#gortash fic

[astarionmademewriteit]

Make it Hurt

Enver Gortash x f!Durge (pre-tadpole)

Rating: Explicit

MDNI. 18+ only. Minors and blank bios will be blocked.

Wordcount: 1.7k

Tags: Blood play; Knife kink; Mentions of violence and gore; PIV rough sex; Choking; Spitting (in mouth); Act 3 Spoilers; Gortash being a lil' bit submissive but switch-coded.

Summary: Durge and Enver have another council meeting, but it is quickly revealed that Enver was using it as an excuse to see his favorite assassin. The sexual tension had been building up between them for while and Durge finally acts on it, finding quick but mutual gratification in their shared love for pain and blood.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

I grow weary of this cat and mouse game Gortash and I find ourselves playing at. It was no secret that centuries of bad blood bore between Bhaal and Bane. Their respective chosen settling their differences in order to overtake Baldur's Gate. However, the list of differences between Gortash and I happened to be shorter than previously suggested.

He was brilliant, to be sure. His thirst for blood and pain rivaled my own. But I was a seasoned killer, trained in the art of murder and violence. I did not veil the carnal pleasure that ran through my veins at the sight of spilled blood, nor the ferocity of lust that churned deep within me when I was called to dole out executions on his behalf.

Most others saw my duplicitous nature and turned away in quiet disgust, but Enver openly admired me for it. And now we sit at yet another council meeting, carving out our well-laid plans for the city. 

Enver’s hand is splayed out over a letter from General Thorm detailing his work in the Shadowlands and the army he continues to amass. The contents bore me into bouts of restlessness.

I shove away from the table, and in one fluid motion draw my dagger and bury it into the table, right between his fingers.

His unflinching dark gaze meets mine and a smirk plays on his lips.

“Enough with this drivel, Gortash,” I hiss, “This is the second council meeting in one week. If I cared what Ketheric had to say, I'd visit that dreaded place myself. Why am I here?”

Enver chuckles darkly, pulling the dagger from the table and testing its sharpness. He presses his fingertip into the sharpened point, until blood rushes from his finger. Red rivulets flow freely from his wound, splattering on Thorm's forgotten letter.

“Does world domination carve into too much of your precious time?” His rhetorical question was full of condescension, “Perhaps, I just needed to find another excuse to conspire with my favorite assassin.” He cocks an amused eyebrow in my direction and a smug grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

I roll my eyes and yank the dagger from his grasp, hoping it catches against his skin once more so I can watch him bleed so prettily for me.

“There are better excuses than reading letters from that heretic,” I growl with disdain as I gesture towards the letters. Ketheric had his uses, but he never appreciated the finality of death–something I took personally, as his sacrilegious mindset directly conflicted with the tenants of Bhaal.

“Would you rather I prepare some prisoners for torture? Maiming? I understand you are fond of spilling blood,” his gaze never leaving mine, “It's one of the many things I admire about you.”

I circle around to his chair and sit on the edge of the council table beside Enver. I prop my leg over my knee, drawing his attention. He leans back in his chair and watches me closely, his eyes lingering on my form.

“Maiming?” I spit with disgust, “There is art in murder, but maiming is below me,” I grab his wrist and examine his pricked fingertip, “It's about coaxing,” I squeeze the tip of his finger and watch as blood dribbles down his wrist, “It is about taste,” I pull his finger into my mouth unprovoked, sucking and pulling blood from his wound. The coppery taste sends my body into a vibrating thrum of excitement and ecstasy. 

Enver sucks in his breath and something between a sound of approval and a low guttural growl escapes his chest. I slowly let his finger retreat, never breaking our intense gaze. 

“It's about practicality.” I push myself off the table and stand behind him, grabbing a handful of his hair at the crown of his head, pulling him painfully backwards until his eyes are back on me. The sharp edge of my dagger flush against his throat–one swift movement away from nicking his artery.

Gortash’s eyes watched me carefully, but he was neither scared nor nervous. I couldn’t help but feel pleased at this revelation. A look of longing passes between us, and in one fleeting moment I lean down and crush my lips to his. He receives me eagerly despite the steel of my knife threatening to bite into his flesh.

After a moment I bury the dagger into the table and Enver quickly stands and wraps his arms around my waist. I jump off the ground and wrap my legs around his middle, connecting our lips again. Our kiss is messy, filled with teeth, tongue, and lips–molding together with bruising force. His prickly stubble rubs deliciously against my face.

Enver spins and sits me on the edge of the table, hovering over me as his gilded fingers lace through my hair. He sighs deeply into my mouth as our tongues explore one another. I start thumbing the laces of his robes, pulling them open and running my nails through his thick chest hair–not holding back the way my sharp nails bite into his skin.

His golden filigree gloves claw at my scalp and down the back of my neck as he grows more desperate. I bite hard into his bottom lip until I draw blood, smiling against his abrasive kisses. He groans with pleasure as I suck the blood that surfaces from his wound.

I pull back momentarily, panting heavy as I whisper how good he tastes while pulling the last of his laces free. In a flurry of hurried movements, we undress before our lips crush back together, as if our very survival depended on it.

I lay flat on my back in the middle of the council table as he crawls over my body with a predatory gaze. Enver knees my legs open while he trails kisses down my neck. His cock rubbing torturously between my slick folds, teasing my clit and driving me into a lust-filled craze.

Impatience thrums through my body and I quickly grab Enver’s throat with enough force to cut off his airflow. I pull him up to meet my eyes, his dark gaze boring into me with such frantic intensity.

“Fuck me,” I growl, “Before I change my mind and slit your throat. And make it hurt.”

He chuckles darkly. Clearly amused by my threats, “As you wish, my assassin.”

Without a moment lost, he painfully forces himself inside me, threatening to split me in half. I cry out in pleasure, relishing in the way he fills me completely–his hips snapping into me with newfound ferocity. His golden filigree claws dig into the very wood of the council table, leaving deep splintering grooves.

My nails dig into his back, tracing painful welts into his flesh. The pain only motivates him to rut into me harder, pulling out far enough so that the swollen head of his cock forces me open wider, before snapping back into me with unrelenting force.

I wrap my legs around his waist, lifting my hips up off the table so that he is hitting my pleasure points with devastating precision. His name falls from my lips like a haunted hymn, echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the council room.

Enver’s lips meet mine with such brutality that my skull presses painfully into the table underneath. His back is now spattered in bloody scratch marks, dripping down his back artfully.

