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It was more of an exaggeration than an outright lie when Gortash had complimented the place in his letter to Franc. He’s been beheld to some miserable levels of opulence in his time, so this estate leaves little more than a mediocre impression. Still, he’s content to stride around like he owns the place (and, well, if Franc proves to be disagreeable, then perhaps he will) and lavishing every second thing in casual reverence.
“Did you buy these vases from somewhere in the Upper City? – Hm, no, I should imagine someone like you would look further for your possessions,” is one thing he comments on, among several other mindless observations. He’s having fun.
And this fun is only magnified by Franc, who does a decent job at hiding his nerves, but not an excellent one. He’s smiling, because the idiot is likely excited to see him, but it’s a little too thin-lipped to be entirely at ease. His arms are relaxed instead of crossed over, his hands down by his sides, but they fiddle with the fine fabric of his trousers. He follows Gortash throughout his nonchalant survey of the house, timidly, doggedly.
“Beautiful kitchen you have. Ah, look, the servants seem to have left out refreshments for your guests. How thoughtful,” he hums upon noticing a quaint little plate of biscuits - shortcake of some kind - and pops one into his mouth. He makes sure he’s turned just at the right angle when he catches a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a golden claw, cleans his lips with the swipe of a tongue. Franc’s eyes are on his mouth.
Gortash’s spontaneous tour ends, serendipitously, with them in the drawing room. He only gets halfway through inquiring as to where Franc gets his scotch before the man’s trotting over to the alcohol cabinet to pour him a glass.
“I assume that you’re visiting about the, erm – the letter,” Franc stutters out while Gortash takes his first sip. He’s been hovering around one of the grand chairs gathered around the fireplace, it presumably being the seat that Franc favours, but manners making him reluctant to take a seat before his guest does. With his head tipped back to drink and a throat partly stubbled like coal-dust on display, he stares quite expectantly through his swallows until Franc sits. Well, ‘sit’ may be too ceremonious a word. He falls back into the chair like Bane’s hand itself were pushing him back into it. The simpering little thing.
“Quite correct. How astute of you, Franc,” he replies after savouring the taste of expensive on his tongue, “I don’t doubt that I made myself very clear in writing, but a follow-up visit never hurts, does it?”
Franc shakes his head, the twiddling of his thumbs suggesting he regrets not pouring himself a glass, too. Or sitting down. Or letting Gortash into his home. Or being born.
He is, however, somewhere between trapped under the Lord’s thumb and wrapped around his little finger, either adorned with the finest rings Baldur’s Gate could produce.
“Always a pleasure,” Franc replies courteously, but with the way he’s looking up at Gortash, he can only wonder whether his definition of ‘pleasure’ is appropriate for polite company. Gortash finishes the rest of his glass - not that he’s in need of any Calimshan courage - and takes a couple steps closer.
“I should hope so, dearest Franc. We wouldn’t want my presence to cause you distress, now, would we.” he replies, and, only needing to lean down a little for it, touches Franc’s knee.
Franc crosses his legs almost immediately, which seems more conspicuous than if he’d gotten half-hard on the spot.
“M-my Lord, um -” he tries, a fluster on both his face and voice. As much as Gortash plans his moves carefully, he can’t deny the motivating factor of a hopeless, flushed man playing directly into his hand.
“I don’t scare you, do I? Tell me you don’t feel threatened .” he says, with the squeezing desire to laugh, to laugh in the face of this poor, desperate man who can barely think with his head. When he reaches for Franc’s knee again, it’s to guide it to uncross.
“Oh, gods,” he utters like he’s just witnessed the darkening of the sun.
“Always so polite, Peartree. Always so careful. But never quite careful enough, hm?” he muses, saccharine, almost sympathetic. And when he sinks to his knees, Franc whines .
“Mercy,” the poor noble says, “lord, please, I’ll do anything.”
Pathetic , Gortash says, with his gaze rather than his voice. Just as terrified of a mouth around his cock as he is seeing his estate blown to pieces.
Gortash is a wrathbringer. A dealbroker. And, luckily, dangerously attractive.
He pets Franc’s crotch, where he can already feel his cock stirring in nervous interest.
“You know what I want,” he says mildly, drawing open the laces of the other’s pants, timed just right as he speaks that a mind on a lewd track could assume all he wanted was a well-used throat. Franc swallows hard enough to be audible; internally, Gortash answers himself, ‘everything’ .
Franc’s half-mast by the time Gortash frees him, pulling down his pants and underwear just enough to access what he needs. It isn’t the first time he’s seen his darling cock, small and chubby and with foreskin so generous it’s almost begging him to pull it back. He toys with it for some time, admiring Franc’s owlish expression as he strokes up and down, pulling back the foreskin to expose the sensitive head.
“Beg me again,” Gortash commands ever so simply, leaning in to rub the head against his lips. He’s being a literal cocktease.
“Please, your mouth, please,” Franc groans, giving in to a slight lift of his hips before pressing himself back into the chair, catching his insubordination. Gortash would call him a good boy if he could be bothered.
