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Temptations of Circuits and Sin

CW: Blood/Gore, Torture, Medical Torture, Medical Experimentation, Drugged Torture, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Religious Zealotry, Ingesting Body Fluids (Blood), Cannibalism, Loss of Agency, Durge Episode, Clawing/Scratching, Grinding, Choking, Dom/Sub

Pairing: OC!Durge x Gortash

Word Count: 5221 Ao3 Link Part 2

Part 1

◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥

The meeting between the Chosen drew laboriously on. The bhaalspawn could feel the urge in the back of their mind twitch at the banality of the current discussion.

War plans, invasions, political scheming - it all felt like needless pomp.

Each chime from the grandiose, overly mechanical clock rang through their ears like a shrill laugh. Mocking the Murder Lord’s chosen. Bound by the drivel of civility. Chained to this table like a sacrifice at an altar, for a ritual they cannot comprehend and care little for. Only instead of being cut and splayed, they were forced into an agreeable nature. It made them want to split their own skull to pierce through the dull ache of boredom.

Another melodious chime tore through the room. They slammed their dagger into the wooden table, bringing whatever conversation they had long since drowned out to an abrupt halt.

“Do you have something you wish to bring to the table, Assassin? Other than more scuffs and scrapes?" Gortash’s question was meant to rile them. Shame them for their outburst as if the Tyrant held such power over them.

"I do not see why I must be here for the Moonrise invasion plans. They have little to do with my part in this.” They tried to cow the petulant tone in their voice.

Gortash smiled with a seductive ease. The sight of it sent a lash to the bhaalspawn’s core. They turned their head with a dissatisfied grunt.

“We simply want to ensure you understand and are kept in the loop. If you do not wish to be here any longer, by all means, you may leave." The Tyrant’s words caused a roaring heat to roll over in their belly.

"Good. I have a complicated series of staged ritualistic murders to plan. These meetings are a waste of my time and talent.” They lifted the dagger from where it still dug upright into the table. They deftly twirled the blade as they sheathed it. Gortash gave a wry, crooked smile.

"Well then, it sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Chosen." His words dripped with coy superiority.

The bhaalspawn scowled as they left the war room, the doors slamming shut behind them. As they left the confines of Wyrm’s Rock, they could feel the eyes of prey upon them. It made their blood itch. How dare such pathetic creatures use such weak eyes to observe their visage? Their body surged with a murder-lust their Father demanded of them. Their focus flicked from patron to patron, momentarily stopping on a beggar woman who seemed sickly.

Normally, they avoided such frail offerings for their Father. The god of disease already claimed this soul, but it would suffice for the practice and planning of the staged rituals.

—

Luring the beggar back to the abandoned house they used for such practices was easy. The house was a secret place for sacrifices that would defile their Father-God's sacred temple. This blood would not spill in the name of Bhaal. It would not be clean and freely flow from the lash of their blade. There would be no praising cuts to adorn the body before Bhaal claimed it. It did not deserve the temple.

They gave the woman a meal and medicine to ease her fever. It would be no good for study if the brain was cooked from illness. She cried in supplication at the feet of her would-be savior. The Chosen did not move from their seat. They looked on with deliberating patience, waiting for the sleeping drug to take hold of the peasant.

A few moments later, her feeble body slumped in her chair, and her breathing slowed to a dangerous pace. The bhaalspawn lifted the unconscious body with ease, opening a hidden latch in the floorboards and taking her to the secret basement below. They tied their unwitting project to a medical table stained with blood from overuse. Save for the stains, the table was remarkably clean.

In fact, the entire space was neatly organized and relatively clean for what one might expect from a Chosen of Bhaal. Shelves held books and scrolls at one end of the room, and another was full of varied herbs, toxins, and alchemical supplies.

They picked up a small razor, sharp yet delicate, and shaved the head of all hair, removing anything that could impede sight and compromise the precision of their cuts. They began to split the skin of the woman at the crown of the skull. She was too far gone in the drug to do more than twitch out of instinct, eyelids barely fluttering at the glide of the blade across her skin. They carefully sliced around the crown, blood dripping down the twitching face. With a slow ease, they peeled back the skin, pinning it out of the way.

They licked the blade clean with a satisfied hum, then set it down. Grabbing another larger knife with unique serrations, they growled a noise of frustrated contemplation. They hovered over the exposed skull, steadying their erratic breath.

