Chapter Text
Through the foggy window, Bloomridge Park is a grim marsh rather than the winter wonderland Saya was hoping to rise to. It matters not that it is her morn day, nor that Saya cleared her schedule. Nature does what it wants. And apparently that is to provide another Nightal day of dark slush washed away by freezing rain.
There will be no crunch of frost beneath their boots as they stroll through the park, no pelting Enver with snowballs. Saya frowns.
She woke up in Enver’s bed again, away from her own apartments and the Temple, as is her prerogative. The Temple of Bhaal is thriving, thanks in no small part to their partnership, and soon it will know a glory it has never before. Saya’s mysterious comings and goings themselves have proven valuable. Keeping the Bhaalist masses on their toes, anxiously awaiting their Chosen’s arrival has become a newfound source of power.
If they knew that Saya is here, however… but that is what the alliance is for, Enver certainly won’t inform them. And, even if Orin has an inkling, any attempt to disparage Saya will only make her sister appear petty and unfit to be the true ruler. Saya will always have her pure lineage over Orin. Her word is Bhaal’s.
Saya scans over the streets below, her hand pressed to the glass. A dreary drizzle patters lightly against the pane, droplets rolling down. Saya would feel Bone Chilled just imagining being out there, if it weren’t for how hellishly hot he has his home.
Logs crackle, woodsmoke curls from the lit hearth, filling the chamber with its scent. The velvet robe she is wearing is perhaps too warm. Saya loosens the belt around her waist, then fans herself with her hand. Time to prepare for the day; she approaches the mirror.
As soon as she does, Saya’s reflection confronts her. Hair mussed from last night. A purple bruise on her collarbone, peeking out from the neckline of the robe. The cursive S embroidered on the left breast, branding her like cattle. Saya runs her fingers through her hair, letting her long waves cascade over the marks.
Gods. Even Saya’s wildest bloody nightmares couldn’t have foretold this result. The two of them have become utterly domestic. Both late-to-bed and early-to-rise, Enver is probably downstairs, his mug of Kaeth depositing dark rings onto the parchment of the Gazette as he scowls, quill scratching at something. Probably planning tomorrow’s Banite punishments or his next experiment or penning some blackmail. It is better that he gets all of that done while she rests.
And yet, she is happy – sometimes it feels like a dream.
The wooden steps creak, drawing her out of it. The door swinging open, further in.
Enver is wearing his own matching robe in black, emblazoned with a filigreed E in golden thread, loose, his chest hair exposed. He still has his spectacles on, proof he was poring over some documents. Saya considers pushing him down onto the bed, but she returns to the window. Not many are out today in the park, for good reason.
“Good morning, dearest.” Enver joins Saya, his arm curling around her waist. He always stands so close to her, she can feel his breath, before he kisses her cheek. “Thirty-six winters, is it? Congratulations are in order!”
“Must you state it like that?” She sighs as she turns to him. “It makes me feel ancient.”
“It is merely custom,” he says. Even so, Saya will probably never be accustomed to it. The last person who regularly announced her age was Mother, and the number was much smaller back then. “And besides, you have plenty of years ahead, dear.” Enver locks eyes with her, his gaze smouldering for how early it is. “If you feel ancient, consider my lifespan.” He pulls her hips flush to his. “You should enjoy me, while you can.”
Saya shakes her head, her hands settling on his shoulder blades. “You say that as if you intend to live to the age of an average human.”
Enver scoffs. “I certainly don’t. But how long I live is up to you, is it not, dear assassin?” The question looms over them like the shadows of two Gods. They both know it won’t be that simple.
However great his ambitions are, Saya can’t ignore the morsel of truth to what Enver said. Over the course of their relationship, he has changed much more than she has. Every passing moment is etched into his face.
Saya likes the creases that have deepened, the hollows beneath his eyes, the healed divot in his chin where she kissed him with her blade long ago. She likes that she has been there to witness it all, and she likes that she will be there in the end. But it isn’t time to think about that; she knows where this is leading, and it is obviously not outside.
“Is this my gift?”
“The first of many.”