I groan in pleasure, my ecstasy building into a dizzying crescendo. Enver’s teeth suddenly dig into the flesh of my lips, and the familiar coppery flavor of my blood spills from the wound. He sucks at my blood, groaning with carnal delight while he continues to thrust relentlessly into my dripping cunt.

He pulls back, reveling in the taste of my blood–savoring it on his tongue. “Open up, dear assassin,” he growls. I comply instantly, opening my mouth wide and letting my tongue fall from my lips seductively.

He hovers over my mouth and allows a mixture of my blood and his saliva to fall back into my waiting mouth. I whimper–elated with our own debauchery. His pace becomes more aggressive–abusive, even, as I chase my release. 

My pleasure peaks and I’m falling victim to the white hot flash of ecstasy that rocks through my body, seizing my muscles until I’m coming undone–completely unraveling under his body. My cries ring through the room, Enver’s name the only prayer I care to recite.

Gortash breathes heavily in my ear, chasing his own release. His thrusts become uneven and sloppy. His eyes are glazed over and his pupils are completely blown out as he watches me while I continue to fall apart as he ruins my cunt with his punishing pace.

As my orgasm starts to subside I pull the dagger from the wooden table and press the sharp edge to the soft flesh of his throat once again. His eyes roll into the back of his head, enjoying the cold steel against his neck–the possibility of death lingering close by only motivating him to fuck me harder–deeper.

“Come inside me, Enver,” I hiss, tightening my legs around his waist as he continues to rut into me, desperately. His golden claws dig into the table, further marring the council table–leaving behind evidence of our violent tryst.

“Yes, my assassin,” he relents, shooting ropes of cum deep in my slick cunt, filling me with his seed. Enver whimpers into my neck, biting viciously at the soft flesh of my throat, leaving bruising evidence of his lusty confessions on my skin. His cock spasming uncontrollably inside of me.

His orgasm begins to subside, our sweat mixes with blood and violent ecstasy as he stills inside of me.

I run my fingers through his dark, bedraggled hair, having discarded my dagger momentarily.

“Regain your strength, Gortash,” I command arrogantly, “We are not done yet.”

He laughs breathily as he tries to regain some semblance of composure, “Whatever my favorite assassin commands, I shall happily deliver.”

I felt momentary relief now that we have finally acted on our building sexual tension. The feeling is quickly replaced with a new kind of hunger–one that rivals the murderous fantasies that occupy my mind. We complement one another, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming together to create a beautifully violent masterpiece. 

I knew at that moment that something incredible would have to pull us away from one another. The impossibility of it amused me greatly.

[bhaalbabebardlock]

Daisies On My

Nightstand

| AO3 Link | About Ilara |

| Writing Masterpost |

| Daisies Playlist |

Summary:

The story of a Bhaal-Spawn who only ever wanted to be free.

Ilara would do anything for the people she loves, having never been freely allowed to do so before- including killing her past, denouncing her God, and damning 7,000 souls. Can she save herself, let alone anyone else?

The story of my resist durge Ilara, and everything leading up to the netherbrain and after.

Important tags: named dark urge, violent thoughts/urges, death, having no control, murder, smut, dom/sub themes, memory loss, grief, trauma, a terrible past, whipping, knife play, character death, self hatred, ascended astarion, mind control. I promise there's some happy stuff. Sometimes. Please read all tags on AO3!!!

Romance with Gortash, Astarion, Shadowheart. A devil she can't get away from. This story leaves canon behind in the dust.

Because this story is so long now, ongoing, and has daily updates I don't intend to list every chapter on this post like I was doing (which is why I've made a new post!) I will continue to sometimes post teasers of chapters; I stopped doing that a while ago.

Daisies on my Nightstand on AO3

(as I begin uploading them, this post will be edited with links to the teaser chapters)

Chapter 99- Aching

Chapter 105- Sending

Chapter 111- Voided

Chapter 119- Hellfire

[canon-in-too-deep]

End of a Series, and Deleted Dinner With Gortash Scene

After over 75k words, I closed out the last part of my Don't Forget You Love Me series on AO3 yesterday. It's a light hearted Baldur's Gate 3 fic starring Gortash x Tav that started out as a rom com and ended with family fluff. The final chapter was a small scene for the sequel The Fluffy Raccon (a fluffy one shot collection after the main story ends), and I just had so so much fun with these characters, I wanted to make a post here to mark a personal milestone. 🦝🦝🦝 The last year, I've gotten back into fandom, which led me back to writing, and writing has led me to typesetting...and it's been a helluva time! I'm having a blast sharing everything I've made in my hyper fixated frenzies, and have loved getting to focus my passion on all these projects. So thank you to everyone who's stopped by to smell the pixels! The first chapter of my Gortav fic can be found here. Below the break is a deleted scene from Don't Forget You Love Me that I wrote for Chapter 3 that I ended up scrapping and rewriting. I found it in my old notes folder, and decided to let it get some sunlight here. I have some more Gortav (Tavtash?) deleted scenes and snippets cluttering up my google docs. If I get time or if there's interest, I might post them here as well. Also if you're just here for free typesets I'm working on more of those too!

Scene: Tav has amnesia. Tav has forgotten that she is married to Gortash. Tav has dinner with Gortash. Tav glared at Gortash from across the dining table.  So what if all the healers and clerics in the city had come to the archduke’s residence and spent days fussing over her, before declaring that her memories of the last fourteen months were assuredly gone?  So what if all the politicians and lords of the Upper City bowed to her and sent her get well missives, all while bemoaning the poor health of their dear archduchess?  So what if even her friends—those that she could get a hold of, anyway—told her themselves that the Elder Brain had long ago been dealt with and her pact with Gortash had been expanded to involve marriage? She still wanted to kill him. “Dearest, at least eat something whilst you glower at me,” Gortash said, not even looking up as he sliced through a cut of meat with a silver blade. “Maybe it’s poisoned,” Tav suggested.  “Maybe that’s how you got me to marry you.  Maybe you doused my food with some kind of love potion, and—” “Enough.”  Gortash spoke sharply, and set down his utensils.  He cleared his throat, and braced both hands against the table.  “If you insinuate such things again, I may lose my patience.” “And what, you’ll show your true colors as a monster?” she said, crossing her arms. “And I just might take more drastic measures to jog your memory,” he said, lowering his voice. Tav’s brow furrowed.  “Like what?  What the fuck are you talking about—” Gortash got up, his chair scraping against the floor as he left his spot at the head of the table to stride over towards where she’d positioned herself farthest from him.