They felt a sudden spur of pain cut through their body. Father did not approve of their hesitation. He misunderstood - they did not hesitate out of guilt or some other weak foreign emotion. They hesitated out of pride. Their cuts were divine prayer, the mutilated bodies at their hand a providence. Though this meat was unfit for the temple, they were still a priest and must act under their holy creed. Sloppy would not suffice.

Once their breath drew steady and their heart beat in rhythm with the world around them, the serrated blade started to work on the skull. They finessed away a small piece of bone. exposing the brain. They felt their lips twitch with excitement at the sight. Their hands shook over the enticing organic matter. With a sharp inhale, they placed the blade neatly adjacent to the small razor.

They gathered a few small vials of liquid from a shelf. The liquids consisted mostly of poisons and some acids of varying strength. They mused over which to try first, eventually deciding on a common nerve poison. They slowly added a drop to the exposed brain and waited for the poison to take hold. A few moments later the body violently seized against the table. The loud rattling of their bones hitting wood echoed through the room with gasping strained breathing. The body continued to convulse until the limbs froze, contorted joints locking in place.

Seeing the body dance for them enthralled the bhaalspawn, a small smile forming at the corner of their lips, showing the sharpened teeth beneath. They grabbed a vial of acid and carefully but excitedly poured a drop into the cranial cavity. The body twitched but had very little response. The Chosen glared at the defiant meatsack. They took a syringe and drew up some of the acid, injecting it into the internal jugular vein.

The process was slow, but eventually, the cuts started to ooze once again. The urge inside them stirred at the smell of the sanguine nectar. Despite it being poisoned and diseased, their bloodlust craved the carnage. When it became evident the acid would not have the desired effect, they stood and reached for another toxin. Their deliberation was cut short by the body experiencing another violent series of convulsions, breathing rapidly increasing. Bloody foam gathered around the mouth.

The bhaalspawn cursed. They tried to keep the wretched thing from choking on her bile and spittle, but it was too late. The chest sank as her limbs went rigid, still bent from the nerve poison. In frustration, the bhaalspawn slashed the throat of the beggar and drove the blade into her heart.

They unlatched the body from the table and tossed it aside, sighing at their experiment cut short. They bent over the table, their face a mere hair’s breadth away from the pooled blood left there. They closed their eyes and languidly inhaled deep and slow. The iron aroma of the crimson called to them. They slowly dipped their tongue into the pool and licked a long stripe up the table, clenching the table so tight their sharp fingernails left indentations. Suddenly, a vision invaded their mind.

They imagined licking a body, warm and supple under their touch, blood flowing from the cuts drawn by their blade. Their tongue traveled up the collarbone to the neck. They pulled back to gaze upon the face of their prey, and instead of seeing lifeless eyes from a sacrifice, they saw his face. The Tyrant looking back at them with his smug smile shocked them out of the daydream.

They shot up from the table with sudden alertness, eyes wide and darting about the room. Disgust roiled in their core, their heartbeat once again thrumming wildly. Once the panic of the uninvited vision left, they glowered in still silence.

“Sceleritas!” they broke the quiet, summoning their faithful servant. The imp appeared with a pop of sulfurous smoke.

“Yes, my Liege?” He bowed to his master.

“Take this body to the ruins outside the temple. Make use of it.”

“As you command, my Dark Master.” Another deep bow. He took hold of the corpse and snapped his fingers, taking the body with him in another swirl of infernal smoke.

Once Sceleritas vanished, they cleaned the remainder of the spilled viscera. They tried to push thoughts of Bane’s Chosen from their mind. They soon left the abandoned house. Their body still ached with the need for bloodshed, proper bloodshed. They needed to still their mind in prayer. Their Father would make all things clear. Cleanse the weakness from them as they cleanse this world of vitality. They had several sacrifices awaiting them in the temple, ready to be made holy for their Father.

They stalked to the sewer entrance leading to the temple ruins, so distracted by the events of the last few hours they didn’t notice the lowly Banite who had been following them since the meeting.

◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥

Enver paced his foundry workshop. The metal clack of the cane hitting the stone floor was the only sound among the hissing steam vents until there was a knock at the door.

“Enter.” He cooly called out. The Banite sent to tail Bhaal’s Chosen returned from their mission.