Enver shoots Saya a wry smile, then pins her against the window. Even deterred by the thick robe, the condensation behind her is cold and damp, but his lips, his hands are warm.
She tastes the bitter remnants of the Kaeth on his tongue as it slides into her mouth. His fingers hook into either side of her robe, letting her breasts spill out. The calluses of his bare hand brush over her nipple, and Saya moans into the kiss. She closes her eyes, ready to lose herself, to banish all of her thoughts, but Enver pulls away, spectacles foggy, his voice breathy. “Gods, nothing under there?”
“I just woke up.”
“Your commitment to efficiency has always been commendable,” Enver teases, ignoring her reasoning. With one smooth motion, he undoes the sash holding Saya in, the garment parting to expose her whole body.
Saya has grown to savour that telltale flick of Enver’s gaze. The secret prick of blasphemy that jolts up her spine when he takes in her unholy birthmark. How his cock stirs every time he sees her. How it presses into her, how it pulses inside her.
The corner of Saya’s lip curls up. “Take yours off.” Enver flings his robe aside, revealing the tenting black silk of his braies. “Everything.”
He obeys, displaying himself fully for her, hands grabbing under her ass to lift her. Saya’s legs instinctively wrap around him, his hard cock asserting itself between them. Gods, are they going to fuck already? He hasn’t even drawn the curtains.
But Enver doesn’t enter her, he sloppily kisses along Saya’s jaw, down her throat, until he finds the bruise he left last night. He seals his lips around it, sucking punishingly. Heat pools within her, her cunt soon slick with need.
“What if someone sees us?” she breathes.
“No one is outside, you should know that,” Enver mumbles into her collarbone. “And if they are, let them.” Saya should expect this from him by now, but blood rushes to her cheeks. Not at the exposure, but – “Let the whole of Baldur’s Gate know that you are mine.”
“Gods, Enver.” She doesn’t want to hear him say it; she wants nothing more than for him to say it. “Fuck me.”
“Aren’t you eager?” He smirks up at her, then carries her to the bed, laying her on his overstuffed mattress. Saya shrugs off the robe, tossing it somewhere. She spreads her legs, ready for him to fill her. Instead of doing that, he smoothes out her fringe, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips. “Patience, dearest.” He rises, walking towards the weapons cabinet, his cock bobbing as he does so.
Saya should have caught his wrist and pulled him back, but she sits up, narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll see,” Enver calls over his shoulder as he retrieves the decorative tray of daggers. Once he returns, he kneels on the bed to present it to Saya.
Five loves of Saya’s life lie on the burgundy velvet: Stillmaker. Dolor Amarus. Yukimasa. Bloodthirst. Damia. Then, Enver’s own plain dagger.
Saya tilts her head. “Hm?”
“Sincerist apologies to keep you waiting in your time of need,” Enver says without sincerity, “but it would be terribly improper of me to be so selfish on your morn day.” Even though she wouldn’t have minded, Saya laughs. “I thought you might like to play with these first.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I want what you want.” So, Enver does want it, and Saya can’t say she isn’t tempted.
She bites her lip. Her hand traces over each of them. Every blade is different, every grip. Each has its own history, entwined with theirs.
Stillmaker’s paralytic effects, Enver’s design, its green enveloping red, coiling and twisting. If there is one blade that represents them, it is this. Dolor Amarus: a classic, one of the twin serrated daggers she used when they first met. Yukimasa, imported all the way from Kozakura. Bloodthirst, Father’s sanguine solidified, sharp; its hilt newly updated to house the Netherstone they will soon acquire. Damia, the small, folded crescent, draws her attention most of all.
“You kept this?”
“Of course, dear,” Enver says. “I meant to return it to you, but…”
Saya lifts Damia, unfolding her. She used to keep Damia near her heart. A curved blade for Bhaal’s High Primistress, before she was Chosen.
The steel gleams in the morning light as she brings Damia to Enver’s chin. She hovers over the scar the Urge had made all those years ago.
“You used to threaten me quite often, you know,” he says, almost wistfully. “And more than that, besides.”
“Aw,” Saya coos, pursing her lips. “Do you miss it?”
