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— Victor Gideon x Fem!Reader (Resident Evil Requiem)
Pairing: Dr. Victor Gideon x Fem!Patient!Reader
Fandom: Resident Evil (Requiem)
Word Count: 8k
Synopsis: You’ve been a patient at the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center for months now, and despite their constant “treatment”, you never seem to improve.
When a fellow patient points out that the center's director seems to have an eye out for you, you fail to notice ...
Until he makes it clear just how much he knows about you.
Warnings: Explicit 18+, Fem!Reader but not explicitly described, Victor Gideon is a warning on his own, creepy behavior, mental health issues, medical abuse, non-consensual medical procedures, implied past suicidal attempt, implied self-harm behavior, depression, doctor/patient power imbalance, predator/prey dynamics, non-sexual nudity, but he's hella creepy, non-consensual touching, kinda dub-con?, emotional detachment, mentions of childhood neglect, probably inaccurate virological science (idk),
A/N: I need to establish a better taste in men from games, but that voice tho ...
“Nurse Bethany has been giving me a nasty side-eye all morning.”
Whether or not you’re actually paying any attention to what she’s saying, Selena Corey either doesn’t seem to particularly notice or care. She just prefers to speak when there’s someone around her, and today - like most days - it happens to be you.
And you don’t have the energy to deject her.
In her defense, between her and the rather lackluster breakfast presented in front of you on the table, she’s the more noticeable addition to your morning. Exactly what she wants, no doubt.
“Nurse Bethany?” You prod with as much interest as you can be bothered to garner while scooping your scrambled eggs to the left side of the plate. “Doesn’t she always look like someone pissed in her cereal?"
Maybe you could give this mush to either Timothy or Thomas. They’d slurp it like it was a delicacy, no chewing required.
Selena leans closer to your ear, as if to whisper, but her voice doesn’t dim in the slightest. “I bet she’s envious of me.”
A not-so-subtle giggle - like a child - pushes past her lips, and a few strands of her bright-blonde hair tickle your cheek at the exhalation.
“I had Dr. Beckett sneak me that nice bottle of shampoo the other night. You know, that really expensive kind from that fancy store in Wrenwood. She can probably see that. That's why she's looking at me like that. She wants it too.”
You briefly glance at her hair from the corner of your eye, and truth be told, you really can’t spot much of a difference. Like always, her hair looks good. Annoyingly good.
She smells fresh, too - floral and sweet. Too sweet, and too strong. Soap and lotion of a fancy kind. A stark contrast to your sterile surroundings.
Smelling salts would've been more merciful to your nostrils.
Selena has always been beautiful - anyone with or without a prescription can see it, but mentioning it aloud might just cause more problems than you're comfortable with. She thrives on attention, and even if you give it to her by the crumbs, she'll inhale it like cocaine.
And if you’re at this center, it’s a given that you already have problems in dire need of specialized, professional aid; you don’t need to tip the scales that determine whether or not you can get out of here at some point. Even if you have no urgency to leave.
You stab your fork through the toast, and force it into your mouth while you reflect on which kind of answer to provide her with that won’t blow out of massive proportion. “Must be that, then.”
Her eyes brighten with validation you’re not sure you intended on giving, and she leans even closer to your personal space than you’re comfortable with. The warmth from her body clashes against your own cold temperature, and the sickeningly sweet scent only further irritates your sinuses.
“You see it too, right? I knew you could! It’s so obvious that's it!”
Her shoulder bumps hard into yours, and given what the last doctor said about your iron levels, you’re confident you’ll develop a bruise in a few hours.
“She just can’t stand the fact that she’s past her prime, and I’m flowering into mine!” Selena voices haughtily, almost without a care if anyone could hear and interject with their own opinions on the matter.
You peek over to look at the aforementioned nurse, hoping that your observations will shed some light on the situation you've unwillingly been pulled into.
Nurse Bethany observes the patients from the entrance like she does every day, scribbling on her notepad, seemingly or willfully oblivious to Selena’s typical outbursts. Maybe she’s just used to them? Most of the inpatients and staff here seem to be.
You know you are.
Bored as the charge nurse looks, however, she doesn’t seem to be in a scrutinizing mood based on jealousy. The likelihood is simply that she has a resting bitch face.
But you don't mention it to your table-companion.
“You know,” Selena says - yet again -, her tone now more wistful and airy than moments before. “You can probably borrow some of it, if you want? I think you’d look really dashing if you started caring a bit more about your appearance. I know how to look pretty, and I can help you.”
As she says this, she raises her hand to draw her fingers through your hair. Her nails lightly graze the surface of your scalp, and for a moment, you envision her severing the skin underneath. There's no knowing when her mood might take a turn for the worse, but at this point, you really couldn't care less.
After all, it's the first time anyone's touched you outside of medical necessity.
She probably means well, you think to yourself. In her own special way.
In all the time you’ve known Selena since you first got to Rhodes Hill, she has struck you as someone who knows how to keep her appearance pristine regardless of the resources available, with alarming precision.
That, and her penchant for … charming the male staff members doesn't go entirely unnoticed either.
You can't help but compare her to those girls in fashion magazines with shiny, flawless skin and voluminous hair who write tips and tricks on how to take care of yourself.
And given how you’ve let yourself fall victim to sleepless nights in the time you’ve been here, and even long before, you require neither mirror nor Selena’s comments to know you look like shit.
You're not like her.
“Thanks,” you try your best to give her a simple, albeit tired, smile. Even lifting your lips feels heavy. “But I think it suits you better, Selena. Don't waste it on me.”
“It’s no problem at all.” She pulls her hand away and smiles in that way only she can manage at a place like this without looking too eerie. Like she’s completely somewhere else, and nowhere at the same time. “Dr. Beckett is quite easy to convince. I could … talk to him, for you. Get him to get you a bottle of your own. If you took a little bit better care of yourself, maybe you wouldn’t be so down all the time.”
Down?
That’s what she calls it.
Down.
A superficial but surprisingly accurate word to describe your persistent mood, at least by comparison to your own subjective descriptions of it.
Down in hell.
Down in the cellar.
Just generally down.
The doctors, nurses, and those other specialists have other names for it:
"Major Depressive Disorder" and "Complex PTSD"
That's what they call it.
That's why you're here. To flourish and return to your "normal" self, even if no one here has any idea of what you're like. If you’re honest, you’re not sure you wholly fit the bill for that diagnosis, but you don’t bother to outright fight the allegations.
You have no cash, no family, no other place to be.
You were orphaned following Raccoon City. Your dad was a researcher at Umbrella, and your mom wasn't around.
You vividly remember seeing one of the infected take a chunk of his jugular, and after that, you were alone, and with no other family left, you were quickly thrown into the system to be bounced around at the whims of others. Apathy struck you first, then the anhedonia (phrased perfectly by another shrink), and then the inability to care much about what happened to you.
You just … didn't care anymore. Whether that qualified for a depressive diagnosis or not, you've long since let it be what it is.
You've been hit, kicked, punched, talked down to, and yet none of it has stuck more than a mosquito bite would. You remember being bitten by one of the infected. One of those … monsters - the same one who offed your dad - bit you on the skin surrounding your shoulder, and yet you just … kept living.
Kept going, just as you are now.
Not even the pain registered properly until you somehow got out of there, and it's a miracle no infection took root.
After that, things just ceased to matter.
And now, you are just … here.
By the social worker’s phrasing, you are fortunate that the Rhode Hill Center is a charity care that favors less than financially stable folks.
In fact, the director himself, Dr. Victor Gideon, seemed to personally have wished you here. He was apparently contacted by your PCP at the time, and he didn't waste time accepting you to Rhodes Hill. You hadn't even formally met the man at that point.
If even half the practicing doctors in the world were as enthusiastic about having a new charge as he was, the world would probably be a merrier place.
A philanthropist who, according to the publications, was personally struck during the tragedy of Raccoon City and opened this center as a way to heal the wounded population. It's not every day that an esteemed doctor of his decree takes an interest in you, so what options were you left with?
Between here and nowhere at all, you couldn't afford to be picky.
And among all the other psychiatric facilities you've been admitted to over the years, Rhodes Hill stands out as the best one yet. Good food, decent staff, and individual rooms for its inhabitants. Hell, they even have a casino.
Patients are encouraged to engage with each other socially, and the ones who can't interact with others aren't wholly excluded either, just adjusted to.
All in all, it's a nice enough place.
If Selena’s miracle shampoo from Wrenwood could fix your problems and make you maybe start caring a little more, you might have taken her up on that.
But you don’t, nor do you have the good conscience to let her blow a member of staff to get it for you.
Even though it shouldn’t be physically possible, Selena manages to lean even closer into you, sling her arm around your shoulder, and inch her lips closer to your ear.
“Maybe even Dr. Gideon would look a little longer if you fixed yourself up some more.”
If anything she’s said in the last ten minutes has made you visibly react, it’s that.
Confusion paints your face in a narrowed hue. “What are you talking about?”
She smiles until her teeth - perfectly white, and pearly - are on show, and pulls a little back from you. "He looks at you the most. I don't know why, but I can tell that he does whenever he stops by to greet us. It's like he's … put in a trance."
Her smile threatens to depress at the mention of someone's attention being on someone else other than herself, but she quickly replenishes her strength to keep going with ... whatever it is she intends to keep talking about. "Imagine if you could score the director himself. I bet he could give you a lot of pretty things."
"Score" the director?
For as long as you've known Dr. Gideon (if you can even call it that), he's always struck you as … something else. Not cold, or cruel, or focused solely on the clinical, or whether you're responding to the medication more than he needs to. You're experienced with shrinks of that caliber, but you can't say that he quite fits the bill on that front.
He asks you specifically how you are, most of the time. Asks questions none of the other doctors have, and seems to have an insatiable curiosity regarding you and your history.
