Wrest Control - madeoflightning - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

“What perfect timing — I was just wondering if you’d show up here,” Gortash starts as you enter the basem*nt of the Foundry, “I’ve been hoping to test the Mark 3 model.”

The gargantuan structure stands before him, propped up on the industrial claws mounted to the roof as he solders some finishing touches into one of its knee joints. Several renditions of the steel frames lean against the railings that line the main floor of the basem*nt workshop.

You’re not certain what the building was originally intended for, or how exactly it came into Gortash’s control.

In the time you’ve known it, the Foundry has mostly served as a manufacturing plant and port for weapons — be they well documented, above-board dealings with the Flaming First and neighbouring cities. Or the occasional lesser detailed, though far more lucrative, custom orders among Gortash’s blackmarket connections. He’s made himself right at home in the Foundry’s basem*nt over recent months however, the large workshop and existing machinery lending itself perfectly to his creative role within your scheme.

And you’ve long stopped questioning how exactly Gortash manages to wrest control from even the most formidable of challengers.

“What do need me for? You know I can’t link them to an illithid network without an Elder Brain to command them first,” you say, trailing your fingers along the dusty remnants of a previous Watcher iteration thrown aside after it didn’t make it through his trials as you walk further into the room.

He turns from where he kneels beside the structure he’d been working on, pulling the protective goggles from his face as he goes. A wicked smirk crosses his lips as he reaches next to him, before the dim light of the Foundry glints off the metal he flings directly at you. Your fist wraps around the shank of the screwdriver just in time, clutching it mere inches from your face.

“I need that, my dear,” he chuckles to himself, setting the soldering iron on the ground as he rises to his feet, “There’s simply no artificial alternative quite like you that I can use to test their reflexes, so I’d much rather test them against yours. If they can best you, I’m certain they could best anyone else in this wretched city without issue.”

“You could have just said so,” you say, dropping the screwdriver on the desk near the centre of the room. Each step you take rings out in the eerie quiet of the Foundry basem*nt. “Though I do have better things to do than play-fight with your toys, Gortash.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he retorts as he moves towards you, the smell of smouldering steel embers thick in air that surrounds him, as is the scent of the grease that’s streaked across his cheeks. “You usually only show up here unannounced if you’re bored — or in need of my attention.”

His hand wraps around your waist as he ducks in to press a soft kiss to the column of your neck, his other hand reaching for the gauntlet left abandoned behind you. A small sigh slips from your lips as your fingers burrow into his hair, your hips moving back to meet the edge of the desk as his teeth trail light scratches over the spot where his tender kiss had landed.

“The latter, then?” he murmurs against your skin, though a sharp tug of his hair is the only response you offer. He pulls away after a last nip at your neck, moving to fit the golden gauntlet onto his hand. Your fingers fall to your sides, gripping the edge of the desk as you watch the construct spur to life following some light whirring sounds from his gauntlet.

“It will be so much more convenient to have an Elder Brain command them, admittedly. But I can make do for now,” he mutters as the construct stomps to attention while he fiddles with a mechanism embedded in the gauntlet, the hooks it was braced upon falling away.

The Steel Watcher primes itself, posed as if bracing for battle, as the glow of artificer magics flickers from the back of Gortash’s adorned hand, the shadows dancing across his features.

“What would you have me do?” you ask your co-conspirator with a co*cked eyebrow.

“Have at it, my dear. Granted, your dagger may be fruitless against its steel — but you’ve never let a technicality stop you before,” he smirks with a nod towards the construct as he settles into the seat at the messy desk. “Let’s see if I can catch you, at least.”

Your own small smirk spreads across your lips, despite yourself.

You leap towards the Steel Watcher, sliding across the floor just out of its reach as the large, metal digits swipe at you, only barely missing. There’s a faint tutting sound from the direction of the desk, but your focus remains on the monstrosity that turns on the spot to face you.

It takes one large, stomping step towards you, a clumsy, metal hand reaching out but you dodge it with ease, ducking from its reach once more. Another lurch, another evasion. A third quick, desperate swipe almost catches in your hair as you roll through the wide stance of its legs, coming to a stop seated on the floor facing Gortash’s desk.