“In a manner.” Though she is teasing him, it has been a while.
“Lie back, then.” Enver complies, laying the tray of daggers to the side, then settling back against one of his fluffy down pillows. “Perhaps, I am feeling nostalgic, too,” Saya muses, climbing into his lap, exchanging Damia for Dolor Amarus and holding it to his throat. “Remember this?” Enver gulps, his cock twitching at that, he takes it in hand. Saya lets Dolor Amarus nick Enver just enough for a single rivulet of blood to roll down his neck to stain his pillow. The scent of it fills her nostrils, the sight of it – red and fresh – clouds her vision.
Gods, she needs to taste it. Saya’s own blood is coveted, but Enver’s has become an all-consuming addiction. So sweet, metallic. Placing Dolor Amarus back on the tray, Saya leans forward, her breasts, her cunt pressing into him, her sweat, her arousal sticking to him. She feels Enver pumping into his fist, the head of his cock prodding her stomach, as her tongue follows the full arc of the droplet’s descent. Saya laps it all up, every swipe of her tongue stoking the embers of her desire higher and higher. To suggest this… Enver knows her too well.
Saya has to force herself to withdraw, her heart pounding, her thoughts jumbled, dizzy with Enver. The reverence, the worship in his gaze. The slick sounds echoing, the groans escaping his throat as he idly strokes himself to her. For a moment, Saya is mesmerised, watching the flushed tip of his cock emerge from his curled fingers.
Not yet. Not yet.
“Stop.”
Enver grasps her waist instead, pulling her further into his lap. Saya lets out a little gasp, trembling at the sensation of his cock rubbing against her cunt. Hot and stiff and demanding. It’s curved up, precum beading from the slit. It takes almost all of her composure not to immediately sink down onto him.
Even though Saya is aching, she picks up Damia again. She naturally slots back into the scar Enver has worn with pride ever since. It adds a certain rugged charm that the patriars can’t get enough of. I should thank you. he had said, always capable of putting a spin on anything. But it has come to mean much more than that.
Every day he greets the world with that carved into his face, he shows who he belongs to.
But this time, Saya is in control. “For old times’ sake,” she says.
“Go on, then.” And she does. Enver hisses as she draws the blade back over the scarred tissue. Her eyes do not leave his. She watches them squeeze shut beneath the lenses, watches the blood rush up to dapple Damia’s edge. The crimson pools, then overflows from the deepened crevice, trickling down Enver’s chin. She licks her lips, still tasting him on them.
Saya wants to suck at the cut, but if she starts again, she may never stop. She clenches Damia’s hilt so tightly her hand shakes. She can’t resist running her tongue along the flat of the blade before she places it back on the tray.
There’s just one more she’d like to revisit. She picks up Enver’s old dagger. Plain steel, plain leather hilt. The most mundane weapon she has ever seen him wield. That which he used during their first heist together, that which he still keeps close. She’s never asked where he got it, but she doesn’t need to, to know it has been with him a long time. The edge is honed, but scratches and scuffs marr its surface, the leather has been replaced.
Rather than bringing the point up, she turns the hilt towards Enver.
“Your turn.” Saya places the grip in his hand.
Enver’s brows knit together. “Dear?”
“Your turn,” Saya repeats. “Mark me.”
It was a simple command, but if anything, Enver seems more confused.
“Haven’t you always wanted to?” Lifting off from his lap, Saya kneels before him. He wasn’t even inside her, but she feels so empty. “You always stare at my scars.” Her fingers flit over the sliver on her bicep. “This one.” She drags her hand over the swell of her breast, to where her navel should be. “And my other marks.” She presses into her birthmark. “You brand my clothing, dress me in your colours, and yet, you’ve never left anything of permanence on me.”
“Gods, Saya.” Enver’s eyes scan over her body. “Are you certain?”
Is she? “Just something small,” she says. “And then, you can do what you want to me.”
Saya lies back on the pillow next to his. But Enver doesn’t move. “You can take, but you can’t give, is that it?” she taunts. “What would Bane think?”