He stands out from the other staff with his overwhelming stature and the sole fact that he basically runs this place. His voice is smooth, his skin pale, and he never seems to get caught off-guard by the many … events that sometimes occur. Unperturbed, even when Thomas Jackson once threatened to eat him whole.
He never raises his voice to anyone - a testament to his experience in this field.
And the times he's directly touched you, usually in relation to blood work and tests, his skin feels inexplicably cold against your own.
Too cold, like he had nothing but ice resting underneath.
Maybe you should have noticed more, like Selena claims?
If you were to put a word to Dr. Gideon, it would be … odd.
Not bad, or condescending, or creepy in an inherent way apparent to you.
Just … odd.
"I'm just one of his patients," you tell her, as neutral as you can while shoving your plate a few inches away. The food is supposed to be exemplary - a luxury compared to what they provide other psychiatric patients in the rest of the county. But the taste is … bland, and unappealing to your palate. Might be the medication they've put you on that's fucked with your tongue. "He cares as much for me as he does the rest."
You can already tell that she doesn't find your answer satisfactory. She wants you to affirm her observations. With words. Always words, and if you do it with a complimentary smile, she might offer to kiss you.
You're afraid that if you agree with what she's said without any scrutiny, she'll consider you her one true love in this world.
"He stares a lot. I notice."
"You notice a lot of things, Selena."
"I notice the way people look at me." Her frown deepens. "Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."
If it's true what she says - which you somewhat doubt - you haven't noticed it.
Before anything else can be said by either of you, you feel an overwhelming figure cast a shadow over the table where you're seated.
"Are you going to eat that?" Timothy asks, salivating at the sight of your barely touched breakfast. The crumbs on the edges of his lips suggest he's already finished his own, but between the options of him and the trash, the choice is easy.
You push the plate towards him. "Have at it, Tim."
The overweight man doesn't even have the time to properly say "thanks" before he's already forcing the scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth with his fingers. In fact, you doubt he's even chewing it properly.
Selena scrunches her nose at the rather unflattering display.
"Mr. Jackson!" Nurse Bethany yells as she approaches your table. "You have already exceeded your 500-calorie limit for today's breakfast!"
You take this cue to get up from your seat, not wanting to be here in case Timothy gets aggressive about his food. Again. "Thank you for the meal."
As you're leaving, you can hear Selena intruding upon the already fragile situation, as per usual.
"Oh, let him eat. He's a big boy; he needs the energy."
"Please return to your seat, Miss Corey."
"Why? You've been jealous of me all morning, and now you think you can just order me around? Is that it?! Who do you think you are?!"
"Sit. Down. Miss Corey!"
"Don't you — LET GO OF ME, YOU BITCH!"
By the time you shut the cafeteria doors behind you, you hear shouting and screaming, and you have to quickly move to the side as several additional nurses rush past you to de-escalate the situation. Something shatters, Selena's screams resonate through the walls, and you can safely assume that sedatives are a must.
You look back over to the entrance to the kitchens, and while you can't tell what's going on, your best guess, given Selena's declining whines, is that she's already gotten her shot. Again.
"I see Miss Corey needs to have her dosage adjusted."
You should have been able to sense him before he even spoke; that coldness that seeps through the fabric of his coat into the air around you. Yet, you don't properly register his presence before he steps next to you, dwarfing your size by comparison.
"Dr. Gideon." You think that passes for an appropriate greeting, flat as it sounds.
"Good morning, my dear." He looks down at you with a polite yet relaxed smile, his arms folded neatly behind his back. The unnatural amber hue of his eyes pierces through your own with a sharp precision that only comes naturally to doctors. "I do hope Miss Corey didn't interrupt your meal. I've read reports that she tends to float in your vicinity, early in the mornings as of late."
"I'm good," you answer and shift your attention back to the cafeteria entrance.
On cue, the doors open, and both you and Dr. Gideon watch as several members of staff escort a rather dazed-looking Selena out. She's smiling and singing and airily caressing any male staff she can get her hands on, letting her fingers graze their ironed shirts while humming softly as they transport her back to her room.
There is blood coated under her nails, and Nurse Bethany sports a fresh set of three superficial scars running down her left cheek.
Ouch.
"Dr. Gideon," Nurse Bethany calls, out of breath, but impressively composed. "How would you like us to proceed with Miss Corey?"
"Yes," Dr. Gideon says, staring at her. More specifically, the scratch across her face. Transfixed, you would call it, but you're probably mistaken. "I'll look over her Lithium dosage, just make sure she's ... comfortable."
Nurse Bethany nods, then shifts her attention to you. "I saw you speaking with Miss Corey. Did you talk about anything in particular that might shed some light on this …?"
"Not really," you answer. "She basically said I could afford to look better, and that you were jealous because she's pretty."
The charge nurse frowns, mumbles something incoherent under her breath that vaguely resembles cursing, then leaves to rejoin the other staff members in escorting the aforementioned patient.
Your eyes follow them until they disappear around the corner.
"It's a shame," Dr. Gideon says, vaguely disappointed in a way that doesn't properly show on his countenance. "I initially believed she had finally begun responding to the treatment."
"If it's any consolation, our conversation did revolve around shampoo for a minute."
"Oh?"
"It was calm, for the most part. She had recommendations."
He takes a whiff of the air above him, and his mouth curls a little, like he doesn't like what he's smelling. "I thought I scented something different than the center's standard array."
"That's most likely it."
"You wouldn't happen to know how she acquired said product?"
"I have an idea, and I think you do, too."
If a scowl spreads across his lips, it's a subtle one that evades your notice. He heaves a sigh under his breath and looks over his shoulder to where the staff was previously. "Men are fickle things. Too easily distracted from their assignments once matters of the flesh are presented to them. It seems I will need to do a thorough investigation if Miss Corey is to yield results with her treatment."
Matters of the flesh? Slightly outdated way to speak of giving head if you're being honest, but you don't point it out.
He looks at you again, and his expression softens slightly. "Otherwise, how are you, my dear? Have you been resting adequately?"
You spend a second thinking of an answer that will satisfy him. "I'm … adequate?"
Kind of true, but also not. You're either sleeping too much or not at all.
If you go to bed too early, you're susceptible to waking up early in the night with an aggravating inability to fall back asleep.
If you sleep for too long, you still don't feel rested at all by the time you wake up.
At this point, you've settled on a routine where you just let your head hit the pillow and let your body do what it wants.
If he sees through your lie, he doesn't mention it. Maybe he already knows you're not being entirely truthful, and just elects to leave it be. Not typical for the standard kind of doctor you've visited in the past, but then again, Dr. Gideon is hardly of the standard stock.
He says your name, soft yet firm, like an exasperated parent who's caught their child up past their bedtime. Ironic as that comparison is, it's hard not to feel small when he's towering over you the way he is. "For us to have success with your treatment plan, I need you to be forthcoming with me."
Well, when he puts it like that …
"I do get some sleep," you admit after some careful thinking. Why bother lying when it's clear that he sees through it? If you didn't know any better, you'd think he wore some kind of visor to see past bullshit barriers. "Sometimes a few hours, sometimes the entire night. I just don't feel … rested. Thought the mirtazapine would help, but it just makes me fall asleep quicker, not longer."
He takes a step closer to you, which only further establishes the height difference between you. You're convinced that if he were to try, he could encompass the entirety of you. The unmistakable smell of antiseptics and other chemicals for which you have no name overwhelms your sinuses to a stinging degree. More so than Selena's shampoo ever did.
You remember your father smelling of the same stuff whenever he came home from work, when you were awake to catch him.
Dr. Gideon slowly raises his finger to your face and just barely touches your cheek. Even with a distance, you can still feel the cold spread across your face. It would only take a marginal shift for him to physically touch you, but he doesn't.
"Periorbital edema is always a good indicator."
He tilts his head slightly to the side, like he's observing you.
He is observing you.
Selena's words resurface in your mind: "Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."
You try to pinpoint the exact way he's looking at you, but nothing comes to mind.
He doesn't look at you like Dr. Beckett looks at Selena when he thinks he's being discreet.
He doesn't look at you the same way Timothy or Thomas looks at their food. Insatiable. Desperate.
But he is looking at you in some kind of way; you just lack the vocabulary necessary to describe specifically what kind of way that is.
"If you wish, I can prescribe you a low dose of zopiclone." He promptly lowers his hand again, but his eyes don't leave you. They never do.
"Thanks, but they already tried that at the facility back in Wrenwood. Didn't really do much for me but give me migraines."
"Nevertheless, it is prudent that you get enough REM sleep. I've also been informed by the nurses that you rarely finish your meals."
You offer a shrug that just barely passes for one. More of a lift of the left shoulder than a gesture of indifference. "I've never had much of an appetite."
He looks at you, and you look at him. A minute goes by without any of you saying anything, but you can tell that he's doing his best to suppress a sigh akin to the one he produces when Selena's having another one of her episodes.
"I wish to take some tests, if the timing is convenient for you."
Before you can answer, he puts his hand on your back and starts guiding you towards the laboratory. While his touch is light, you doubt you could physically resist him even if you put all your muscles into it (which you don't have a lot of).
"… Sure."
The edge of his scarred lip tilts upward by a fraction.
───
Maybe Selena had a point to her rant, rare as they are? Maybe you should start paying more attention to the way he's acting around you?
You don't even feel the needle as it pierces through your skin, nor does the sight of your blood filling several tubes do anything to rattle you. At this point in your life, you've probably become anemic with all the blood that's been taken out of you over the years alone.
You don't even question why he seems to take more than the standard kind of blood tests you've grown accustomed to.
"It's just to see whether your thyroid is functioning properly," he assures you. "As well as a CBC."
Looking at him looking at the vials as they fill up, it's almost like he's … expectant of something.