He allows himself a self-satisfied noise, sliding his mouth down onto Franc’s cock. Machination and manipulation aside, cocksucking’s a pleasant pastime. He takes his time to ensure that Franc knows his pleasure is not at the forefront of his mind, however – he’s not here to let him enjoy himself. At least, not enough that he isn’t ashamed of it.
Franc’s hands are digging resolutely into the armrests, although Gortash imagines that with every practised bob of his head that he’s just dying to put them in his hair. Whether he’d use it as leverage to fuck up into his mouth and take everything he’s so desperate for, or comb his fingers through the black tangle, is not significant to Gortash. Because he is, and will continue to be, the one in control.
He takes his confidence further yet, sinking down onto Franc’s cock until the head teases at the slick, salacious entrance to his throat. He lets his throat quiver in wanting reflex, raises his eyes to watch Franc’s pathetically slackened face, and sucks.
“O- oh , Lord, gods,” Franc sighs like he doesn’t know who to pray to. His whining is encouragement enough to think about making him come, to start sucking him off like he means it. If this had been more arranged, Gortash would love taking the time to pull apart Franc by the seams until he’d swear himself to Bane if he were allowed release. However, he has a job to do - and his knees are starting to ache, anyway. He brings up his right hand to encircle the base of Franc’s dick, covering the inches that Franc hasn’t earned the surround of his lips.
Gortash has gone nose-to-crotch before. Wouldn’t be quite as proud of himself if he hadn’t. But Franc has a lesson to learn, and it is not one taught through earnest deepthroating.
He anticipates Franc's babble of, ‘close, close’ a few seconds before he hears it. Maybe it's the way his cock twitches against the flat of his tongue, or maybe it's the way the muscles in his stomach tense intermittently. Gods, it's a beautiful thing when the feeling of a man falling apart becomes familiar.
He pulls his mouth off in a slow draw that's finished with a lavish lap of his tongue. He offers up a smirk to Franc, which only widens when he sees a panicked expression returned.
“Let me come, please , can I - please canIcome ?”
Gortash whispers ‘fuck’ before his sense produces anything else, because Franc must genuinely be afraid that he'll be left on an edge, poor cock out in the drawing room while Gortash bids him farewell.
There's the image of Franc alone, then, desperately jacking himself off and wishing his hand was golden and gauntleted.
“You're so tense. I thought I was doing something nice for you,” he says, a tease with his lips hovering just above Franc's cock, “but, yes. You have my permission.”
Franc sighs shakily at that, because of course there is no better release than being told he can.
Gortash supposes he should make good on his promise, and suckles at his cockhead, almost fiendishly gentle, while his hand works up and down the shaft. He can’t deny he’s getting into it – a blowjob might be as much a part of the scheme as a well-placed threat is, but Franc’s groaning and gasping and he tastes sweat-bitter on his tongue.
“Gorta- ash -” he groans, spoken loudly enough that Gortash presumes it’s intentional. It isn’t the first time Franc’s come with the Lord’s name on his lips. Gortas moans softly around his mouthful and ups the pace of his hand.
“Ye–eah, ah , Lord – fuck !-”
Gortash pulls back just in time for the first rope of cum to adorn his face - he closes his eyes, welcomes Franc’s desperate, jittery orgasm. He works his cock through his climax, until Franc’s noises turn from ones of pleasure into ones of overstimulation. Franc sinks back into his chair, head tipped towards the ceiling like he’s just had a spiritual experience. And, really, when a Banite sucks your cock that good, it might as well be.
His eyes are back on what really matters as Gortash swipes some of his spend off his cheek, sucking it off his bare finger like a delicacy. While his taste buds deny that comparison, his mind knows the sweetness of even a little victory.
“Come here, Franc,” he beckons.
The noble slides out of his chair, near boneless, and wedges himself in between Gortash’s lap and the front of the chair.
When they kiss, it’s selfish. Kissing is not part of the manipulation, nor is it part of the being manipulated; but Franc still laps up some of his cum from Gortash’s lower lip and makes this pleased little noise. Gortash almost wishes he liked Franc for other reasons than being a beautiful, gullible fool.
Just as they part, Franc fiddles with his half-removed pants until he pulls a handkerchief from a pocket. He leans in as if he’s going to clean Gortash’s face – so Gortash takes it from him, and starts dabbing at himself.
“I think you can take that one with you. I, erm, don’t think I’ll want to use it again,” Franc says with a small grimace that is an attempt to be humorous, fond. As Gortash said - fool.
“I’ve received lavish gifts in my time, but this one takes the cake,” he responds flatly, “I’ll be using your washroom.”
Franc stays sitting on the floor even as Gortash rises - slowly , frowning at the ache in his knees - with his pants only half-back on. Again, had they the luxury of more deliberation, he would’ve let Franc rest his head against his thigh. Just for a moment.
But, a Lord has myriad duties, and unfortunately not all of them involve impressionable men who fancy men that make an impression. He takes one last look at Franc to drink in that face, the lust-haze, the anxiety that never quite ebbed. The sheer lack of guardedness about him. He's near perfect for Gortash, and he almost wishes it weren't just for his ambitions.