Tav gripped the arms of her chair, staring up with open irritation at the archduke now towering over her.  His dark gaze swept across her features, before settling on her own eyes.

“Perhaps you might remember something more…engaging of the senses,” he mused, his voice dangerously low to Tav’s ears.

“What are you—”

Her words caught in her throat, as a large hand came up to caress her cheek, stroking down with calloused fingers, to end with a delicate hold of her chin.

“The first time, we had dinner together, you refused to eat less there be poison in the food.  Of course, I offered to feed you by hand, but you were such a stubborn little thing…”  His thumb came up to trace her bottom lip.

Tav slapped him and snarled.  “Bastard!”  She got up and stormed off.

Gortash, unperturbed, nursed his reddening cheek, and said aloud to himself, “Ah…she did the same thing the first time, too…”

[artemisiavulgaris1114]

So I've been sitting on this 30 page Gortash/Lilith pre/during/post-game fanfic outline (!!) for months. the first chapter isn't done yet :') I normally don't post unfinished, buuuut I'm happy with the first part and felt like it needed to be released into the world--give it a bit of external life to hopefully feed back into it for when I do have the bandwidth for more writing <3

As Dark Things Are Meant To Be Loved chapter: 0.1/? (not up on ao3 yet in case anyone is looking for it there) rating: M (canon-typical blood and gore) durgetash (gortash x durge tav) although this first bit has no durge in it, just one tired asshole who's too old for this shit

Gortash gazed sightlessly upon the statue of the gods. The tabernacle was shadowed and dormant in the small hours of the night, but for the soft flicker of the altar candles, and his mind was similarly far away. The unmistakable odour of the lower city managed to seep into the air here, winding its way through the din of incense and herbal offerings. Despite his recent more lavish trappings, Gortash still found himself spending far too much time in a place he missed and hated in equal measure.

And now, that time was being wasted. The steel toe of his jackboot tapped against the marble floor, a steady rhythm counting down the seconds. He had a habit of noting even the smallest grains of sand that slipped through his fingers, and for someone who slept as little as he did, he was still too irritated by the situation to try and make productive use of it.

There came a softer tapping that was outpaced by his own. Then, the scent of something even far less favourable suddenly overwhelmed him–raw, rancid meat, with a musty undercurrent of desiccated fabric and blood. Gortash could almost feel the nauseating cocktail crawling over his clothes and skin, and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned around to find a small, stooped figure, hooded in a tattered antique cloak with its hands clasped behind its back.

Gortash did not bother to tilt more than his eyes downward as he spoke, nor stop his lip from curling in disgust. “May I ask, did Lady Savienna fail to deliver the entirety of the sum I paid for this visit? Or were you really off squandering my precious evening, laying with long-butchered swine as your keen fetor suggests?”

The figure calmly folded back its hood to reveal what appeared to be an older, balding gnome with a thick silvered beard and many scars. Its eyes were beady, mischievous, and discriminating, which Gortash instantly clocked as owing to fey ancestry. Whatever this thing really was must have been almost too perverse to conceal.

“Oh, she did, my Lord. Yes, quite the substantial—and, dare I say, grandiose—donation,” the gnome twaddled, with a bow that was unreasonably low. “An adequate token of your respect.”

“Clearly not entirely adequate, seeing as it failed to guarantee something as simple as your punctuality,” Gortash’s jaw clicked. “Respect, indeed.”

“It is enough to guarantee you a chance to walk out of this meeting alive, my Lord, and nothing more,” the creature’s voice lilted with false deference, an almost mocking tone that bore no obvious threat.  “You see, when encountered, Banites are normally afforded the dignity and lesser mercy of a swift and relatively painless death—of which, I am certain you’re aware.” It added with a hint of amusement, “The ones that don’t go so quietly make for sacrifices that are most fruitful.”

Gortash’s gauntleted fist clenched reflexively as if it desired to crush something. He was already out of patience, but he refused to let himself be goaded. “Then consider them part of my ‘donation’, and stop wasting my time.”

The gnome cowered ever so slightly, but still, somehow Gortash had the distinct impression that it was nowhere near afraid of death.

“My proposal is thus,” Gortash began, his voice sharp and compelling even at normal speaking volume, “I will offer a doubling of your meeting fee in order to secure the particular assistance of one of your assassins in carrying out a targeted heist three tendays from now.”

“Oh, my, a down payment?”

“Depending on how we fare, there may be far more vested interest in it for you than the scope of this contract.”

“---and the potential for subsequent contracts. You make it sound like a most lucrative opportunity,” the gnome chuckled affably as it squinted up at him.

“I do not deal in any business that is not.”

“Yet, in this instance, you seek our help. It must be something terribly difficult to pull off, if someone such as you does not think himself solely capable.”

“I am more than capable,” Gortash flashed. “Trust that I would not have arranged this meeting had I not been given an unequivocal order to do so.”

“Interesting. It seems you are as ambivalent about this as we are,” the gnome grinned widely, showcasing a disarray of sharp, spoiled teeth. “In that case, I’ll humour you. Tell me, what is it that you’re planning to steal?”

“For now, I plan only to return something that was stolen from you.” The impish creature’s patronizing facade faltered, and it looked genuinely confused. “And what benefit is that of yours?”

“Nothing such that you’re entitled to hear,” Gortash replied dismissively, “but I will tell you why I require your services.”

He continued, keeping with an air of complete confidence and immaculate poise as he began to pace, all part of the hustle. 

“This job has particular challenges, and requires a particular approach sufficient to mitigate them, hence the long turnaround. What I seek from you is someone who is able to enact a series of seemingly unrelated murders, enough to alarm and distract the general populace, and more importantly, the Grand Duke, for the days leading up to the heist.” He stopped pacing and turned, pinning the gnome with a pointed look. “You know the one amongst your ranks of whom I speak.”

“Hmm, hmm. Yes, perhaps that does sound familiar,” the creature nodded along slowly, wringing its hands seemingly by rote. “Allegedly, one of ours made rather a name for themselves, nigh 15 years past. As they say, all those murders were the work of one very clever, exceptionally vicious Bhaalspawn, though they never did quite figure out who was responsible...” 

Gortash nodded. “A spotless record.”