With your head resting in your other hand while he does his job, you ignore the way his fingers linger on the exposed skin of your arm. Goosebumps have already erupted across the entirety of your arm like wildfire. "Thought my blood work looked good enough last week?"
"It did. Slightly elevated CRP levels, and mild anemia, but nothing too alarming."
"I'll live, then?"
"Hmm …"
Once the third vial is filled to the brim, he gives it a few gentle shakes before replacing it with another.
As the new vial gradually fills, you notice that he gives the filled one a closer look. Pointed. Analytical. Curious. It's like he has questions, and only the crimson liquid in your veins can provide answers.
"You should never underestimate the lengths your body will go to keep you alive." He doesn't look at you as he says this, just maintains focus on the tube like it's the patient, and not you. "You were vaccinated as a child, correct? Your medical journal doesn't tell."
You nod. "My dad did it himself. Perks of being a researcher with an MD. Saved us trips to the hospital."
"How … fortunate." He puts the vial back on the tray to join the previous ones. Four vials now out of (five, six …) seven, enough to make you wonder what other kinds of tests he's taking, if you were the kind to wonder.
"What did his research entail, might I ask?" he continues.
"Not sure. All I knew was that he wasn't around too often, so it must have been interesting."
Truth be told, the memory of your father isn't sour, but it's not inherently sweet either. He was up before the sun, and back around the same time. He didn't hug you, or say much to you, really.
He was there, and then he wasn't.
Injecting you with those vaccines was probably the closest thing you ever got to a father-daughter activity. It was the only thing he seemed to want to spend time doing himself with you, rather than hiring someone to do it for him, as he did with everything else.
One of the previous shrinks you visited suggested that your apathy towards life is directly linked to his absence, both before and after Raccoon City. A bold assumption, but like with everything else going on, you don't bother to debunk it.
Dr. Gideon finishes with the rest of the vials in complete silence. Had it not been for his chest heaving with each breath he takes, you might have guessed that he didn't require air to function.
When he's done, he puts a cotton ball over the injection side. "I should have the results by tonight, and if there are any significant deficiencies, I'll let you know before I clock off." He puts the vials aside. "However, considering that your previous tests revealed some vitamin deficiency, I'm going to give you a shot of B12 before I let you resume with your day."
"Another one? That bad, huh?" It's the third one this month.
"Less than ideal, I'm afraid."
As he reaches for something in the cabinet by the door, you watch his back and find yourself - for once - wondering.
How come this doctor - this one specifically - seems to be the only one in the last decade or so who genuinely seems to have a regard for your well-being? Your previous ones never put this much time and effort into you, even when you were younger and significantly more impaired.
Hell, not even your old man cared that much, and maybe you'd have been a little more well-adjusted if he did.
The pulse heaters you continue to wear to this day - even years after that little misstep you made when you were a teen - prove it.
You didn't get it. You still don't.
He's not like Dr. Beckett, who gives privileges to Selena if she gives him a good mouth-to-mouth demonstration.
He's never struck you as the salacious kind of person - though, to be fair, you probably wouldn't have cared if he were.
So, why all of this extra effort?
"If it's that bad, I'll try to get my Five A Day," you try, and for once, there's a genuine attempt at humor lodged somewhere between the letters. Weak, but present nonetheless. More than Selena's ever managed to get out of you. "Best to save your shot for someone who actually has one, Dr. Gideon."
He pauses for a moment, then slowly looks over his shoulder at you. There's something … unsettling in his eyes this time, as though you've insulted him in some way, without meaning to.
He doesn't blink, doesn't seem to breathe, and he doesn't speak. It uncannily reminds you of the way a snake looks just before it strikes its prey.
Once again, Selena's cryptic words make a reentrance in your mind.
"Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."
Softly, he asks: "My dear, whatever do you mean?"
Tempted as you are to look away and focus on something other than those unnerving eyes of his, you don't.
"Treatment is for appreciative people," you explain, placid despite the weight behind your words that would've made an ordinary psychiatrist grow pale with occupational concern. "People who can actually contribute to their surroundings. I'm … Well, no one. I have nothing and no one. Me dying wouldn't affect anyone. So, why put so many Band-Aids over a gaping wound that refuses to close?"
You remember saying something similar to your psychologist in the past. For that, you were put on an involuntary psychiatric hold for three days, deemed a danger to yourself, and only allowed to eat under supervision and with those horrible wooden utensils that rendered the taste of your food just as wooden.
It's not like the fact that you're alone makes you sad. Not anymore. There's something slightly liberating to know that even if you were to pass on, from an accident or an illness or by simple happenstance, the world will keep spinning after you're gone.
No one is chained to you in a way that matters.
You look at Dr. Gideon, and he just keeps staring at you. Whether he's surprised, cautious, concerned, or even angry, you can't tell. He's never been easy to read, and now, you find yourself curious as to what he thinks.
Maybe he'll finally deem you a lost cause, like so many others have?
Maybe he'll confine you to your room in restraints and pump you full of drugs until you physically cannot do anything to yourself, even if you wanted to?
Maybe he'll discharge you to another care facility?
The sound he makes next almost makes you raise your eyebrow in confusion.
"Oh,"
Like always, his tone is mild, but now, it feels deeper somehow. Like he's pitying you without really pitying you. As if he's seeing something so obvious that it's a tragedy that you can't.
"You have no idea how special you truly are."
You can only watch as he procures a pre-filled syringe from the cabinet and closes in on you. His steps are measured, slow, as though he's approaching an animal in a trap that's grown weary of fighting against the sharp edges. It's a good thing you've long since outgrown your fear of needles, because that image would've otherwise made even the bravest soldier quiver.
"There's no one in this world like you." He whispers your name like it's a secret only he truly knows of. "I can assure you that if you were to pass, I would be devastated."
Then he does something that makes you damn-near short-circuit.
With his unoccupied hand, he reaches forward and places his fingers gently on your cheek. Not a caress, not truly, but intimate nonetheless in ways you are unaccustomed to. It's not like Selena, whose touches and caresses feel consuming and overwhelming despite being considerably smaller compared to Dr. Gideon.
It feels light … and genuine, in a way you can't describe or properly understand.
The chilly temperature of his digits spreads from your face down to your toes, yet you don't move away.
You can only continue to look at him.
"Even if you do have your reservations, I have no intention of letting you die. This, I swear."
And the strangest thing yet: You believe him. You believe that he will not allow you to die, even if you were to attempt it yourself. An animal in a gilded cage cannot harm itself without the handler noticing.
He removes his hand from your face, slowly, then gestures for you to fall into a position you've already grown used to.
You're not sure if it's your brain messing with you or not, but you swear that this injection feels … sharper.
───
That night, you lie shivering in bed with a fever spike of 104. The Tylenol the nurse administered just a few hours ago didn't work for shit when you first began to notice that you were coming down with something.
You never come down with anything, not this intensely. Every fever you've ever had has been mild at worst, or subfebrile. It passes quickly and never settles long enough for you to notice.
But now you do.
Reluctantly, you called the nurse, and before you knew it, you were surrounded by all kinds of staff who took different tests, blood work, vitals, and hung up a liter or two of saline. You've never been susceptible to infections, but judging by the nervous look that the new intern got on his face when they took your vitals, you got an inkling that something was seriously wrong with you.
Well, outside of the usual, that is.
Everything hurt.
Everything is a blur.
Your body is soaking through all of your covers.
You taste blood in your mouth.
Needles poke your arms at a rapid interval, but they are a kindness compared to the ones already piercing through your organs and your head.
If you were truly dying, you might have had some more reservations about it if you knew it was going to hurt like such a bitch.
More blood is drawn, more staff appear whose faces you can't even register beyond the haze of your mind, and then, everything turns dark.
At first, it's overwhelming. You feel hands touching you, large ones, grasping at you with bruising intensity like you're dangling above a cliff and they're unwilling to let you descend into the abyss.
But it's too much … too intrusive. You don't like it.
Let go.
Let go.
LET GO!
You claw, and you grasp, and you scratch. Like an animal. Like a rabid beast in need of euthanasia.
Warm wetness coats your nails. You hear your own shriek reverberating around you, and yet the invisible hands don't relent at all.
They keep clutching you, undeterred by the physical mutilation of their flesh.
Then you hear it, quiet yet loud at the same time.
"Shhhh …"
"Rest now,"
"We have much to do."
And you disappear.
───
When you wake, there is nothing.
You don't feel cold or soaked anymore.
You feel … fine.
That's what surprises you.
Exhausted. Depleted of any kind of energy, but … fine.
The more you stir, the more you gradually begin to notice.
Something is carefully stroking through your hair. Gently. Like they're braiding through something fragile of significant worth. No one has ever stroked their fingers through your hair before, and it feels … strangely soothing.
You want to fall back asleep and hope that you can get a full night's sleep for once.
"Are you finally awake, my dear?"
You blink once, then twice, and the room - and figure seated by your bed - finally aligns in your vision.
Dr. Gideon looks down at you, a gentle smile spread across his lips as his fingers continue to weave through your knotted strands. "I was almost worried that you wouldn't wake, but I'm glad to see that you continue to pull through as you always have."
You try to say something. Anything. But your throat is dry, and despite evidence of an IV in your arm, the bag of saline that's connected to you has partially failed to do its job. The words you attempt to pronounce instead come out as incoherent gargles that promptly force you to cough for several harsh rounds.
"Here."
You don't fight him when he leans over to tilt your head back, his hand firm against the back of your skull, nor do you object to the feeling of cold water intruding upon your mouth. You cough and gag at the first drop, but it doesn't take long before you're all but inhaling the liquid.
"There, now," Dr. Gideon coos as he pulls the empty glass away, waiting for you to catch your breath again with a pleased look in his eyes. "Doesn't that feel better?"