“Sir.” The soldier stood at attention with a small bow of his head. Enver waved his hand dismissively.

“At ease. I assume you were successful? Tell me what you found.” He sat in the plush chair at a writing desk, hand still atop his cane.

“Yes sir, I tracked them to a decrepit house in the Lower City. They brought a peasant beggar with them but left alone, with no additional baggage or body. They took to the sewers after.” the Banite reported. Enver brushed his metal-clad thumb over his lips while humming a thought.

“And how long were they in the house?”

“A few hours, my lord.”

“Very well, leave the address for me. You are dismissed.” Enver passed the soldier a piece of blank parchment and a quill. The man did as he was commanded and took his leave.

Enver sat staring at the address for moments that turned to minutes until he tapped his cane against the stone, standing and moving to the mobile teaching-board covered with schematics and architectural drawings. He pinned the address to the board next to sketches of an automaton design. A low hum echoed from his chest to his throat.

“Interesting.”

—

Half a tenday came and went since Enver first had the Bhaalist followed. Each day since, he commanded his most skilled rogues to continue tracking and observing the curious bhaalspawn. Always the same report; They lure a lowly peasant, usually sick or diseased, they go to the abandoned house, hours pass, and they leave.

Enver never gave much thought to the daily routines of Bhaal worshipers, or his blood-spawn, but his mind kept wandering back to them. It was a near hyperfixation if he was being honest with himself. He told himself several times over the past few days that the Chosen was likely doing their duty assigned to them, simple as that. And yet, he couldn’t shake that there was more to it than that. More to them.

He found himself staring out a large arched window, the main source of light for his office at this time of day. He couldn’t see the house from his lofty tower, but he knew the direction all the same. His thoughts swarming and swirling like rats caught in a current.

“Lord Gortash.” The servant startled him from his troubling fixation. He scowled at being caught unaware.

“Yes? What is it?” his voice low and threatening.

“They’ve taken more to the house. This time several at once, a count of four peasants, sir.” The servant dutifully reported. Enver stood pensive for a moment before grabbing his elaborately embroidered overcoat.

“Thank you. Dismissed.” he waved a hand at the cowering servant, then left.

◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥

Days upon days of failure weighed heavy on the bhaalspawn. Failure to their Father, failure to their mission, failure to their urges.

They attempted concoction after concoction of poisons, toxins, and acids to no avail. The resulting deaths didn’t look right, wasn’t what they needed. The nerves would seize, but that was the only success. The poisons extracted from mushrooms would cause too much distress to the stomach, the poisons harvested from a particularly nasty insect resulted in too much swelling, and the toxic oils from dangerous plants caused uncontrollable and unpredictable rashes. They were at their wit's end. They chuckled a helpless, deranged laugh at the thought of having any wits left.

This obsession all but consumed their every waking moment. They had fallen behind in prayer, in their holy duty to the Temple, and their Father took notice. They were sure a punishment wasn’t far off. In desperation, they decided to lure a larger group tonight. They wouldn’t stop until they got it right, even if it took till morning.

They weren’t sure why this riddle had become so important to them. A flash of Gortash’s face flitted across their mind, and they growled under their breath. Perhaps it was simple competitive nature that made them so crazed for this answer, but the flutter of something in their core prevented them from fully accepting such a contrite explanation.

They strapped three of the half-unconscious bodies to chains hanging from the walls while the remaining one got the table. They stroked the face of the plump sacrifice laid flat on their altar, an altar to understanding rather than butchery.

“You are lucky. You get the comfortable seat.” Their sharpened nails dug into the skin a little too deep, drawing blood from the rosy apple cheek. They smiled with deranged glee, sharpened teeth flashing across their face as the smell of blood filled their nostrils. They breathed it in like the air would run out of the room. They blinked their eyes quickly, attempting to banish the crimson haze taking over.

“No, no, no, Father, please. Not now. Please I b-… I beg, Father, please!” They gripped the shoulders of the victim on the table tightly, bloodied claws digging in for purchase. But it was too late. Their sanity had left them, their Father-God demanding control over the bhaalspawn’s bloodlust. With a shrill manic cry, they clutched their head. Their body twitched through feral screams as they began to slice the warm and waiting flesh before them.

◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥

Enver didn’t relish in sneaking through the city, his city, but he could manage it when the occasion called for it. He quietly waited outside the entrance of the old house. A few glances about the area told him that if anyone was watching him, they likely wouldn’t care.

He slipped into the house with ease. Old dressers and empty crates filled the room. He cautiously looked about the dwelling, growing frustrated in thinking he had the wrong house, but then saw a curious set of marks behind some crates. Upon inspection, he found the hidden entrance to the basement. He paused at the open hatch, he knew it was a risk, but something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He inhaled a short, decisive breath and descended the ladder.

When he made contact with the ground, he found himself in a makeshift foyer that seemed to spill into a larger room. He slipped behind a crate against a wall, watching the scene escalate before him.

The bhaalspawn had finished chaining three people to a wall. An older woman who suffered from a cough wearing a washer woman’s apron with an embroidered monogram - a servant to a high house. A young man who seemed healthy with tanned, broad shoulders - a stable hand or farmer perhaps? And a young woman who seemed too thin but otherwise seemed healthy, based on the finer clothing, likely a brothel worker, a low-end brothel at that if she couldn’t be fed properly. The Assassin leaned over their fourth victim, a rotund man strapped to a table whose ankles and feet were puffy and swollen, a spoiled merchant, no doubt.

Enver’s eyes danced around the room, he saw bookshelves, what appeared to be medicine cabinets, an alchemy station, a writing desk-

Before he could finish assessing the room the bhaalspawn began to mutter with a desperate tone. They were pleading. Enver’s brows knit together in confusion as he continued to watch from his dangerous vantage point. With a wail, the bhaalspawn lashed out at the body on the table. They sounded like an animal, their cries of desperation mixed with feral guttural noises.

When they finished eviscerating the man on the table, they moved to the chained bodies. The young, healthy man unfortunately looked as though whatever drug they had given him had worn off. Enver watched the crazed Chosen tear into him as he cried for mercy, eventually choking on his blood. The wet bubbling of the choking drowned out his pained screaming until his eyes went dull and his head hung limp.

They moved to the other victims with erratic speed. Slashing, biting, ripping, and tearing flesh away. They were covered in viscera - entrails hanging from their arms, bits of skin caught on their blade-like nails, blood soaking through their clothing and hair. Enver couldn’t help but feel a fascination at the consuming nature of this “urge”. He still readied a dagger just in case.

It was several minutes before the bhaalspawn seemed to come to themselves. They had been in the middle of sawing off the wrist of the man on the table, or what was left of him, at least. They dropped the bone saw, standing still like a crimson statue.

Enver was even more shocked at what he saw next. They fell to their knees and started to sob. Deep heaving sobs while they quietly uttered a prayer of apology over and over to their father. He thought of revealing himself but decided to give it some more time and distance between the vulnerable state they were in and his unwanted appearance.

◤──•~ ҉ The Dark Urge ҉ ~•──◥

Blood and meat covered the bhaalspawn like a blanket. A blanket that was once warm and comforting but turned to an overwhelming heat. They could feel the pieces of flesh under their nails as the blood dried and cracked on their skin. The taste of iron lingered in their mouth as they swiped their tongue across their teeth.

They slowly forced their body up from the floor and began cleaning the mess. They unlatched the sabotaged experiments from the wall, the remainants piling on the ground. They pushed the brutalized meat on the table into the pile, joining the others in a homogenized mixture of carrion and sinew.

They stared at the writing desk where notes had laid open, in process studies strewn across the surface, now covered in blood. If they weren’t ruined, it would take days to transcribe it all. They sighed and it turned into a low dissatisfied growl. This was their punishment. More than losing their mind, more than the red haze taking over their body, this - their fascination with the mortal body and interest in discovering its secrets, destroying the lucid days of study devoted to it. That is why they suffered their Father’s lash.

They suffered the lash of Bhaal and still learned nothing. The wresting of control did not deter them. It was a momentary hiccup. Their Father didn’t understand, same as every other soul who knew of their interests. They needed to understand the mortal body to better utilize the meat sacks for their Father’s purpose. It was a half-lie they told themself on repeat. A lie they told themself now as they gently dabbed the sweet red juices from the ruined pages.

“Ahem”

They drew their knife and threw another barely missing the intruder as he cleared his throat behind them. Their eyes widened in shock, then quickly narrowed in anger when Gortash’s visage became clear.