The Bhaalist took a long, deep breath through its nostrils. 

“Keeps us respectable,” it said as it straightened its posture, cleared its throat and continued, “And, fortunately for you, I do happen to know the very one of which you speak. I also simply must profess that I have the unique privilege, and indeed, the requisite finesse, of serving them at a personal level...” and on it went, describing in exorbitant detail its distinguished affiliation and stewardship of its vile master, a decidedly sadistic and depraved individual, the leader of Bhaal’s contemporary cult–which really just made this whole idea all the less appealing from Gortash’s point of view. 

He had no idea what to expect. His dealings with Bhaalists had never been easy or pleasant, if such a thing was even possible. He preferred prudence and wit to mindless, unnecessary carnage from his underlings. Though he reasoned that their leader must have some modicum of each to keep them as organized and prolific as they were.

He had begun to pace again, this time in circles around the effusive creature as it rattled on. “Yes, yes—they sound simply delightful. Might they be persuaded to discuss this face to face?”

It pondered concernedly for a moment. “You see, this particular assassin that you’re referring to… they are one of our most accomplished, most venerated–”

“Your leader, yes. Which is precisely why I have sought them out.”

“You are well informed,” it admitted with an edge of spite. “But that does not gain you anything. They have a great deal of responsibilities, my Lord. Running the temple worship daily is no small feat, what with our cult now being so prosperous, so vital as it once was–”

“You will have your daily sacrifices,” Gortash interrupted. 

“Surely we have other suitable operatives of equivalent skill–”

“You do not. I will only work with another possessing capability and merits comparable to my own. As far as I’m aware, Bhaal only has one Chosen.” Gortash held his hands behind his back. “All I ask of them yet is a chance to meet and discuss my proposal properly and in detail.”

The gnome thought for another long moment before relenting with a grudging look. 

“Our Lord, pragmatic as ever, is receptive to any proposed Banite alliance, as long as you make it worth his while. Though…” and as it casually inspected the ragged fingernails on its hand, there was an especially sinister bent to its ever-present smile, “a Banite sacrifice is in most cases worth more than anything you could offer us otherwise,” it said before it looked Gortash in the eye. “Especially one of your status.”

“I look forward to making their acquaintance,” Gortash quipped back with a beleaguered smirk. “Now, shoo. And do pass along my invitation, will you? I shall await a response.” He swept past the decrepit thing without formality, glad to finally be rid of its air, and out into the azure cast of near-dawn.

[rinny-rae]

I associate Gortash with violence far more than sex tbh & it’s far easier to imagine him in extreme life or death situations.

He is so much more comfortable getting his ass beat than he is with any level of intimacy imo

[nyda-the-tav]

Latest Sleep Deprivation is posted!

Chapter 50: Swan's Song

Shit is going down. Things are tense!! Let us know what you think 💕 What was your favourite part? We live for your comments.

Sleep Deprivation is a named good!Tav x Gortash porn with plot fic. Lots of struggles for our evil tyrant as he clings to his spiteful Banite ways.

A blend of emotions and humour! (and smut)

Here's a link to chapter 1 if you're a new reader. Mind the tags! It's explicit 🔞 and comments on old chapters make our day.

[notamewsed]

Don't Blame Me: Chapter 6 Preview

Gortash x Tav Fic (Spoilers)

A little snapshot of Chapter 6 from the slow burn fic I’m working on. Check out the full thing here!

“I expect you to take our union seriously.” He remarked, taking a languid sip of wine and swirling the liquid thoughtfully.

“I plan to. My life is bound to our marriage, don’t you recall?” She responded, matter-of-factly.

He straightened, setting down the wine upon the window sill. “Careful with that attitude,” he turned towards her.

“I apologize if it seemed that way, Lord Gortash.”

A tension was growing in his jaw. “Enver,” he corrected through his teeth, his tone demanding her compliance.

“Enver,” she acquiesced, leering at him from under her brows.

A long beat passed. This was not enough to sate him.

“Do you insist on making yourself miserable? Wallowing in your own self-pity? You ought to be grateful.” He stalked her, crossing his arms in frustration.

“Ah yes, why wouldn’t I be grateful for a marriage forged by abduction and deception?” She retorted, a dry laugh escaping her lips.

“I could have taken your life for your transgressions, strung you up, and made an example of you.” He continued, the composure of his tone a frightening juxtaposition to his words.

“Instead, I’ve granted you the second-most coveted position of power and status in the city. Private chambers, servants at your command, endless luxuries afforded to you. Still, you pout and whinge at every opportunity.” Gortash admonished, circling her like a vulture.

“You cannot expect me to just forget the methods you used to secure this alliance,” she insisted.

"Methods deemed necessary for the prosperity of this city, Aurea.” Gortash's visage hardened, his fingers drumming against his arm. “You would do well to understand the greater picture."

Closing the narrow gap between them, he pressed his thumb underneath Aurea’s chin to capture her full attention.

"You may harbor resentment towards me, my dear, but it serves neither of us. We are both bound by circumstance, and it is in both our interests to make the best of it."

His finger moved to brush across her bottom lip, brows knit in contemplation as he swiped her saliva against the soft skin. As if by habit, Aurea closed her eyes, catching the scent of clove by a crackling fire. A breath of air cooled the moisture on her lips, followed by the fading sound of retreating footsteps.

The room quieted and sealed once more as Aurea caught her lip in her teeth.

[kawareo]

You ever noticed that Cazador apparently visits Flymm's Cobblers?

Little promo for new chapter for my prequel fic Unsaved :)

[chronurgy]

Gortash designs and builds mechanisms so I imagine he has to be able to sketch fairly decently in order to sketch his projects and designs. And I'm imagining a pile of charcoal sketches of Durge, done over their entire acquaintance, starting out with sketches of them in battle and then slowly becoming more detailed and intimate and as they do, the titles changing from things like "The Bhaalspawn" and "Bhaal's Chosen at Their Bloody Work" to "The Chosen in Contemplation" and finally just Durge's name

[hua-liansimp]

the torture when you like a ship and you want to read fanfiction about that ship but you like the ship in a specific way and that way isn't the popular one:')

[darkenedurge]

Part One Here.

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“ “𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲,” 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭,

“𝐈𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭.. 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨..” ”

.

CONTENT : Fem. Reader | So, P in V Sex | Face Sitting/Riding | Oral, F. Receiving | Religious Guilt | Slight After-Care (Cuddles) | Falling in Love (and it’s consequences).