"What—" You struggle to gather and recognize your own voice, your thoughts still hazy and disorganized. "What … happened?"
Dr. Gideon spends another minute just … staring at you, tilting his head to change angle now and then, like he's looking for something. Anything. You don't know what it is he's searching for, but after a short while, he finally decides to answer your inquiry.
"Something truly … miraculous. You are miraculous."
You don't feel miraculous. If anything, you feel a flicker of annoyance at his intentional inability to elaborate.
Though your body feels like lead, you still force yourself to sit up. The position is crooked and likely doomed to fail, but it provides a window for you to properly look at him now.
"What happened?" you ask again, more forceful this time.
Dr. Gideon releases a soft hmm through his nose, looking completely in awe at what's presented in front of you. You don't know why he would. Even if you don't have a mirror, you can only assume you look like shit.
You think he will deflect again. Say something cryptic that only he knows the context of.
"Did you know that your father was a prominent researcher for Umbrella?"
You didn't expect that.
"What?"
"Oh, yes. He wasn't much liked, but you couldn't deny his efficiency."
"… What does that have to do with anything?"
He leans closer, as if to whisper a secret only you can know.
"Everything."
He gets to his feet and starts slowly circling your bed. A vulture, you imagine him as. Soaring over prey that has yet to expire.
"I only ever met the man once. We worked at separate divisions, but his reputation was … recognized. A scientist of unrivaled decree. No one knew much about him, nor did he seem like the sort who willingly engaged with people outside his designated area."
He stops and looks to you again, as if alternating between different inclinations might give him more information. "To discover that he had a daughter he left behind was … unexpected."
You want to say something, but you imagine that he'll take your silence as permission to continue, so you don't bother with interrupting him this time.
He rests his hand on the bedpost, dragging his fingers slowly from one corner to the other. "Have you never wondered why you've never been sick? Physically, I mean. No long-lasting records of bacterial or viral infections in your history? No acute case of appendicitis? Or meningitis? Or even a simple staph infection from using a bottle shard to sever your skin. Now, isn't that odd?"
You briefly glance down at your wrists. The heaters are gone - probably taken off to check for viable veins to insert the IV. The doctor assigned to you following that incident said it was fortunate that you survived, and you never gave thought to how or why. Only that you failed.
It was just … miraculous, by his phrasing.
You're really starting to dislike that word.
"When Umbrella declared bankruptcy years ago, numerous documents were confiscated and eradicated. A contingency in case someone of my Master's caliber decided it was worth picking up. Many have, and so far, none have succeeded." He frowns as he says this, and this time, he looks truly displeased. "Idiots, thinking they could simply replicate Spencer's work."
It only lasts for a second before he resumes.
"However, I managed to get my hands on several of them before the government seized the remaining assets." He opens the inside of his coat to pull out what looks to be a document of sorts, text invisible to you as he lets his eyes drift across the content. "Your father managed to do what few had done before. He managed to develop a serum to completely counter the effects of the T-Virus."
The T-Virus?
"What is that?"
"My Master's greatest work, and the cause of his downfall. Partially, the reason why Raccoon City was sterilized in the manner it was."
Spencer?
T-Virus?
You swear you've heard these names and words before, but you can't recall. Maybe your old man mentioned them sometime in passing?
You should have questions, a hell of a lot of them. They are circling your head, a whirlwind of who and what and when and whys, yet none manage to gain coherence.
What did your father do?
What did he do to you?
What is all this?
But you don't ask them. Not yet. You just keep looking at him through a narrowed lens, hoping he will come to some kind of point.
Dr. Gideon puts the document down on the bed by your feet, expecting you to take it. Though you eye it warily, torn between caution and curiosity, you don't pick it up.
"Your father's serum, however, was flawed. It could not erase virus in hosts already infected, nor could the immune systems in adults tolerate exposure in the way he desired. Every attempt, every procedure, was doomed to fail. The bodies broke, time and time again. He went through thirty-six before he elected to turn to a different approach altogether."
When he looks at you next, you can somehow already tell he's implying.
"He had you. The moment you exited your mother's womb, he had his work cut out for him." He bends a little to tap pointedly at the document. "Introduction to the antigen before you were even a day old. Controlled exposure to a modified strain, repeated again and again. Letting your body adapt to it as you grew.
Every injection, every exposure, every test, every drop of blood drawn, he had it documented. No cognitive impairment, no physical deformity, no mutation."
His smile widens further and further with every word he says. "Isn't that miraculous? You were reportedly found with a prominent bite mark by the paramedics who rescued you, and yet, you had nothing more than a mild fever at worst, and a full recovery without intensive care."
He sits down by the edge of the bed, and the hinges creak loudly at this added weight. Without having to lean too close, he carefully pulls the collar of your shirt to the side, exposing the residual scar that's served as a constant reminder of your survival for almost twenty years.
The smile on his lips suggests he finds the view pleasing, and he can't keep himself from letting his fingers drift over it.
"Near-complete immunization."
You don't look at him, even as his cold fingers slide across your skin with what you can only assume is manic glee.
The revelation that you were not born, but bred, should send you into some kind of existential shock.
Anger. Resentment.
You should curse the man who gave you life only so that he could determine the outcome.
But you don't.
Your father is dead. Has been for years. His skeletons remain his own, however deep they're buried, even if you are the ones having to carry them in you.
You look at Dr. Gideon from the corner of your eye. "Did you do something to me?" you finally ask, vaguely surprised by your ability to stay subdued, even now. "What did you do to me?"
He tuts gently. “Nothing that hasn’t already been done to you before.”
His hands lingers just above your clavicle. "Modified strains of the T-Virus. Different from the kind your father used, but necessary for me to confirm my hypothesis. I've used mild doses up until yesterday, but I had to be certain, and I was right."
You fully turn your face to look him directly in the eyes, and now, you understand.
"You've been infecting me all along."
Your presence here was not because of an altruistic doctor who saw an impoverished patient and decided to step in to provide aid and stability.
Everything was designed for this outcome.
You are not a patient. You were never a patient.
You are a subject.
You were always a subject, from the moment you took your first breath.
His fingers lift from your skin, but he doesn't move away. Not entirely. Seated as he is now, you're not sure you could evade him, even if you tried. "You were difficult to track down. Patient confidentiality, you see, can be a nuisance to bypass. I tried for years to locate you, yet you were like a moth. Never at the same light twice. So, when Dr. Henry from Wrenwood Facility himself wrote to me about a possible transfer with your name, I knew it was meant to be."
Meant to be? Weird way to phrase it, like divinity had some part to play in this whole situation.
You're not devout in the slightest, and you're not about to start now.
"I can see you have questions, but first," Like before, he takes a deep breath through his nose. Of your air. "you need a bath."
A bath?
Just as he stands up, the door opens, and Nurse Bethany enters. Upon seeing you awake and alert, she looks visibly relieved.
"Nurse Bethany, would you be so kind as to prepare her a bath downstairs?" Dr. Gideon asks, courteous as ever, with no evidence of what's just transpired on his face.
"Of course, Dr. Gideon." She gestures for you to come with her.
───
The water scalds your bare skin as you descend into the tub, yet it's a comfortable kind of scalding. Not warm enough to hurt, just enough to make you come back to the reality of your situation. Soap has already been added, coloring the water to a white hue, and effectively blocking the view of the rest of you.
Thoughts come and go, more questions, no answers.
Umbrella.
Your father.
T-Virus.
Raccoon City.
Immunity.
Apparently, you're not entirely normal. You've never been entirely normal, and you don't know how to feel about it.
The cells in your body were altered, adapted, and used to fit the whims of a man who is no longer around to claim credit for his product. Everything was planned, and you had no part in it. No autonomy. No choice.
Your body is not your own. It never has been.
What should you feel about it? Is there anything to feel about it? Your body recovers, and your mind has to pick up the weight as compensation instead.
Maybe your head is so heavy because your body isn't?
So, your old man decided to play god and fuck around with your immune system to survive some kind of fictitious-sounding virus that turns out to be the cause for your home city being blown to shit.
So, the director of your hospital turns out to be an odd scientist with a penchant for subjecting his patients to experiments?
It doesn't change anything in a way that matters to you.
You're still here.
You dip your head under the water, and you don't resurface for what you hope is a while. You stay under until your lungs threaten to give in, until you feel the pressure in your head threaten to break open your cranium. It doesn't sound anatomically correct, but what does it matter?
What matters anymore?
Just as you start to feel light-headed, a loud slam ruptures in the bathroom, and you quickly resurface with a gasp.
Dr. Gideon stands in the entrance, his coat folded neatly in his arms, looking like he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
"Personally, I find death by drowning in a bathtub to be terribly wasteful."
You drag your hand over your face to wipe off some of the water. "Wasn't planning on it."
"Good."
You stare into the water, even as you hear his measured steps echo around until he's right behind the bathtub. Right behind you.
You continue to stare even as you feel his cold, long hands clamp down on your shoulders. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to ground.
And you continue to stare ahead, even as you feel him lean forward and place his head right next to your own.
"I made sure to purchase a specific brand of shampoo from a store in Wrenwood," he whispers, smooth and inviting. The picture of domesticity. "Miss Corey recommended it."
You don't answer.
"While her behavior might be rather incendiary on occasion, she is right about one thing." He raises his head to look further down at you. "We need to take care of ourselves and the bodies we are born with, regardless of the circumstances life might throw at us. We are born with one, and we die with it."
His left hand lifts off your shoulder, only for those freezing fingers to travel down the slope of your back.
"I know you have had difficulties with it, and you feel lost, but you need not worry anymore. I will take care of you. You might not be the key to Elpis, but that does not diminish your worth. Not to me."
You finally turn around to look at him from over your shoulder, and you finally understand it.
The way he looks at you.
The obsession painted behind his irises.