Suddenly, it’s as if all the light were sucked out of the room. Hearth extinguished, curtains drawn. Just as swiftly, everything flickers back to normal. Did she blink? “Lecturing me on my own God’s tenets now?” The bed dips as Enver approaches Saya, leaning over her. “Don’t tell me you’ve converted in secret.”
“You’d know if I had.”
“True,” Enver says, gesturing with the dagger. “If you were a Banite, you wouldn’t be nearly as undisciplined.”
“Hm. If I were a Banite…” Even as a jest, Saya shouldn’t be entertaining this line of conversation. The pureblooded child of Bhaal, converting to Bane? It’s ridiculous, at best. Will cost her her soul, even her body on this plane, at worst. But Father has been silent lately, and he’s silent now. “How would you initiate me?”
“Me?” Enver clicks his tongue. “A Chosen, personally performing the initiation of each and every peon? You and I both know that’s not standard protocol.”
Saya flutters her eyelashes. “You wouldn’t make an exception?”
Enver humours her. “For you, dearest, I may have to. Conversion from Bhaal’s Chosen to a Fist of Bane would be no simple task. And that’s not even accounting for the matter of your particularly vexing disposition. Indeed, Bhaalists have always required a firm Hand to guide them. Blindly following your basest urges is no way to advance in this world.” He stares down at her cunt. “Though, I’ll admit, I am beginning to see some of the allure.” Saya flushes. He sucks in air through his teeth as they both remember what is about to happen.
“Spread your legs,” Enver orders, determination wrought on his face, in his clutch of the dagger. “Here will do.” He angles it towards her inner thigh.
“Dangerous choice,” Saya says. So close to a major artery. An amateur may kill her if they attempt this, but Enver is far from unexperienced at carving bodies. Though, perhaps Saya is his first willing subject. Enver hesitates, the dagger’s point swaying. “You’ll need a steadier – a firmer hand than that.”
“Perhaps Stillmaker would serve better.”
“I want to feel it.” The slice, the tear, the burn, the rush. Saya wants to own all of it. “I’m used to it.”
Enver can’t argue with the hundreds of cuts lacing her skin, mostly inflicted in honour of Father. Saya remembers the gentleness of his touch, the first time he applied a salve to them. He knows the cut of a blade, the lash of a whip, the lick of flames. How each feels, how to care for them, she had thought. When she saw his body, she understood why. “Very well. Stay still.” With one hand, he pushes up his spectacles. “You’re lucky I’m wearing these.”
Saya can’t help but laugh before he cuts into her and the delicious pain overtakes her consciousness. He slices, once, twice, two more times. With every stroke, she shudders, reveling in the sharp ecstasy. The perfume of her blood thick and heavy in the air mingles with his and the smoke.
It’s over almost as quickly as it begins.
“Done.”
“Already?” Saya looks down between her legs. Blood is streaming from the wound, but she can make out the design. The single, pronged symbol will be illegible to all except them. The equivalent of an ‘E,’ written in the Espruar-Infernal-derived cipher they developed for their correspondence. It’s small enough it may even blend in with her crosshatch of scars. “It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure? You seemed a bit underwhelmed by the procedure,” Enver teases. “I could add more if you’d like. Perhaps my full name.” He grins to himself. “No, that wouldn’t be nearly enough. ‘Property of Lord Enver Gortash?’ In Common, even, so there is no question about the meaning. Hm… ‘If lost, return to Lord Enver Gortash,’ then my address. Shall I offer a reward?”
“Enver.” Saya traces the raised scars on his back, pulling him onto her. She rolls her hips impatiently. The wound will heal quickly, and his cock is still hard, her cunt is still wet, leaking. “I said it’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect.” Enver finally removes his spectacles, the blackness of his pupils eclipsing his already dark eyes. Setting his dagger aside, he nudges against her cunt, then pushes firmly into her. Enver inhales sharply. “You feel perfect. Gods, you’re drenched.” Saya can barely feel the cut now. Only how well they fit together, how he fulfills her, body and soul. Enver presses his fingers where she needs them the most. Saya moans at just a slight graze. “Perhaps I should have marked you earlier.” Enver circles her clit as he languidly fills her. Her hips buck on their own, taking him deeper. “Good.”
