates Gortash. He patronizingly rubs Wyll’s lower back, easing some of the soreness that has surely begun setting in.
Wyll, for his part, is staring glassy eyed at the wooden door in front of him. His voice repeats the same phrases over and over again— please stop , and no more , and I’m sorry even though Gortash has long since finished. It’s the last phrase in particular that gives Gortash pause, enough to make him reconsider if he should wipe Wyll’s memory after all.
It’s nice to imagine Wyll crawling back to his father, beaten and broken as he recounts what he’d allowed a man nearly twice his age to do to him. Although this might has been self indulgent, Gortash isn’t a fool. He knows that if he can’t kill the boy, then the only course of action is to kill him or wipe his memory.
Killing him would be a waste, and he’s feeling oddly merciful after having an orgasm as blinding as that.
Keeping him alive and fragmenting his memory with a spell is far, far more compelling. Gortash wants Wyll to remember this night, the feeling of claws in his mouth, on his throat, in his hair and in his hole. Is this a waste of a perfectly good scroll? Perhaps.
But the arcane scribe owes him a favour anyways, and so Gortash retrieves a singular scroll from his belt and reads out the incantation for the modify memory spell. The spell takes its hold on the fragment’s of Wyll’s broken mind as Gortash begins reciting the memories that he wishes Wyll to retain from their encounter.
The encounter will be nothing more than a bad dream that left its physical mark on him. He’ll be afraid of things he doesn’t know and maybe he’ll even think twice before crossing paths with Gortash again.
Either way, the itch in his skin has fully subsided (even if the presence that seemed to linger around Wyll appears to remain unchanged) and he takes extra care to wipe himself up on the back of Wyll’s shirt before fucking himself back in and lacing his pants up.
“You’ll make a fine Grand Duke indeed. That is, of course, if I don’t get there first.” Gortash makes sure to dress Wyll up too before he leaves, and presses an almost princely kiss to Wyll’s hand that lays limply at his side.
“Sweet dreams now, Wyll.”
—
When Wyll comes to, he is alone.
There is no one else in the room save for the painful ache of his jaw and the tenderness of his bottom.
He doesn’t remember how he got here.
He tastes bile in his mouth and figures it is best that particular memory remains forgotten.
Still, he cannot shake the feeling of wrongness that clings to his skin.
It was just a bad dream, he tells himself.
He hears laughter, but the tone doesn’t match the sharp claws and blunt fingers of his hazy memories. Instead, it is musical, bright and cruel, and distinctly feminine.
A chill runs down Wyll’s spine.