You notice his arms. They are covered in scratches, some patched and sutured, others uncovered and unhealed.
On display like battle wounds he wears with pride.
"What happened to your arms?"
"Oh? These?" He raises his right arm, looking over them with inexplicable fondness. "Just a scared cat, is all. A frightened, lonesome little critter, digging through the garbage." A glint of his teeth peek past his lips. "But not to concern yourself, my dear. I found it a good home."
He gazes just as fondly back down at you.
"It is exactly where it belongs."
For the first time in a long one, for just a moment, you feel ...
I haven’t really had time to work on this at all recently so I thought I’d just let this see the light of day. Have been making a lot of “finished” stuff so I’m also trying to get myself to chill out a bit and just post roughs again! Gortcas’ first kiss ever….🥀 I DID use to talk about this scene all the way back if anyone remembers. just finally decided to draw it☝
if i could forget you, baby, if i did not need your kind
save yourself the heartache (ao3) ☘︎
He looks so… peaceful. It makes him want to claw at his own skin, tear himself open and bleed out. Gortash deserves that, the calm, and he won't get that with Casim. It eats him up inside, the admission that maybe Gortash is simply better off without him.
i wish you'd come back to me (ao3) ☘︎
He hopes Casim is gazing at it, too, wherever he may be. He'd much rather have Casim looking at it with him, but he finds a sliver of comfort in knowing that they're gazing at the same sky.
love you at the start, love you at the end (ao3) ☘︎
He hopes Casim is gazing at it, too, wherever he may be. He'd much rather have Casim looking at it with him, but he finds a sliver of comfort in knowing that they're gazing at the same sky.
don't leave, i feel like i'm waiting for you
fight or flight (ao3) ☘︎
How can you miss somebody that isn't even gone?
you could do anything to me (ao3) ☘︎
No matter what Gortash could say to break the illusion Casim has painted, Gortash in pain will always hurt him worse.
let yourself go (ao3) 𑣲
Something inside Casim creaks, ready to snap under the weight of the state that Gortash is in, but he aims to go against it.
He aims to get Gortash to beg for him.
i think i found a place for us
reminiscent in what was (ao3) ☘︎
That care for him hasn't changed, and another pang of guilt hits him just as hard as the first. He leans into Casim's palm, a wet sigh passing his lips as he gently shakes his head.
what it's like to be us (ao3) 𑣲
He's happy to admit that he loves Gortash. Without a doubt in his mind, he loves him and always will. It scares him, but it also thrills him, and he'd choose that feeling each time.
One Shots
my favorite season ☘︎
Gortash breathes in the fresh air, watching as leaves begin to litter the ground as they fall off their branches, and a soft smile graces his features that makes Casim's heart race. Gortash glances up at Casim, catching his stare, his smiling only widening as he speaks.
tonight and forever, you're mine 𑣲
He only sees it as another mark made by him, on Gortash's body—a reminder of who the man truly belongs to. Not those nobles at the party, not to the people of Baldur's Gate; Enver Gortash belongs to Casim Carnarvon, wholly and forever.
you were made for me ☘︎
He wants to drink Casim in, as though he were the finest of wines, to feel his body be submerged in nothing but Casim's essence until that's all he's full of.
no one loves me like you do (ao3) ☘︎
Gortash runs the backs of his fingers over Casim's cheekbone, taking in all of the devil's features and gazing at him as though he holds his entire world in his hands.
To Gortash, he does.
please don't make me hate you (ao3) 𑣲
Casim carved himself a place in Gortash's heart, and even when he devolves back into the selfish man he still is, it could never be used against Casim, and he'd never want to use it against him.
there's no place like home (ao3) ☘︎
He supposes mortal traditions can't be so bad, as long as it's spent with Gortash.
it's halloween somewhere (ao3) ☘︎
Casim watches as Gortash's sweat mixes in with the greasy paint on his face, causing the substance to drip down Gortash's chin and leave streaks in their wake. Casim speaks under his breath, though loud enough for Gortash to hear it. "At least you're embodying the true spirit of Halloween, you're horrifying to look at."
your effect is fatal (ao3) 𑣲
He presses a soft kiss to Gortash's cheek, not bothering to stop the single tear that spills from his eye. His heart thumps against his ribs, his stomach twisting pleasantly, and tends to Gortash as he normally would.
you are not irreparable (ao3) ☘︎
His throat is dry, and every breath is painful as blood drips from his mouth, pooling underneath his tongue. He's not sure where he is, or who's talking to him, but then he recognizes the weight on his back.
always you (ao3) ☘︎
"The tape is going to be for you if you don't be quiet."
"You don't mean that," Casim leans into Gortash's space further, pressing the tip of his nose into Gortash's cheek. "Such a tyrant."
lost in you (ao3) 𑣲
"Cas," Gortash's tone is smooth, pouring down Casim's throat like nectar. "Behave like a good boy for me for once, won't you?"
my angel (ao3) ☘︎
Quietly, where no one can hear him except for the one he wants the most, the only one, Enver Gortash says his final words to Casim Carnarvon.
"I love you, my angel."
sunsets with you (ao3) ☘︎
Casim twirls, falling backwards and into the flowers beneath him. Gortash watches, borderline exasperated, as the devil rolls around like a cat in catnip. He won't admit out loud that it's kind of… cute, to see Casim let loose a little.
i can't get my head around you (ao3) ☘︎
Gortash presses one last kiss to Casim's lips, a lingering one that has the devil testing his own patience. Gortash pulls back, though, and shifts to his side of the bed. In this instance, Casim would tease him for his struggling, make a snide remark about his weight, something. Instead, Casim stays quiet, even going so far as to throw the blanket over him once he's settled.
Gortash's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, a feeling of sated bliss making his senses mushy as Casim slides himself off Gortash's cock. It makes him whine quietly, still sensitive from his orgasm, and Casim grins at the sound as he straightens his back out before turning around. He gazes at Gortash's expression, Gortash looking up at him with glazed-over eyes and parted lips, and Casim feels his heart surge in his chest at the sight. He leans down soon after, pressing himself into the mattress in order to plant his hands onto Gortash's gut, kissing his underbelly and sucking the fat of it into his mouth.
"Cas, Gods," Gortash huffs out, his head sinking further into the pillow beneath it as he squeezes his eyes closed. "Give me a moment, at least."
Casim just hums, cupping Gortash's belly in his palm and smoothing it to the side, his lips not ceasing their ambush of affection on his skin. Gortash's fists clench, the sensations making him melt further into the bed as Casim has his way with him. He loves the attention, because it reminds him that Casim likes him this way, and he's able to push his doubts to the side for a moment and just relish in the feeling of Casim all over him. He smiles, and reopens his eyes when he feels Casim stop and move away from him.
"What are you smiling about?" Casim asks, a coy grin on his face as Gortash meets his eyes.
Gortash just shakes his head, sighing through his nose as he reaches a hand out to the devil. "I want you up here."
Casim rolls his eyes, "No manners with you. I need to clean us up first."
"It can wait," Gortash whines, and Casim lets the man pull him down on top of him. "Kiss me first."
"Dramatic."
Gortash doesn't hear Casim's quip, too focused on Casim's lips and the way they move. He wants them on his, he craves them, and Casim can tell just by the way Gortash's gaze shifts between them and his eyes. Casim just laughs before giving Gortash what he wants, the smile on his face being something that Gortash can only describe as beautiful. He nudges the tip of Gortash's nose with his, just to tease him and hear him huff, before locking their lips together. Gortash's eyelids flutter shut, his hand coming up to cup Casim's jaw while his tongue parts Casim's lips and tangles with his.
Casim isn't partial to any version of Gortash, he prefers Gortash as a whole, but he will admit that he indulges himself in this state that he has Gortash in. Pliable, warm, yearning for his touch and his touch alone—it makes pride swell in his chest and spill into his stomach, to know that he's wanted just as much as he wants Gortash. He's obsessed with the way Gortash floods his senses, the way his fingers sink into the fat of his sides, and the way he tastes of the pastries that sit heavy in his gut. He won't ever enjoy a pastry any other way, only through the remnant sweetness that lays thick on Gortash's tongue.
Gortash whines when Casim pulls away, and Casim grins before pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on, tubby, I have to wipe you down. You're covered in crumbs."
"Like you care," Gortash grumbles, not letting go of Casim's wrist despite the devil trying to pull away. "And it's your fault."
"It is not my fault that you're a messy eater." Casim gasps in mock offense, pinching one of Gortash's fat rolls. "You're always blaming me for your own greed."
Gortash just shuts his eyes, letting Casim move off of the top of him to head over to the washroom. He lets one eye crack open to watch Casim walk away, eyeing the devil's ass and smiling to himself as Casim's tail flicks at the tip. He loves Casim like this, still teasing yet gentle with the way he handles everything, naked and genuinely relaxed. It makes his heart flutter, to see Casim this way, and to know he's comfortable here with him.
His hopes for Casim's comfortability and to not feel trapped staying here in the Black Keep are being met, which makes him happier beyond measure. It's one of the two things he wants in life—he wants Casim, first and foremost, and he wants Casim's utmost freedom. Despite never wanting Casim to leave his side, he would never stop Casim from leaving the Black Keep if that's what he so chooses, even if it'll leave him heartbroken. He doubts Casim would leave, at least he tries to doubt it, so he swats the thought away as Casim walks back into their bedchamber.
Gortash can tell Casim cleaned himself up first, his skin dewy from the wet rag he dragged over the planes of his muscles. He looked delicious, and Gortash can feel his fingers twitch with the need to curl around Casim's waist, tracing the contour of his jaw as Casim ravaged his mouth for all he's worth. He wants to drink Casim in, as though he were the finest of wines, to feel his body be submerged in nothing but Casim's essence until that's all he's full of.