A/N : Sorry this is quite short, I hope you enjoy regardless! Reminder that this is a part two, however it can be enjoyed as a stand-alone, short fic. If, that’s your jam.

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˚ ✧.

"Shit, shit, Enver.." You grind, helpless and relentless against his face – his tongue, clumsily circling your clit; his hands, resting upon your thighs, fingers kneading into the supple, softness of your flesh. Enver groans, the sound reverberating – riding through your body, head to toe.

Your chest heaves, orgasm creeping up far quicker than you'd anticipated – your hips drive harder, stifling him beneath your pleading cunt. Your hand, gripping a fistful of his hair. Tugging, fingers curled against his scalp. Another groan from Enver, and you're tipped over the edge. Trembling, legs shaking, you rut out your high – before collapsing, rolling onto your back.

Enver's face is slick with your juices, lips and stubbled chin glistening beneath the dim lighting of the candles that adorned your shared walls. He's above you, without a word, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin – tracing the outline of your waist. You reach up, thumb trailing his lower lip – earning a smile, as he presses a kiss to the tip.

"I adore you," He says, in his usual grumble – though, his voice is notably hoarse from the guttural groans he'd released only moments prior; "I hope you know that."

You hum, letting a brief moment of silence pass. "I know," You then reply, tone uncharacteristically gentle for a creature as violent as yourself – "And I adore you."

Enver responds by dipping his head, burying it in the crook of your neck, peppering sloppy, needy kisses to your skin. You know him well by now, know that it's a silent request for entry – a silent plea to feel you, around him. Your legs spread, a silent reply, resting either side of his hips.

He adjusts, face greeting you with a lazy smile – as his cock pushes into you. A familiar stretch, a familiar warmth. You cry out, with a swift, huff of a laugh to follow. Oh, how you'd missed this – despite the fact that it had only been days, perhaps a week at most.

"Gods," Enver grunts, guiding himself into his usual rhythm, "How do you always feel this incredible?"

You moan, shamelessly, the sound muffled as Enver captures your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. His tongue tangles with yours, and you can still taste yourself on him – drawing a second, keening moan from your throat.

“Such pretty sounds,” The comfort of his voice greets you once again – he’d grown fond of that, talking, praising, while he was inside of you – “All for me.”

Enver’s hips are driving into you harshly, seeking to batter that sweet, sweet spot he’d abused so many times – steering you to ecstasy, and even further beyond. Your moans devolve into helpless whimpers, nails decorating his skin in crescent grooves – some, painted with slithers of red. Blood.

“Enver,” His name, spoken almost as a warning, “If you keep doing that I’m gonna–”

He hushes you, clicking his tongue – “Ah.. that’s the idea, little one. We’re going to come together.”

And come together you did. It’s electric, dizzying. It’s hot, like the very fires of the Hells themself. Hot, yet a shiver still courses through your body as it’s pinned beneath him – hips, still pistoning, in and out.

Eventually, though, he stops – head in the pillows, drawing the covers over both of you as you curl at his side, fingertips tracing his chest hair. Spent, your eyes flutter.

Until. You remember.

Murmuring, “Father, please forgive me.. forgive me for I have forsaken you..”

Enver makes a soft noise, one you can’t identify. It’s not one of displeasure, nor is it one of approval. “Must you always pray after we make love, dearest?”

A sharp intake of breath, that’s then released, and you urge yourself closer – nestling further at his side, head upon his shoulder; his arm, laced loosely around your waist, free hand combing fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry,” You say, with audible guilt, “It just.. terrifies me. You terrify me. I’m not supposed to..”

“Hush.” Enver interjects, a kiss pressed to your temple, “Rest. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Father, Father.. forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

[jellymellydraws]

Gortash has to sit there while he gets glimpses of his dead wife favorite assassin haunting the sword coast through the lenses of Scrying Eyes and Steel Watchers.

The first time he sees her, he can't believe it. It's a trick of the light. Orin fooling him again. But no, Orin is right beside him. In the Scrying Eye, it's her. It's Rose. Falling into ever so familiar habits, but still something different about her. A new way of carrying herself. A new smile upon her lips. A different glint in her eye. She talks to Minthara, discussing plans of The Absolute, and saunters away with a pale elf that she playfully nudges and laughs with.

Then on his way to Moonrise, he's checking in on Ketheric. She's there. She doesn't command the room how she used to-- like she's a stranger to this place. But that isn't the part that catches grips him. It's when that same damned pale elf is pacing outside of her old room-- now taken over by Balthazar. When he hesitantly asks her if they could talk. When she invites him to join her outside.

The look of concern is foreign to him. Her soft gaze shakes his core.

He can't remember if she ever whispered so tenderly the way she does to the elf. The face she makes as she slowly wraps her arms around him, like she's afraid her touch would shatter something so delicate and dear. They hold each other, for ages.

He breaks the connection.

Finally she's home, in their city. The damned elf is with her. Their hands are inseparable as they frolic the streets, taunting the Archduke-to-be with their laughter and adoration of each other. Orin made a mess of her, this much was true.

But if he could just get a moment of her time. A private meeting...

He'd help her remember what she was. What they were.

They could have everything they promised, together.

He was sure of it.

[hana-no-seiiki]

before i mentioned cat villain! reader being friends w/ benefits with other villains right

just thinking

the batfam are awfully fixated on fixing reader a lot. they want you to stop your kleptomaniac ways. for you not to hurt people for the sake of your ideals.

i feel like it’s only with other villains where reader can truly be themselves and not be judged

which would make for some interesting dynamic where yes, they could be given a chance at redemption and be with the people they love.

but on the other hand, there are also these people who don’t care if you’re the worst of the worst as long as you’re with them. they’ll accept you for who you are and more.

like whenever you propose taking down someone(admittedly corrupt/evil) through violent means, the boys would most likely be like “hot but no.”

but your villain buddies would be like “that’s so hot, yes!!”

they’re just unequivocally devoted and supportive of what you and who you are that they’d be literally disappointed if you act in a way that isn’t you (but still love you anyhow)

like if reader is usually very prideful and greedy for example

maybe you worked with a friend for a heist and they ask to keep all of the money cause they either need it or will be using it for future projects together

but naur reader is like “uh no.”

but then villain friend continues to insist.

and reader goes “i’m keeping half and nothing less. and by nothing less that means stealing all of your share if you refuse.”

and villain friend, instead of being mad is just like, “as expected my dear i knew you wouldn’t go down so easily.”

they’re just so smitten with you

and it would make for one big bloody fight for when the batfam starts influencing you with their icky ‘justice’ driven acts.