Enver. Her equal. The stretch, the heat of him inside her, suffusing through her. The pressure is building within Saya, so much sooner than it would normally be. Her cunt flutters, clenching around him. Breath hitching, Enver picks up the pace. He’s far too good at this, bringing Saya to the precipice is practically rote. Of course, once she is there, he keeps her teetering there, condemning her to that tortuous purgatory.
Saya grinds against his hand. The callused pad of his thumb is warm and rough, better, but it’s still not enough. It’s still not what he can do for her. “Enver.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Not today.”
“Apologies. How thoughtless of me.” Again, Enver does not sound apologetic. His smirk confirms that he very well is not. But that does not matter now. All that matters is that he resumes. His fingers dip lower, spreading Saya around him, smearing her wetness before he finds her clit once more.
Saya claws at Enver’s shoulder blades, her sharp nails raking down his back. Every roll of his fingers coaxes a moan from her lips, the promise of rapture haunting her, eluding her. She chases the motions of his hand with her hips, fucking herself on his cock. Enver is not immune to how she feels either, he is struggling to keep his eyes open, trying not to finish before she does. “Hells.”
It’s tempting; she could squeeze tight and milk every last drop. Gods, he’s going to spill in her soon. The thought of it alone brings Saya closer. Sweat frosts over her flesh, her legs begin to shake. Electricity pumps in her veins. Blood thunders around her.
She cries Enver’s name as she comes apart. That only spurs him on to fuck her in earnest. Gripping Saya’s thighs, he nearly bends her in half, every punishing snap of his hips prolonging her release. It’s relentless, she is fraying at the seams, fracturing to pieces. Saya bites her own lip, tasting that unholy tang on her tongue. Even without his gauntlet on, Enver’s fingers are surely digging hard enough that it will bruise, marking her yet again.
Enver drops Saya’s legs, burying his face in her shoulder, panting next to her ear. His hand wedges between them to play with her breast, palming, then tweaking at her nipple as he ruts into her. “My goddess.” Just his voice, his breath, fanning over her, vibrating the air, has Saya quivering. He flicks his tongue against the sensitive point of her ear. Goosebumps prickle over her flesh, an icy chill spearing through the consuming heat. “Say that you’re mine.”
Enver is staring at her now. His onyx eyes, searching hers. His hair is sticking to his brow, his cheeks flushed, dry blood streaking his chin. Unravelling suits Enver better than any stupid, foppish clothes. Saya’s lips part, she almost wants to say it.
Threading her fingers into Enver’s hair, she pulls his mouth to hers. Before she kisses him, she murmurs two words against his lips: “You know.”
That’s all Saya will give him. It’s more than she’s ever admitted.
And Enver does know. How could he not? He’s carved into her flesh now, as Saya is his.
Saya kisses him ardently, desperately, messily. As if she could convey this enslaving feeling through that alone. For once, she does not close her eyes. She drowns in his, until they finally screw shut and his cock pulses inside her. Warmth floods, coats, fills. It’s everything Saya has ever needed.
Enver collapses on top of Saya, his heart hammering against hers. It takes a moment for her to even realise what they just did, what she just said. But she doesn’t have a chance to contemplate it. He pulls out of her, then rises from the bed.
“Get up,” Enver demands. “We have places to be.”
“What?” Saya huffs. “You can’t order me around, it’s my day, remember?” His luxurious linens are soft against her bare skin. Euphoria is still lapping at her, Enver’s seed is still seeping within her. Saya doesn’t want to get up even for a wink. And, the lighting has not changed at all to imply that the outdoor conditions have improved in the slightest. Still a bleak, miserable day. “Can’t we just stay here?”
“As much as I would like that, there’s somewhere I want to take you,” Enver says. This is either going to be awful or wonderful. But he knows what will happen if she doesn’t like it, so Saya chooses to believe it will be worth it.
“Fine,” she says, “but can you at least promise me that no patriars will be involved?”
He laughs, touching her cheek. “That much I can guarantee you.”
Saya reluctantly rolls out of bed.