Casim gets back onto the bed, a dampened rag in his hand as he gets in between Gortash's legs to lift his stomach up. He's gentle with how he wipes down Gortash's inner thighs and pelvis, though he's not as thorough as he wants to be, his own patience wearing thin as his yearning for Gortash's embrace becomes too much to handle. He tosses the cloth to the floor once he decides he's had enough waiting, crawling over to his side of the bed and cuddling up into Gortash when the man opens his arm up for him.
He leans over the top of him, and Gortash raises his hand to tangle into Casim's hair and undo his bun while Casim presses kisses to Gortash's cheek and neck. His hair, now freed, cascades down his back and shoulder, curtaining the both of them from the window facing Gortash's desk. Gortash gazes up at Casim, and Casim can only ascertain the look to one of love sickness, the way his pupils dilate and a gloss shines over his eyes. Gortash caresses Casim's jaw, appreciating the entirety of him, feeling his breath being taken out of his lungs.
"You're so beautiful, Casim." Gortash whispers, practically awestruck.
Casim laughs, though a blush dusts itself over his cheeks. "Enough, Gortash."
"No, I mean it," Gortash moves his hand up to cup Casim's cheek. "You're breathtaking—intoxicating."
Casim doesn't respond, his lips parting as he lets Gortash's words settle deep into his heart and flow into his veins. He's been called every compliment written in every language, yet it never affected him the way it does coming from Gortash's mouth. It makes him a little dizzy, to feel the affections low in his stomach as they fuzz his mind up, and he doesn't think before he leans down to capture Gortash's lips in a soft kiss.
Gortash sighs, letting Casim take control of the kiss as the devil's tongue licks into his mouth, letting his fingers thread into Casim's hair and hold him there. He loves the feeling of Casim's hair in his hands, the strands slipping between his fingers like silk, holding the gentle vanilla scent that he's grown addicted to inhaling. Even now, the mellow scent of Casim's natural musk invades his senses, and he can only hope to be surrounded by this for the rest of his life.
Casim's hand presses into the side of Gortash's stomach, his fingers curling around the fat while he sinks into the man beneath him. He feels drunk off the feeling of Gortash in his hands, of his lips on his, and he knows that he'll never want to be parted from this. He wants to stay this way forever, to feel this safety and warmth he never thought he'd get to feel—loved. It makes his eyes water and tears prickle at the corners of them, and he feels one trickle down his cheek and drip off his chin as he continues to kiss Gortash as though if he were to stop, he'd perish into nothing.
Gortash feels the droplet splash onto his chest, and his eyes crack open as he gently eases Casim off of him. He pushes Casim back by a hair, just to get a better look at his face, seeing his kiss-swollen lips and glassy eyes, and a furrow forms in his brow.
"Cas, what's wrong?" Gortash questions, his voice tender as he uses both hands to hold Casim's face.
Casim leans into Gortash's palms, another tear slipping down his face. "I'm just..." His words are warbled with the beginnings of his tears, the emotions swirling in his chest making him hiccup. "I'm just happy."
Gortash's worry lines soften as a small grin makes its way onto his lips. He pulls Casim's face down, pressing their lips together in a soft kiss before moving to his cheeks to kiss his tears away, moving one of his hands down to hold the side of Casim's neck while the other goes to his nape, pulling him impossibly closer.
The affection only makes Casim cry more, and he's not sure why he feels so compelled to let the tears fall rather than hold them back, but he just lets it be. For once in his long, miserable life, these tears are happy ones.
CW: past drug use mentioned, feeding, jealousy, public display of affection, sloppy makeouts, rough sex, orgasm edging, masturbation, body worship, lingerie, begging, nipple play, teasing, orgasm denial, aftercare
It's not every day that Gortash gets invited to a party. Sure, he's been invited to galas and other noble events, but it's rare for a party to be hosted in the upper city. Gortash was a little surprised when he received the invitation, almost rejecting it, because he didn't see the point in an event where business deals weren't happening. Casim convinced him to change his mind, however, thinking it'd be a good idea to get out and not worry about work for once.
"Gortash, we should go." Casim leans against the back of Gortash's desk chair, his chin pressing into the man's shoulder as he reads the invitation.
Gortash sighs, "I don't think so—"
"We haven't gone out just to go out in ages." Casim whines. "Please, Gortash? We can leave the moment it starts to suck."
"...Fine."
That's how Gortash finds himself sitting at one of the grand tables in a large gala hall somewhere in Baldur's Gate. He's shocked at the fact that he's never been here before, having thought he'd seen all of what his city had to offer. Pleasantly, he was wrong, and he delights himself in the sights of the massive windows overlooking a part of the upper city, lit up in lights to fight off the darkness of the nighttime. He's clad in one of his nicer garments, forgoing his usual apparel on Casim's request, and instead dressing in his finer suits. He mentally pats himself on the back for having all of his clothing refitted, and not just the one outfit he wears everyday. His clothing isn't what's really on his mind, though, instead unable to take his own eyes off of Casim as he prances around the buffet table, piling food high on a platter for Gortash to enjoy.
Casim put aside his usual robes and corset for a more risque ensemble, the fabric more sheer and the back completely evaded to show off the tautness of his muscles. His pants are a thick material, similar to what he'd normally wear, but his shirt hangs off his shoulders and wraps tight around his biceps as though he were a gift made just for Gortash. He thought he'd find himself jealous, Casim's body on display for all these nobles to see, but instead he just feels giddy—there was something about Casim walking around all these bastards, untouchable because he's Gortash's, that makes his cock strain against his fat pad in his trousers. The devil's hair is swept up into its usual bun, loose strands framing his face as though he were sculpted from marble, and Gortash can't help the way his mouth waters at just how delicious Casim truly looks tonight.
He's thankful Casim convinced him to go to this party.
Deep down, his reasons for not wanting to go were more than just it being a waste of time. He knew that noble parties were always more than just classical music and a few goblets of wine, the patriars losing all their composure and truly letting loose. Alcohol and drugs weren't used sparingly, unknown concoctions of substances passed around and taken as though they were just trays of finger sandwiches. Even when Gortash was using, he didn't see the fun in it, no enjoyment sparking when seeing how truly fucked up some people can get off whatever it was they had ingested or injected. Earlier, before he was fully accepted into noble society, he had let himself be pressured into taking whatever it was the older men had pushed onto him, believing that if he let himself be eased into whatever their culture may be, he'll be pulled in deeper and finally make a name for himself. He hadn't gotten out of bed for four days after that party, and he never touched anything offered to him again after.
He didn't want Casim to be uncomfortable here. He knows vaguely of his time in the Hells, and knows that no mortal party would compare to the torture that he assumes were devil parties, but it's the principle of the matter. He also doesn't want Casim to believe that he'd be susceptible to taking anything that may be presented to him, or go off somewhere to do gods know what, leaving the devil alone. He needs Casim to believe that he's changed, that he's a different man then he was all those years ago; because he is.
Casim stacks different foods onto the plate in his hand for Gortash, taking anything sitting on the table and piling them on top of one another. He's never been this excited to go out before, every event he had been dragged to was always about business or something to do with the city. He hasn't been to a party since his time in the Hells, and that was always about work, too. Now, with Gortash, he can actually try to enjoy himself and his time outside the Black Keep, getting to hang off of Gortash to his heart's content without having to worry about Gortash looking at least semi-professional. He was even able to convince Gortash to wear his nicer suit instead of the gaudy shirt he parades around in everyday. It felt almost like a dream come true, something he only ever imagined he'd get to have—as mortal and cheesy as it sounded, it genuinely felt like a real outing with Gortash, which was a rarity for them nowadays.
Casim turns around once he thinks the platter is sufficiently filled with food, a bright smile on his face that has Gortash's heart thumping hard against his ribcage. Casim's smile only widens when he catches Gortash already looking at him, and Gortash can't help but to reciprocate with a grin of his own. He's happy to be out with Casim, both for the time away from working and because he gets to show him off. He loves to flaunt Casim wherever possible, to show how much he loves Casim, and how he has everything he could want. He loves the jealousy and hatred that paints other people's faces at how he's the one with someone as gorgeous as Casim, and how Casim wants to be with him just as much.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were staring at me." Casim teases, setting the tray of food down on the table in front of Gortash before pulling a seat over to sit as close to him as possible. "Have you lost all your shame?"
Gortash reaches his hand over to pull Casim onto him from where the devil sits in his seat. He kisses Casim's cheekbone, trailing his lips down to his neck and sucking a subtle mark into the skin behind his ear. "I'm just getting a good look at you all dressed up. Is that a crime?" Gortash chuckles quietly into Casim's ear, watching as a light dusting of pink makes its way to Casim's cheeks and the tips of his ears.
Casim feels the way Gortash's hand trails down to his exposed back, his fingers slipping past the high waistband of Casim's pants to press into the base of Casim's tail. Casim's ability to hold back just how turned on he is will always be a surprise to Gortash, though he knows it shouldn't be. Either way, he can always tell, from the careful shift of Casim's hips to the way he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. This time, Casim lets out a little gasp, his eyelids fluttering ever so slightly before he's pulling away from Gortash in order to distract himself with the food he's brought.
Gortash only laughs at Casim's movement, and Casim sends him a faux angry look as he starts gathering a few pieces of meat onto a fork to feed to Gortash. Gortash's hand never leaves Casim's skin, having moved back up to an appropriate position on the devil's back as Casim leans over to place the fork into his mouth. Feeding Gortash here feels different to Casim than if it were some meeting or them in some quiet corner of an upper city restaurant. This feels more open, more public, and it makes an unknown emotion swirl in his stomach at all the people that could be watching them; people that don't matter. It's moments like these where Casim sometimes can't believe how far he's gotten with Gortash, how much their relationship has grown from the time where Gortash brushed him off as just his assassin, to him sucking marks into his skin in front of half of Baldur's Gate's noble society.