“What are you doing here?” they spat out. “Get out, now.” They didn’t raise their voice, but the demand was laced with venomous unsaid threats of what defying it would mean for the Tyrant.

Gortash pulled the dagger from the wall behind him. He wore an easy, almost cocky smile as he stepped closer to the bhaalspawn, handing them the dagger hilt first.

“I had a gnawing feeling you were in need of aid, and it seems I may be correct.” He sounded confident, all of his usual charm edging through his words. The sound of his voice was enough to ground the bhaalspawn and they hated it.

“That is very presumptuous of you, Tyrant.” They grabbed the dagger, resheathing it in a quick fluid motion. They eyed him wearily like one predator sizing up another. They felt the saliva catch in their throat the longer they took him in. An irritated grunt left their lips without permission and they tore their eyes away from him.

He gave a small chuckle at their annoyance. “I know we come from very different… backgrounds, but I feel as though we share something in common.” He ran a finger over one of the shelves holding the alchemy supplies. They studied him closely, waiting for the reveal of his observation.

Gortash smiled at them, causing their heart to pick up pace. “We have brilliant minds, you and I.” He walked to the viscera-covered bookshelves. “Minds that many underestimate, devalue, and would leave to rot.” He candidly kicked some entrails out of his path, circling the bhaalspawn like a vulture. The Bhaalist stood unmoving but watched Gortash as he moved about their study, eyes never leaving him, and their hand never leaving the hilt of their blade.

“I always knew you were capable. Retrieving the Crown from the Hells proved that much. However, your brilliance, your intellect, it’s something that slipped through my notice, until recently.” He picked up one of the books and flipped to a clean page. It showed sketches of the mortal body and notes about the brain specifically.

One part of them wanted to snatch the book away and drive their dagger through his haughty, overly confident heart. Another part was frozen, treading unfamiliar territory. The Tyrant was praising them for their revolting interests. He seemed intrigued by it rather than put off. This alone was enough to allow him more of the floor in their conversation.

He shut the book, setting it down again. “I believe I can help you. If you’ll let me.”

He waited for their answer. The assassin thought through the offer carefully. This dilemma was the result of their shared plans. It wasn’t strictly Bhaalist business. They took in the sight of the half-cleaned study and failed experiments decorating their shameful, secret dwelling. Their mind raced through all the possible ways the Banite could use this against them, all the ways he could betray them, all the ways he could leverage the aid he seemingly freely offered. They sighed in exasperation.

“Fine.”

—

The two chosen spent hours together. Gortash seemed barely bothered, if at all, by the remaining gore that lay about the room. Eventually, the bhaalspawn called for their faithful butler to clean the mutilated bodies, ordering him to repurpose what he could. Waste not, want not.

They detailed their idea for the staged murders. The rituals had to appear of The Absolute, not of Bhaal, so their usual methods wouldn’t suffice. They decided that a “god” who communicates and works through telepathy would use the same means to kill. This Absolute would want sacrifices that gave the brain of the victim to the “god”.

“This already aligns with how weak brains reject the tadpole, when the infection is too much.-”

“The brain hemorrhages. Brilliant.” Gortash grinned with excitement. The bhaalspawn felt a renewed vigor for their ideas. Just having one person share in the thrill of puzzling through it set their blood aflame in a way they hadn’t felt before.

“I also thought so.” A smug smile flashed across their face. They pulled out their most recent notes on the varied toxins and poisons they’ve attempted to mimic a hemorrhage.

“The part I am …stumbling over is making the brain bleed look divinely spontaneous, no evidence of blunt force trauma, or piercing pokers can be left behind. I was hoping a potent poison could achieve this. I have found a toxin that results in a very fitting secondary symptom, but haven’t had much luck with the star of the show.” They showed the combinations and the results to Gortash as best they could through the blood stains.

Gortash reviewed the summary of experiments in earnest. A few moments of silence passed as he read. The bhaalspawn watched his fingers, dressed in the gold of his gauntlet flip through the pages of their notes. They analyzed the way he deliberately and delicately at the same time manipulated the frail pages. Their body felt a jolt of something shoot from the base of their spine to the neck. Like lightning had found its way into their spinal fluid. Their fingers twitched from the feeling.