(fucken realized that writing this just cements that Jason is the best match for Cat Villain! Reader good lawd cause you know he’d be supportive for everything they do but makes sure Reader stays grounded)

(im rotting)

(im rotting so badly)

[canon-in-too-deep]

Love Comes With Extra Pickles

I've decided to release the beginning of my unfinished Durgetash fast food au out onto my tumblr, where it may overgraze and ruin the landscape as it roams. Love Comes With Extra Pickles A modern day fast food Baldur's Gate au. Rating: T Relationship: Gortash/Dark Urge (called Tav) Wordcount: ~3.6k (Also I wrote this around Christmas so, uh, that's why there's some weird holiday references)

Beginning below the break.

It was a muggy day in early December.  The overcast weather made the sea look like a gray silk sheet tossed out into the wind, and the once vibrant colors of fall were now muted as the promise of rain clung to the air.  

Enver Gortash climbed off his silver motorcycle, and tucked his helmet away as he stretched his legs in the parking lot of Hellrider’s Kitchen.  The smell of french fries and grease mingled with that of saltwater.  Fast food wasn't his preferred fare, but after a long day at work and then a tedious commute of weaving between rows of traffic, he wanted to just grab something quick to eat before he headed back to his loft. 

It had been ages since he’d last been in a Hellrider’s Kitchen, Gortash mused, as he twirled his keys in one hand and strolled towards the entrance.  The franchise had exploded out of Elturel and now had at least one shop in every city of the Sword Coast.  Their food tended towards the spicier side of things, but it was a flavor that Gortash had long grown up with, and he at least preferred spicy to the slimy and briny slop they served over at Balduran’s Burgers (‘Baldurans’ Burgers, Eat Like An Emperor!’ was their trite slogan).  It was a quick and efficient solution to sate his hunger and refuel his caffeine stores when his awaiting fridge was empty and the nearest Coffee Grove was overflowing with a line of hippies and teens—two demographics he didn't care to endure over any period of time.

The electronic doorbell dinged as he crossed the threshold of the eatery, passing the cardboard cutout of a caricature knight astride a disproportionate horse.  A crimson, fur trimmed santa hat had been placed atop the knight’s helmeted head—a touch of holiday cheer amidst the glaring fluorescent lights that bounced off the red, yellow, and white tiles of the floor.  

Gortash’s gaze flickered over the half filled plastic tables and stools that were scattered across the left side of the eatery.  To the right, prop shields and swords that looked like they belonged on a C-list medieval movie set were hung up on the wall, bracketing the framed certification that promised that this establishment had, at one point, been deemed suitable enough to serve consumables in.  A few more cheap attempts at decor in the form of tacky tinsel garlands and strings of tiny bells adorned the counter, in front of which was a short queue of customers that curved out around black stanchions topped with striped bows.

Gortash took up his place at the back of the line and absently checked his phone, flipping through the tedious emails from work he'd have to respond to and deleting the incoherent text messages from Orin that were mostly just gorey pics she'd found on the internet—at least, he hoped she had found them on the internet.

He opened up the group chat and checked to see if Thorm had finally sent the confirmation info he had asked for.

Ketheric Thorm [4:58 PM]

I have finalized the deal with the Zhents.  - Ketheric Thorm

Enver Gortash [5:00 PM]

Good.  Send us the receipt. Ketheric Thorm [5:07 PM]

How do I do that? - Ketheric Thorm Enver Gortash [5:07 PM] Thorm.  Save the image of the receipt.  Then go to this group chat and pick the photo you want to send. Ketheric Thorm [5:17 PM] How do I save it? - Ketheric Thorm Enver Gortash [5:17 PM] Tap and hold, then click ‘Save To Photos’.

Ketheric Thorm [5:28 PM] Now how do I proceed to show the group? - Ketheric Thorm Enver Gortash [5:29 PM] You’re in the group chat now.  Click the button in the bottom corner and select the image of the receipt.  Hit send.

Ketheric Thorm [5:46 PM]

What button? - Ketheric Thorm

Orin de Red [5:47 PM]

OMFG THE BUTTON THAT LOOKS LIKE A CAMERA YOU SHRIVELED SACK OF SINEW

Accompanying Orin’s last text was a dozen knife emojis followed by a dozen heart emojis.  And Ketheric still hadn't sent the copy of the receipt.  Gortash punched the bridge of his nose, closed the chat and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

He sighed.  He was never truly off the clock when it came to his job at Bane, Bhaal, & Myrkul.  Climbing the ranks of the company had long been his goal, one that he had utterly devoted himself.  Over the years, he had clawed and charmed his way to the top to serve as Bane’s personal chosen assistant, snatching up whatever control and power he could find along the way.  Unfortunately, his position under Bane meant working closely with the right hands of the other two partners in the company.  And that meant managing Ketheric’s tediousness while simultaneously wrangling Orin’s madness, and praying that their brittle workplace relationship would endure long enough until Gortash got his next promotion.  Still, he could deal with his inept colleagues after he’d sated his appetite and refueled on caffeine.

At last, the person in front of him finally paid and got out of the way.  Gortash stepped up to the register, glancing at the menu board hanging above the counter.

“Welcome to Hellrider’s Kitchen,” came the empty enthusiasm of the cashier.  “We swear an oath to flavor.  What can I get you today?”

“I'll have a number three and an extra large coff—”  Gortash eyes widened as he looked at the cashier, and he suddenly froze.  

There, right in front of him, was none other than Tav.  Tav.

Tav, Bhaal’s favorite child. The one that the senior partner had hand chosen and trained to rise through the ranks of the company.  The one that had cleaned house and crushed any and every sniveling coward that dared to step out of line.  The one that had combined ruthlessness and efficiency into one divine form dressed in a blazer and a killer smile.  The one that had spent countless hours working alongside him, toiling away at their ambitious schemes and grand designs.  The one that had fucking crushed his plans when she’d disappeared without even a goodbye.

His Tav.

Gods, how long had it been?  One year?  Two years?  Three?  It felt like their history had been dragged into the depths of eternity, but at the same time, the image he had held of her in his mind was one that felt as real and vibrant as the woman before him.  