“You’ll need to be better than that, Enver,” you sneer, “We can only hope that the Elder Brain has quicker reflexes than you.”

His eyes narrow as he thrusts a hand towards you. You instinctively dodge to the side, narrowly avoiding the mirroring steel grip that darts beside your head. His smirk grows into a wicked grin when his other hand grasps at the air as soon as you move, the Watcher’s cold, rigid fingers closing tightly around the back of your neck.

You attempt to spin out of its grip, but the unforgiving digits hold firm.

“Was that quick enough for you, sweet slaughterer?” Gortash mocks as he rises from the desk, his fingers fiddling with the mechanism in the gauntlet. “Be careful now, that’s Gondian steel wrapped around your neck — I’d hate for it to snap such a delicate treasure so easily.”

His empty clutch rises before him, the Steel Watcher mimicking the movement as you’re forcibly pulled to your feet. Your nostrils flare as the tyrant approaches you.

“Release me,” you snarl, your nails arcing through the air between you, instinctively trying to claw the flesh from his smug grin.

“Of course I will — just as soon as I’ve concluded my tests, dear,” he mutters, turning his focus back to the gauntlet as he twirls the various dials.

The construct moves behind you, it’s other cold grip moving to encircle your flailing wrist, catching it in the air and raising it above your head. Gortash’s smirk echoes in the dark glint in his eye. He steps towards you, snatching your free wrist in his own hand. He turns your hand to press a soft kiss into your palm, barely flinching as you rake welts into his cheek at such a brazen display.

“Should I put you to your knees? See just how well a Steel Watcher can really keep you in your place?” he croons, holding your flailing hand away from him as he moves to close the gap between you.

“Dare to try and I’ll bite it off,” you say, sincerity ringing from every syllable.

“And why would you do yourself such a disservice?” he tuts, “Though I suppose I have watched you castrate others for less, so perhaps I won’t risk it — at least not now.”

His adorned hand rises in the air, his fingers beckoning towards himself. The thudding of another Watcher’s steps ring through the large workshop as it springs to life behind you, before you feel its steel grip replace Gortash’s calloused fingertips around your wrist.

“You’ll regret this, Enver,” you threaten, kicking a defiant leg at the approaching construct somewhat halfheartedly. Try as you might, you can’t deny the tight coil of want winding deep your stomach as his monstrosities on either side manoeuvre you so easily.

“I don’t think I will,” he says plainly, expertly evading your instinctive, gnashing teeth as he moves to cup your jaw with a firm hand. “I will never tire of having you spread before me, under my command. I am always happy to accept a new scar as payment for these rare moments.”

“When I get out of this, you’ll beg me for just a new scar,” you spit in response, though your tongue darts to wet your lips as he leans closer, his breath melding with your shallow pants as that ever-present smirk hardens. “Instead, you’re going to watch as I rearrange your innards.”

“What a coincidence, my dear assassin. I was just about to say the same to you,” he sneers before descending on you, catching your mouth in a hungry kiss. His tongue bravely pushes into your mouth, his sturdy grip on your cheeks spreading your jaws open for him. You briefly consider biting down on the wet muscle — but the building ache of need in your core decides for you. All too familiar with just how compelling his silver tongue can be, you return his kiss with a vigour that doesn’t match the venom coating your words.

You bite back a gasp as the steel hands move beneath you when he pulls away, your wrists held high above you as another colossal grip comes to land on either hip, hoisting you into the air. Their steel fingers provide a makeshift, albeit somewhat uncomfortable chair above the tyrant.

Gortash lets out a hum of approval as he moves to inspect the steel structure’s joints, ensuring the machinery can bend and twist without any potentially damaging friction of the plating. His hands find the steel digits digging into your rear, pressing into your flesh alongside them as if testing the pressure of their grip. With the same clinical, almost disinterested approach, he moves to stand between your legs, positioned perfectly in front of his face.

The sharpened tip of his gauntlet reaches between your thighs, his gaze rising to meet your glare with a leering grin as he deftly rips the stitching of your pants. Each pluck of the pointed tip unstitching the seams makes you twitch as the cool air of the Foundry hits your core, a dampened patch of your underwear slowly revealing itself to the Banite through the tear, sending a chill up your spine.