Gortash eats happily, much to Casim's enjoyment, and soon Gortash is feeding himself while Casim pampers and tends to him. He's long since moved from his own seat, instead perching himself on Gortash's armrest and hanging off of him, kissing at his face and undoing the button of his coat to give his gut more room. His fingers weave through the spaces in his shirt that the laces couldn't close, pressing into Gortash's skin. Gortash tries to hide the quiet moan that escapes him, his cock still leaking in his pants, pausing his eating in order to gaze at Casim in silent want. Casim gives into him easily, claiming the man's mouth with his own and immediately tangling their tongues together in a sloppy kiss.
Gortash questions his own self control in times like these. Casim could breathe and he'd be close to cumming, which never happened until the devil came into his life. He has his needs, but he's never felt constantly so close to the edge until Casim came along—and he isn't sure if it's just the kind of energy Casim gives off, or if he's truly that attracted to him.
Casim could say the same about himself, decades of sex work passing by that he thought he'd be immune to the ecstasy of arousal and release. Yet, with Gortash, it always hit him like a tidal wave, his cock straining against his pants and thick droplets of precum staining his underwear the moment Gortash's mouth opened to speak. At first, he saw it as a weakness, something he should be ashamed of and should get under control. Now, it only spurs him on, making him more confident in asking Gortash to take care of him rather than forcing himself to hide.
Casim continues to pet over Gortash, noting when the plate starts to get too low for his liking. He gives Gortash one more kiss on the cheek before standing, grinning at the blatant whine that passes Gortash lips at the separation.
"I'm just going to grab you more food, tubby." Casim leans down, groping Gortash's gut over his clothing. "It's either I go now, or you wait even longer once you lick this plate clean."
Gortash huffs, but concedes, letting Casim walk back over to the buffet table while he continues to munch away on what he has in front of him. He keeps his eyes on Casim the entire time, admiring the way his hips sway and the muscles of his back shift as he begins piling heavy spoonfuls and forkfuls of food onto a new dish. His gaze trails down to Casim's backside, his ass perfectly contoured by the pants the devil wears, his thighs making the thick fabric look thinner than it is just by the way they bulge out. His focus is solely on Casim and the food he shoves down his throat, too obsessed with the images that fill his mind of Casim with less clothing on and the feeling of his gut straining against his shirt. Too focused, in fact, that he doesn't notice the drunken noble staggering his way over to where he's sitting and stuffing his face.
"Lord Gortash!" The noble hiccups, taking Casim's former seat and making himself comfortable. "P—Pleasure seeing you here!"
Gortash doesn't remember this man's name, nor does he really care to try. He's barely listening to him, anyway, and he doesn't plan on starting now. He knows he can't make him go away, the man being too drunk for his own good to actually follow any sort of order, and he doesn't feel like wasting his breath on him when he could be eating instead. So, he lets the man ramble drunkenly, catching bits and pieces of praise from him.
Casim, from where he stacks food onto a tray, can hear the man's words as he spews his affections towards Gortash. He can't bring himself to turn around, his eye twitching in mild irritation at the audacity this noble is exhibiting. How dare he just waltz up to Gortash, as though he was some acquaintance—some friend? It made a burning sensation begin to form in his chest, a thick feeling churning in his stomach that nixed any of the bubbly, happy feelings that he had been enjoying previously.
Jealousy.
Casim finishes up the plate for Gortash prematurely in favor of finally turning around. Something eases him slightly at the image of Gortash just ignoring the man, though he assumed Gortash was doing as much considering Casim couldn't hear him responding. Despite this, he couldn't shake the rage sitting heavy on his shoulders at the way this noble speaks to Gortash so casually, the thick affections and appraisals striking Casim's nerves the more they spill from the noble's lips. It hits its peak once he sees the noble try to reach over, his fingertips just barely able to brush over Gortash's arm before Casim makes his way over, yanking the noble away and out of his chair, and onto the floor.
Casim doesn't waste any time in squeezing Gortash's cheeks between his fingers, forcing the man's lips into a pout before he's leaning down to capture them with his own. The kiss is messy, possessive in the way Casim licks into Gortash's mouth, a mixture of spit and teeth that has Gortash moaning wantonly at the nature of it. Gortash's eyes close from the pleasure, but Casim keeps his eyes wide open, watching as the noble keeps his gaze on the two of them for a second before seemingly sobering up, scampering off like the pathetic animal that he is. Casim parts from Gortash once the noble is gone, pulling him up from his seat despite Gortash's sounds of disapproval.
"We're leaving." Casim says, and Gortash can note the annoyance in his tone.
"Why? What happened?" Gortash asks.
If Casim hadn't been the slightest bit turned on by the way Gortash ignored the noble to continue staring at him and shoving food into his mouth, he'd have been angry at Gortash's obliviousness. Instead, he just huffs, teleporting them back to their chambers in the Black Keep being used as his answer. Gortash blinks a little in confusion, both at Casim's change in demeanor and the sudden change in setting. Casim doesn't give Gortash a chance to settle, pulling him in to kiss him once again, the devil cupping the back of his head to keep him there and shove his tongue deeper down his throat.
"Cas, what—" Gortash pants when Casim separates from him, trying to catch his breath as Casim lets his lips and hands roam Gortash's body. He sucks hickeys into Gortash's skin as he undresses him brazenly, uncaring of the state of Gortash's clothes after the fact and just needing the articles off of him. "What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing." Casim speaks plainly, yanking Gortash's pants and undergarments off in one go before shoving him down onto the mattress. He's quick to remove the man's shoes and take his trousers off the rest of the way, Gortash fully naked and laying on their bed in less than a minute.
Gortash can't deny the way his cock gets explicitly harder, almost unbearable with how he's been dealing with the arousal all night. He can feel the way his precum makes a slick mess between his thighs, dripping down to coat his skin and between the cheeks of his ass. Casim looks at him the way a predator looks at its prey, hungry and watching every single movement with intent and precision. Gortash loves when Casim is rough—not that he dislikes when Casim is gentle, but he enjoys when Casim decides to let go of his vices and rough Gortash up a bit. He can tell Casim likes it, too, which is why it only fuels his fire when Casim actually chooses to do so.
Casim tilts his head, gazing over Gortash's body as though it were a semi-blank canvas, begging to be painted by him. He salivates at the glistening between Gortash's legs, at the sweat that dots at the man's temple and drips down his body, and his cock pulses against the fabric of his pants to the point where he's beginning to feel claustrophobic. He's slow in his movements, kicking off his boots before undoing the buttons on his trousers, sliding them down and revealing the lace number he's wearing underneath. Gortash huffs, his pupils growing at the sight, the bulge of Casim's erection barely concealed and twitching against the black lingerie. He isn't even sure where Casim acquired those, but he can't be mad, not when it wraps around his cock so enticingly.
"Come here, please." Gortash whines, reaching his hands out to encourage Casim to take a few steps forward so that he can pull the devil on top of him. "I need you."
"Be patient, Gortash." Casim chuckles, his pants falling into a heap on the floor as his hands move to undo the ties of his shirt. He keeps the fabric hanging off his biceps, and Gortash can't help the soft moans that tumble past his lips. Casim watches Gortash's expression intently, the man following Casim's hand as it trails down from his chest, to his abs, and to where his cock stands at attention. He cups his bulge, a quiet huff passing his lips from the slight relief of tension, his fingers going lower to squeeze his balls through the lace. "You're so needy," Casim says, lips kiss-bitten and pouty. "You can't even control yourself."
Gortash didn't notice the way he shifts his hips upwards, trying and failing to grind his own cock up against his fat pad for a bit of reprieve. He whines, louder this time, watching as Casim pleasures himself and leaves Gortash to writhe. Back then, he'd be angry at this, at Casim's blatant ignoring of Gortash's struggle to please himself because of his fat getting in the way. Now, it only turns him on more, Casim's effect on him being something he'll never get sick of, a drug in its own way.
Casim lets go of himself with a sigh, only wanting to bring himself a little further to the edge without pushing himself over it. Gortash's eyes widen when Casim walks towards him, finally getting something that he wants, and he can't hide his excitement when Casim parts his thighs in order to fit between them on the mattress. Casim leans down first, rubbing at the sides of Gortash's gut as he presses his lips to the skin of it, sucking the fat into his mouth and marking his skin with more hickeys and bruises. He moves up to Gortash's chest next, taking one of the man's nipples into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks, the nub popping out from the fat and pressing up against his tongue. Gortash's noises push Casim to keep going, unrestrained in the way he bites down against the bud of Gortash's nipple. Gortash's high-pitched moan makes Casim grin, a string of saliva following him when he parts from Gortash's skin to gaze down at the work of art the marks make.
"Cas… Cas—!" Gortash whimpers, trying his best to look up and see Casim's face, his eyes brimming with unshed tears from the painful pulsing of his dick. "Please, fuck me, please."
"Asking so nicely." Casim presses himself against Gortash's gut, the head of his cock kissing Gortash's navel through his underwear. "What makes you think you deserve it, hm? Teasing me all night, letting that wannabe, bastard noble try and touch you…"
"I was only focused on you." Gortash cries, his thighs twitching. "Nobody else, just you."
Casim hums, gently dragging his nails over Gortash's skin as he pretends to ponder his options. He pulls away, an unhappy whine getting pulled from Gortash's lips, which Casim shushes gently as he helps Gortash roll over so he's on his hands and knees. Gortash is slightly disappointed, wanting to see Casim and the way his face contorts into pleasure, but all his upset goes out the window once he feels Casim spread his asscheeks, his fat pad pleasantly pressed up against his dick from the way his gut rests against the mattress.
"You're so wet already." Casim watches Gortash's hole clench, grinning at the moan that leaves Gortash from his words. "Were you leaking in your pants the entire party, Gortash? You're filthy."