Time seemed to stop completely now as he took her in.  And he saw that she was still the same.  Sure, her hair was longer now and worn up in a ponytail, and she was dressed in that tacky red and yellow uniform, but she was still the same.

The same nose that seemed to wrinkle up in unfettered judgment.  The same lips that pressed together and looked like they could utter gut wrenching curses or sneering false praises.  And the same eyes, that were so bold and defiant and utterly piercing, with an underlying glimmer of barely contained murderous annoyance.

A single syllable slipped from his uncharacteristically paralyzed lips.  “...Tav?”

Her name hung in the air between them.  And he felt the anticipation of the question build up, until she blinked at him, and gave her answer.

“Yes?” was all she said back.

Gortash swallowed dryly, and quickly recomposed himself, tugging down his coat collar and making sure his shirt was smoothed of any wrinkles.

“Tav,” he said again, more pointedly this time.

She glanced down at her name badge where T-A-V was written in black sharpie.  Then she looked back up at him.  Sounding slightly exasperated, Tav said, “Yes?  That's my name.  Do you need help with the menu?  I recommend smiting your fries.  It gets you an extra serving of our radiant ranch dipping sauce.”

Gortash frowned, and leaned forward a bit, placing his hands on the counter that separated them.  “Tav, it's Enver Gortash.  Surely you must remember me.”

She blinked.  

“Oh.”  She parted her lips hesitantly.  “Uh, yea, sorry, I don't.  I had an accident a few years back, and my memory's been a bit of a mess since.”

“When you didn’t show up at Moonrise, I…  I thought you'd left me,” Gortash said to her, completely ignoring the line behind him.  

“I what?”  Tav’s brow scrunched up.  “Look, whoever you thought you knew, that was a long time ago and I'm a different person now.  I think.  Or so I've been told.  Anyway, I'm sorry if I wronged you or anything and forgot about it.  Really sorry.  So, if you'd like to place an order, I do have other customers that—

“Hells, Tav, I've missed you,” Gortash said, eyes only on her.  “Come back with me.”

“Uuuuh like I said, I don't know you, dude,” Tav said.  “Sorry if I forgot, but if you're not going to order anything, I have to ask you to step out of the line.”

“Forget the goddamn line,” Gortash said, leaning in closer.  Tav backed away, squirming behind the register.  “You have to remember me.  Tav, we were good for each other, we could still be good for each other—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, mister.” “We were on the cusp of perfection, you and I.  We were poised to take over the entire company—” “Sure, sure.  Look, I have other customers waiting—” “Tav, you were my favorite fellow assistant at the company.  I tolerated Orin, but I liked you—”

Tav backed away from the counter and gave him a sharp look.  “I'm getting my manager.”

“Wait!”  Gortash reached out for her, but the counter was in the way.  He let his hand fall back to his side.  A thousand questions and a million commands roared through his mind, but a resigned sigh was all that came out.  “Just…give me the number three with an extra large coffee.”

She eyed him cautiously.  Then took a small step forward.  “Will that be for here or to go?”

There was a pause as he gritted his teeth.

“...to go.”

She rang him up.  He took out his wallet and paid.