“I can scarcely imagine what your followers would say if they saw you now. Their fearless leader: murder incarnate herself. Helpless, shaking, aching — simply begging for my touch,” he drawls, crouching briefly to grab the blade among his forgotten tools, slicing through the remaining fabric that covers you with swift precision.

“I have never begged you for anything, Gortash,” you snap, trying your utmost to defy him despite the precarious position he has you held in.

He looks up at you with a curious stare, his eyebrow raised as he considers your words for a moment. “You know what? You’re right — or at least, not in so many words. Perhaps we can rectify that.”

The constructs whirr beneath you once more as Gortash’s hands dance across the air, the Watchers following his unspoken orders obediently. Their cold, rigid fingers slip beneath you, gripping dangerously close to either side of your centre as your pants split open further under their cruel grip. You struggle to keep your balance and your shoulder sockets intact as they reposition your arms behind you, propping you upright against their fortified plating.

“How is the hold, my dear?” he murmurs as he observes from between your knees, his clawed fingertips scraping over your soaked folds in a feather touch. You’d sooner die before you’d admit it, but having yourself presented so openly to the tyrant has an unfamiliar pang of vulnerability washing over you. It makes your temper flare, your breath catches in your throat, and your c*nt throbs.

“Let me down and I’ll show you,” you answer with a slight thrash against the Gondian steel bonds, though it only serves to strain your wrists, the Watchers remaining completely unconcerned by your attempts to break free.

“The quicker we finish these tests, the quicker you’re free to go. Now, honestly — does it hurt?” he asks with a true sincerity, if anything there’s almost an air of concern in his tone.

“No,” you answer truthfully with a frustrated sigh, “It’s a little stiff, a solid hold — but not painful.”

He hums in approval as he tweaks a dial on his gauntlet, the steel limbs behind you moving in response immediately to grasp both of your wrists in just one, enormous, metal clutch. The lengthy digits of the Watcher encircles both of your wrists in a tight grip that’s sure to bruise.

“How about now?” Gortash’s previous hint of concern melts away as his smug smirk takes hold once more in response to the unintentional hiss that slips through your gritted teeth.

“No,” you lie with a snarl, refusing to bend to his games.

He lets out a dramatic sigh of faux-disapproval, his hands reaching to grasp brutally into the flesh of your thighs that are held open for him. He looks up at you for a moment, his eyes shimmering in adoration.

“You really do look so beautiful like this, you know. The way that anger darkens your eyes, the warm blush spreading across your cheeks — how your c*nt drips for me so readily,” he says so softly that even his crude words sound like a whispered declaration of love. He leans towards your centre, his hands moving to cup the metal digits that dig into your ass as he places a tender, gentle kiss to your folds, right over your throbbing cl*t. The heat of his mouth and the promise of relief on the horizon wins the battle with your anger as you relax into the steel grip, leaning back against the solid arm of the Watcher and spreading your thighs as wide as you possibly can for him.

You feel his smirk grow against your skin for a brief moment and before you can react, his hand lands a hard, cruel slap against your core. A startled yelp echoes through the Foundry as you straighten up, his smug chuckle that follows stoking the raging fury within you once more.

“But the longer you delay us, the longer this will take. So, I ask again, is the hold now tight enough to hurt?” he asks plainly as he steps away from you, making for his desk.

“Yes,” you growl under your breath, a dozen different ways you could end his life playing out behind your eyes.

“Good,” he murmurs as he picks up a quill, seating himself at the desk as he alternates inspecting his gauntlet and scratching his notes on the parchment.

You swallow back a gasp of surprise as the two Watchers move in tandem, Gortash’s eyes never leaving the gauntlet as he sets them in motion. You do your utmost to keep your balance with even a semblance of grace as you’re jostled with every thunderous step they take towards his desk. His dark eyes flicker to you with a matching sneer as his arm sweeps across his desk, shoving a stack of various parchments from the surface and paying little mind to the ink pots that smash on the hard floor.