"Look at you—" Gortash's words are cut off by a gasp when Casim presses his thumb to his hole. "Can't help myself when you're so beautiful."
"Oh, so it's my fault?" Casim pulls his thumb away, his tone teasing despite the accusatory words. "You can't control yourself because I look good?"
"Yes!"
Casim giggles, watching the way Gortash presses himself back as much as he can, trying to chase the feeling of Casim's fingers. Casim trails his hand down, pushing back the fat of Gortash gut to get to his fat pad, using his knuckles to move the fat out of the way in order to grasp his cock. Gortash chokes out a moan at the way Casim's hands squeeze around his shaft, his head dropping as tears pool in his waterline.
Casim begins to move his fist, his jerking slow as he listens to Gortash moan and whine about going faster. He doesn't budge, keeping his movements at a snail's pace and working Gortash up. He's been with Gortash enough to know the tells of when he's about to cum, the way his hands grasp at the sheets and his thighs shake as he gets closer to the edge of his orgasm. Casim brings him to just about the point of cumming, before stopping his fist immediately, grinning almost sadistically at the moan of betrayal that gets pulled from Gortash's throat.
"Casim—" Gortash begs, trying to look at him but failing to turn his head enough. "Please—"
"You'll cum when I want you to cum." Casim speaks.
Casim waits for Gortash's shaking to stop before he starts pumping his cock again. Gortash doesn't know how long the torture lasts, being worked up to the edge before Casim tears his release right out from under him. He hates how much he likes it, how sensitive his entire body feels as tears drip down his chin from the edging. It's mind numbing, the pleasure that Casim gives him and subsequently strips away, and he can't get enough of it.
Casim stops his fist for the nth time when he sees Gortash about to cum again, the time it takes to work the man there getting shorter each time he starts up his movements. Casim grins at the way Gortash trembles, and it only widens when Gortash cries out in objection when Casim takes his hand off of his dick. Shaky huffs of Casim's name are all that Gortash can say, begging him to continue and to just let him cum. The pressure in Casim's loins becomes too much, and he slips his hand underneath his underwear in order to grasp his own cock and squeeze it between his fingers.
"Hah, fuck—" Casim whines, his shaft burning in his palm as the head flushes an angry pink. "You look so good like this, I just can't help myself."
"Let me see, Cas, please." Gortash whines, his stomach flipping at what Casim could look like behind him. He knows those noises well, knows Casim is jerking himself off and not letting him watch, and it feels torturous without any visuals. "Cas, please, I've been good."
Casim almost gives in, turning Gortash over again so that he can watch him masturbate, but he holds strong and keeps him on all fours. He keeps the tip of his dick just over the waistband of his underwear, positioning himself so that he's directly in line with Gortash's ass as he thrusts into his fist. Casim moans out, a tight knot forming beneath his belly button as his free hand grabs onto Gortash's hip and squeezes. Gortash whines, wanting so badly to reach back and hold Casim's hand where it sits on his skin, unable to get himself to move because of his position on the bed. He's glad that Casim is at least touching him, not knowing what he'd have done if Casim refused to both touch him and let him watch. At least he has Casim's hands on his body, using his imagination as best as he can through the haze of his arousal to see what Casim looks like pleasuring himself.
It doesn't take long for Casim to cum, though Gortash could argue it lasted for what felt like forever. His cum spurts out thick from the head of his dick, landing between Gortash's asscheeks and staining the lace of his underwear. Gortash moans at the feeling of the warmth that trickles down his skin and to his hole, his cock burning with all the denied releases as he tries to hold his orgasm back. It hurts in such a good way, he's scared that he might become addicted to it, not knowing if it's something he should even share with Casim for the fear of being teased this way each time they have sex. He isn't sure he can handle that—but part of him is a little willing to try and see.
Casim teases himself through his orgasm, gasping and whining out as his chest heaves from the intensity of it. He's still rock hard, his cock warm in his hand as it continues to throb, and he's unable to hold himself back any longer from fucking into Gortash. Gortash can't help the moan of relief he lets out at Casim spreading his cheeks once more, Casim tugging his underwear off and kicking it away somewhere in the room as he presses the tip of his cock to Gortash's hole. He slips in with ease, the fit tight and burning hot and he bottoms out, his pelvis pressing right up against Gortash's ass. He holds himself there, biting his lip in struggling restraint, just to tease Gortash a little longer.
"Cas, I can't, you need to move—" Gortash's words are sporadic, a mixture of begging and panic as his arousal becomes too much to bear. "Please, please move!"
Casim heeds his request for the first time that night, pulling out before harshly thrusting back into Gortash. They moan out in tandem, Casim's cock pressing up against Gortash's prostate each time he plows back into him. He holds onto Gortash's hips for stability, using it to anchor himself to thrust into Gortash that much harder. The moans spilling from Gortash's lips are unstoppable, loud and unabashed as Casim uses him as much as he pleases. He can't get enough of it, of the way Casim takes advantage of him in this way, chasing his orgasm while pushing Gortash towards his own.
"Say it," Casim hisses out, his nails digging into the fat of Gortash's hips as he slams his own against Gortash's ass. "Say you're mine, Gortash."
"I—I'm yours—!" Gortash whines out as drool begins to pool in his mouth and dribble out from the corner of his lips. "Cas—"
"You're mine." Casim growls.
"Cas, harder!" Gortash moans, and Casim can feel the way his cock gets squeezed by Gortash. "Gods, please, harder—"
Casim leans over Gortash's back, biting down into the fat roll near the back of his head as he pounds into Gortash harder, giving Gortash what he's begging for. He knows Gortash will be bruised, but he can't find it in himself to care much right now. He only sees it as another mark made by him, on Gortash's body—a reminder of who the man truly belongs to. Not those nobles at the party, not to the people of Baldur's Gate; Enver Gortash belongs to Casim Carnarvon, wholly and forever.
Gortash cums with a loud cry, a copious amount of cum dribbling out from his fat pad from the force of his orgasm. Casim isn't far from following, pressing his hips tight against Gortash's ass as he cums deep inside of him, fucking it even deeper as he rides out his own orgasm with a few more thrusts. Gortash slumps, the only thing keeping him up being the fat of his chest as he wheezes and whines from the fullness, feeling more satisfied than he has in ages.
The two of them breathe deeply, trying to catch their breaths as they sit in the afterglow of it all. Casim is gentle when slipping out of Gortash, a stark contrast to how he was just acting. His hands caress Gortash's skin, seeing the bruises and marks and feeling his cock begin to stir once again. He wills it away, knowing Gortash couldn't handle anything more, and instead helping the man turn over so that he rests with his upper back against the pillows.
Casim moves up on the mattress to cup Gortash's face in his hands, wiping away the remnant tears with his thumbs as Gortash continues to wheeze. His eyes are half-lidded, exhaustion ebbing at his consciousness, trying his best to stay awake for Casim.
"Let me go grab some rags to clean us up." Casim whispers, leaning down to place a sweet kiss to Gortash's lips. "You can go to sleep."
"No, wait," Gortash huffs, his voice hoarse from his moaning as he grabs Casim's wrist. "Just… lay with me, just for a moment."
"I don't want you to be uncomfortable—"
"I won't be." Gortash says, tugging Casim with his remaining strength. "I just need you to lay with me for a bit, and then we can get cleaned up."
"Alright."
Casim lets Gortash pull him in, Gortash wrapping his arms around Casim as he presses his face into the devil's neck. He sighs, content and happy as Casim begins running his fingers through his hair, and he presses kisses to Casim's shoulder in a small gesture of thanks. Casim smiles softly, his other hand moving down to rub at Gortash's back, leaning in to press his own lips to Gortash's temple.
"I didn't…" Casim starts, his voice quiet as he thinks out his words. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Gortash pulls back to look at Casim properly, offering him a satiated smile as he reaches up to cup Casim's jaw.
"It was perfect." Gortash sighs, pulling him in for a slow kiss. Casim reciprocates immediately, letting Gortash lead before the man pulls back. "You're so perfect."
Casim huffs, his cheeks burning a soft pink as he glances away. "Stop it with that, Gortash."
"You are." Gortash laughs gently, pulling Casim in closer, if it were even possible. "My perfect angel, always so good to me."
"I'm sorry if I went too far." Casim presses his cheek against Gortash's hair, hiding his face from him as his hands curl around Gortash's shoulders.
"Cas, I loved every second." Gortash dots kisses along any of Casim's skin that he can reach. "You were perfect, like I said. So incredibly perfect."
Casim sighs, melting into Gortash's affections and letting his words sink deep into his bones. He knows he'll have to get up soon in order to wipe the both of them down, but for now, he'll let Gortash kiss over him and hold him close. He'll always love sex with Gortash, but he'll hold space in his heart for the aftercare every time, Gortash always so warm and pliable as he kisses and kneads at Casim. It makes him grin against Gortash's hair, the way Gortash's hold on him tightens.
"I'm always yours, Cas." Gortash whispers, kissing the spot that he had left his mark on earlier that night, now healed and back to Casim's normal skin color. "Tonight, and forever."
Casim smiles, his eyelids fluttering just as they did before. "And I'm yours."
A short NSFW comic set in the current storyline where Gortash loses his left ring finger in a workshop accident (maybe some of you caught the prosthetic in the latest drawing lol) Gortash is pent up and desperate and getting into his own head about Cas not having fucked him since it happened💜
(cw degrading, teasing, nipple play, fat pad penetration)
Ello <3 Just had to come in here and scream at you. Absolutely love your works of gortcas on ao3. Please never stop <3 I'd love to read more. They are one of my favourites to re-read <3
thank u for enjoying them!! it means a lot :-) hopefully gonna try and post more soonish... keyword is hopefully lol
a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.
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