The Tyrant made a reserved but triumphant exclamation. “I think I’ve got it.” He snapped the book shut with one hand, offering it to them. The assassin lurched forward to grab it, excitement written over their face.

“What? What is it? Out with it, Tyrant.” Their words might have been demanding, but their tone was anxious and supplicant. Gortash grinned with the power he held over them.

“Patience, dear Assassin.” He inspected the bottles of poisons and toxins that were all meticulously labeled. He picked one at the back, labeled “Rat Poison.”

“This is what you’re looking for.” He handed the bottle to them. They glanced at the bottle in their hand.

“I’ve already tried this, it causes hemorrhaging, but it’s of the gut.” The delight in their eyes faded. The Tyrant clicked his tongue in a chiding manner and lifted their chin with one sharp golden finger. They should slice the finger from his hand, they should spill his entrails on the floor before them for daring to touch Bhaal’s Chosen. They’ve done worse for less. Their eye twitched at the touch, and their body tensed in anticipation, but they held still, glaring up at him through what little restraint they possessed.

“You didn’t let me finish.” He dropped his finger from their chin, and their body immediately relaxed.

“We adjust the dose, pair it with the toxin you already have for the seizures, then apply it to the barrier between the brain and-”

“The blood-brain barrier! Of course! Gods, how could I not see it? We need to induce a stroke, so stressing the blood vessels locally would cause mass bursting - this is ingenious. We’ll need a binding agent and a few tweaks to the base solution to ensure the seizure toxin won’t be affected. Get the two working synergistically rather than-”

Their rambling was cut short by Gortash pressing his lips to theirs. Their words caught between the joined lips. They made a muffled noise of displeasure and pushed him at an arm’s distance.

“How dare you?!” They gasped for breath, their pulse unstable, causing their words to lose footing. Gortash smiled a wry grin. He saw through their veiled disgust. Knew their strained words for what they were. An attempt to do what they should. Attempts to cow their obvious desires. He chewed on his bottom lip as he shifted closer again, finding little resistance from the hands against his chest.

“By all means, Assassin, tell me to stop.” He pushed even closer. The bhaalspawn was pressed up against the table behind them, their hands finding the surface, attempting to steady their stance. Their piercing glare focused from his eyes to his lips. A low growl under their breath was their only response. Gortash closed the gap between them, his thigh pressing against their groin. He leaned in close, his breath hot and prickling against their skin. In a low husky voice, he continued.

“Say you don't want this, and I won't give it." He rubbed his leg enticingly against them, the friction sending heat coiling tight in their core. They didn't stop him.

Gortash captured their lips in his once more. They returned the kiss this time, needy and all-consuming. Growls of frustrated pleasure escaped them as they writhed against his thigh, causing the Tyrant to groan with delighted satisfaction.

The bhaalspawn moved their hands to his chest and drew their nails down the exposed skin. Gortash parted from their lips with a moan. Blood trickled from the scratches and they went to lick it up, fulfilling the fantasy that had plagued them.

The blood was sweeter than anything they'd tasted. It filled their senses with a different haze. They purred at the euphoric thrill of it all. They nipped at his neck and kissed at the vein they could feel pulsing under his skin.

His hand gripped the bhaalspawn's throat. He applied pressure to the sides as he pulled their face away from his skin. They grimaced with a whimper. They felt pathetic, yet the shame melted away with the intoxicating pressure on their neck.

“What did I say before, Assassin? Patience." He moved his grip to their jaw, positioning their face to look at him. He planted one last claiming kiss on the bhaalspawn. When they parted, he brushed his thumb over their wanting lips. He gave a small, satisfied chuckle before dropping his hand. He moved back to the ladder's base, glancing back at the wanton creature.

"Find me in my workshop, tomorrow. You can repay the favor by helping me with a problem in turn. Quid pro quo.” He smiled a devilishly coy smile. “Tonight, you have a breakthrough to document."

He left them reeling in their twisted lust and anger. The two emotions mixed terribly at first but settled out like an acid mixing with base, creating a neutral feeling as the pounding in their chest calmed and quieted. They finally let the death grip they had on the table relax.

They pulled a blank sheet of parchment and scrawled desperate prayers.

‘Forgive me, Father…’

Part 2

This was supposed to be a smut oneshot - a self-indulgent Durgetash deranged smut-fest. BUT I guess we're here now.

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