As he took his receipt, he looked her in the eyes, and with a tinge of bitterness on the tip of his tongue, he said, “Keep the change.”

~~~

Tav squirmed behind the register as Enver Gortash stared at her from beneath his tousled black hair, dark gaze emphasized further by the dark circles under his eyes.  He looked like one of the shaggy raccoons that kept trying to get into the dumpster out back, as he stood stiffly by the counter and waited for his order.  That thought might have made her laugh, if she weren't so mortified.

She did her best to remain professional, and kept punching away at the keypad as the next customer placed their order.  Working at a fast food chain meant she had experienced her fair share of weirdos.  But having to deal with this particular weirdo was making her heart race beneath the cheap cloth of her button up uniform. Tav chewed her lip.  

Gortash had seemed to buy into her lie, at least.

And it had been a lie.

Because, while Tav had actually been in an accident two years back—which had led to her cutting herself off from her own family, starting therapy with Withers, and completely changing her worldview—her bad memory was not so bad as to forget her ex.

Her bloody ex. Gortash.

Her Gortash. Tav cursed her luck.  

The Enver Gortash she remembered would never have popped into a fast food joint like this.  He had been brilliant and arrogant and callous and cutthroat, and keen to show off with the wealth and influence he had built for himself.  Cheap burgers and coffee were the sort of late night comfort foods she would have been the one to bring to their dates to mock him with.  But never him.  He would have taken her out to the fanciest restaurant with more stars to its name than one could see in the smoggy city skies.  And he would have smirked at her from across the table and poured her wine older than both of them as they laughed and planned and performed their dance as Bane and Bhaal’s chosen ones.  Yet, here he was, in the middle of Hellrider’s Kitchen, dressed in a gaudy leather jacket and a black button up shirt that had far too many buttons undone, standing so out of place against the brightly colored cheesy decor.  

Gortash looked the same.  Same carefully tousled hair, same five o clock shadow, same blue steel eyes so dark they were almost black.  The clothes might have been a bit fancier.  And the circles underneath his eyes seemed to be a bit darker than they had been before, with a few more creases joining them around the edges.  But he was still the same.

Tav tried not to sweat from the heat of the grill and the intensity of his gaze.  Her panicked lie had been a half truth; the initial shock of the accident had left her mind scrambled.  Ever since, she always forgot what she needed when she went to the grocery store unless she brought a list.  But the accident hadn’t been so bad as to completely erase the unofficial relationship she had been in with her father’s business partner’s (decently) handsome and (relatively) young assistant.  

Instead, that accident had been a wake up call for Tav.  In life or death experiences, some people claimed to see a white light, or a flashback of all their past deeds.  What Tav had seen instead had been a reflection of herself, hollow and empty in the reflection of the doctor’s visor.  And she looked utterly miserable, alone, and bitter. That was the first step.  The first step, towards realizing that there was more to life than making money and amassing influence through the suffering of others.  That the cutthroat, cruel world her father wanted her in wasn’t the one that she wanted.  That she yearned for a relationship not built upon power plays and manipulation, but a genuine one, full of compassion and hope.

She knew that it started out as selfish.  And yes, even two years later, she still knew she had a very long way to go to truly be a better person.  But the more she strayed from her father and his company—and the more she spent time practicing empathy and compassion—the more she began to think that she could maybe, truly, someday, become worthy of being a better person.  And that small kernel of hope kept her going.

With her new outlook, came new friends.  And her new friends were an important, guiding influence on her, teaching her that people could actually care, without money or power or influence hanging over their heads like a guillotine, and that she could care in turn.  They had been the ones to really show her how bad the environment at Bane, Bhaal, and Myrkul’s had been.  

As for Gortash—well, he was so devoted to the company that surely he would have continued to be just as bad an influence on her if she’d stayed in touch.  He was a prick and an arse.  He got good people like Karlach fired and his morality was as loose as his half-laced shirt.  He was a controlling, manipulative bastard who had only tolerated Tav in so much as she had been brutal and cruel herself.  And he would have tried to drag her back down to the depths she was trying to escape.  Or so she told herself.

Really, when she’d deleted his number and blocked him two years ago, she had figured he would have moved on and forgotten her in turn.  That he would prove to be just as selfish and apathetic and incapable of love as she’d tried to convince herself that he was.  

But now, Gortash’s words echoed in her ears, as she counted out change to pass to the customer in front of her.

‘I tolerated Orin, but I liked you.’  Why did he have to come back, after all this time, when she had worked so hard to build a new life for herself out of the shadows of depravity and the cycle of viciousness she had been entrenched in?  Why did he have to speak to her with such fervor in his voice that made her question ever leaving him behind?  

She felt shame and guilt stir up in her just as much as embarrassment.  One look at him and she was backsliding into her deceitful ways.  He made a hypocrite of her.  She knew this.  But she did not know what else he would make of her if he knew the truth.

“Ahem.  Tav.  I seem to have come off stronger than I intended.”

Tav blinked again, and realized that the line had cleared, and Gortash had taken the opportunity of the gap to approach her at the counter once more. “I do apologize for my enthusiasm.  Orin said you’d left me, but I never forgot about you,” he said, in that low sultry voice of his that settled so familiarly in the depths of Tav’s chest like a fine sip of whiskey.  “If the past is lost to you, let me clear up some mysteries, then.  We share so much history.”

“Uh, no thanks,” she said as politely as she could.

He gave her a look that she couldn’t quite read.  It might have been disappointment, or it might have been calculating, or it might have been something far away in between.

“Well, at least let me give you my number in case you change your mind,” Gortash said.  And he pulled out a black wallet with a golden clasp.  He plucked a sharply printed business card from the folds, and slid it across the counter towards her. Tav glanced down at it.  Her heart continued to drum a rapid beat.  “Look, I—” She was cut off, as her coworker came up next to her and plopped a tray on the counter.  “Order for Gor-trash!”

“Gortash,” the man in question corrected, irritably. Tav picked up the cup of coffee and the paper bag and practically shoved it into his arms.  “Here you go, have a blessed day.  Bye!” Gortash’s eyes lingered on hers, and she couldn’t help but notice the heat of his hands—her own brushing against his as she let go of the paper bag. “I’m going to take my break.  Cover me,” Tav said to her coworker.  And Tav logged off of the register and quickly headed towards the breakroom. Tav retreated into the breakroom and collapsed into a cracked plastic seat next to the sad Charlie Brown-esque fake Christmas tree HR had set up.  Beneath the glow of the cheap twinkling lights and the harsh filters of the overhead fluorescents, she buried her head in her arms.  And proceeded to have a mild crisis.

Everything was okay, Tav reminded herself, as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to reign in and calm the flustered thoughts that were multiplying and bouncing against the sides of her skull.

Tab bit her lip.  She replayed the moment when his black ice gaze had turned towards her and thawed in recognition.  His surprise had ripped through that confident, composed mask he always wore, and it would have mirrored her own if she hadn't recognized him first a second sooner and had had the briefest of moments to school her expression.  

Gods, her stomach felt like it was trying to unknot itself.  Her palms were sweaty, and she felt like her heartbeat was playing along to “The Little Drummer Boy.”   

Parum-pa-pum-pum.

Someone tapped her on her shoulder, and Tav nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Sorry!  Didn't mean to scare you.” Tav glanced up, and saw one of her coworkers—Lia—peering down at her.  Lia’s long dark hair fell across half her face like a curtain as she tilted her head.

“It's okay,” Tav said, giving a weak smile.  “Just jittery at the end of my shift.” “Ooof, I know how that goes.  Especially running the register,” Lia said with a sympathetic look.  She pressed something into Tav’s hand.  “By the way, you left this at the counter.” “Oh.  Thanks,” Tav said, automatically.  She looked down at the matte black business card. “Are you okay?” Lia asked her.  “That guy wasn’t being an arse, was he?” “...he kind of was.  But I kind of was, too,” Tav admitted. “Well that sounds like something juicy,” Lia said, raising her brows.  “But, I totally understand if you don’t want to share.  Just know, I’m sure that whatever he did was waaaay worse than what you could ever do.” “Thanks,” Tav said, and she tried to give her a small smile.  She wasn’t sure if she could quite agree with that last statement. “And you know I’m totally down to stalk that guy’s socials for you and drag him for all his embarrassing pics, right?” 

Tav managed a shaky laugh.  “Thank you, Lia.  But it’s alright.  Really.  Really.” “Okay, then.  I better get back out there.”  Lia gave her one last look, before turning and leaving the breakroom. And Tav was left to contemplate the business card in her hand.  She turned it over, and traced the embossed golden letters, almost wondering if they would rub off at her touch. Enver Gortash.

He didn’t mean anything to her.  Not anymore.  Not after how far she had come.  No, she was in a better place now.  She was here.  And here, he was just an annoying customer, a blip during her shift.  And nothing needed to change.

Tav paused.  And shook her head, flicking the business card into the trash can.  She whispered her thoughts out loud to herself, as if it were a spell that would stave off the unsettled feeling her in gut.

“...nothing needs to change.”

[anderstrevelyan]

gortash interfering with press freedom.jpg

Noteworthy to me:

it took at least a TENDAY to print all the Gort posters around the city

he hired a Banite as an official aide (obviously) (Ulova's the Black Gauntlet up in his office)

Ettvard is reeking of Banite too (I see you, "yours faithfully")

he didn't even send this protest

a Gortash signing his name just "G" is an angry Gortash (see the "inappropriate tone" Ketheric letter)

[rinny-rae]

Finally finished TavTash chapter 3

3.5k words