With ease and agile movements that would impress you if it were anyone else under their hands, the Watchers grip your hips and leverage your clasped arms to bend you over the edge of the desk. The steel hands adjust their position, each of them grasping an unrelenting hold on your wrists to spread them wide across either side of the desk. Your nails start to splinter the hardwood beneath you, clawing gouges into the wood but their grip doesn’t falter at all at the movement. The Watcher to your right wraps its free hand into your hair, gripping tight to press your cheek to the wood and crane your neck towards the tyrant.

“You barely moved there, dear girl. How do you expect me to test their capabilities if you submit yourself so easily to them?” Gortash admonishes from his seat, his fingers reaching bravely towards you to comb through your hair for a brief moment before he stands, circling the desk and out of your view. “But I promise we’re almost finished here, I just have one more thing I want to review. The Mark 2 model was lacking in dexterity, but I think I’ve resolved that issue. Let’s see though, shall we?”

Your spine straightens, the back of your neck digging into the unmoving metal grip that holds you in place as a blunt, cold pressure prods at your entrance.

Gortash crouches behind you, his hand rubbing the back of your thigh as he leans in to inspect your bare c*nt presented to him. His calloused fingertips are a warm, welcome contrast as he spreads your folds, his thumb smearing your leaking arousal along your slit and spreading the excess along the Watcher’s rigid finger.

You can’t help the keening that echoes from your mouth as the thick, heavy pressure of the Watcher’s finger slides into your c*nt, stretching you around its girth slowly until it’s buried deep within you, the dull pressure of the plating on its would-be knuckle nestled against you. Gortash hums to himself again as the digit stills, awaiting the next command.

His arrogance is palpable as he returns to your view, settling into his chair as he gathers a scrap of parchment and his quill once more, scribbling a few notes onto the scroll.

Your breath comes in shallow pants as the digit finally moves, pulling itself from your wet heat until just the tip sits in your entrance before it sinks back in with an excruciatingly slow pace. Gortash continues to scratch his quill on the paper as he fiddles with the gauntlet, barely sparing you a second glance as the Watcher slowly picks up speed with each thrust.

“I wonder how long you could stay like this? Perhaps there’s an untapped market here, my dear,” he mutters as he works, “I doubt you possess the only greedy c*nt in Faerûn. It may even be worth reviewing how well they’d support a vibrating mechanism in each finger.”

“I’m going to kill you Enver. I swear to you, I will rip you apart,” you bark, your lips curling into a snarl that’s undermined by the instinctive roll of your hips on every thrust to meet the drag of Watcher’s finger inside of you.

“We could make this a routine test. I’ll have you ensure every model that leaves this building meets our impeccable standards,” he says as he ignores you, already certain of the emptiness ringing in each syllable of your threat. “How many times do you think you could cum for me, like this? I could listen to the symphony of your moans for hours as I work.”

His eyes flash with a dangerous glint as he finally turns towards you, leaning in close enough to feel his breath on your face. The incessant drag of the Watcher’s thrusting finger inside of you builds a tight heat deep in your stomach, but each movement is far too slow and methodical to grant you the release you crave.

“How long do you think it would take before I could make the indomitable murderer — the favoured child of Bhaal herself — cry?” he murmurs, his hand weaving into your hair alongside the steel grip that holds you in place. You angle your head in the hold just enough to spit at him in response, a streak of your saliva landing on his cheek. He barely blinks at the gesture, his thumb rising to gather your spit before he licks it from his finger as he continues softly. “That’s my girl.”

He drops his hold as he stands again, scratching one last note into the parchment before he circles the desk. The spiked tip of his gauntlet presses into your skin through the remnants of your pants that cling to your ass, digging painfully for a moment before he pulls and shreds the tattered fabric from your hips.

“You’re right,” he says to himself with a resigned sigh, carrying out a conversation only he seems privy to, “We have a duty to carry out. The Steel Watchers are crucial to the beginnings of our scheme, and my work here is far more important than your desperation. Admittedly, I would find it somewhat difficult to focus on the task at hand while you’re sobbing into my desk.”

His boots kick at your ankles, but you ignore his unspoken demand as your eyes clench shut, desperate to fight the screaming urge to take him inside of you. You hear him shuffle behind you, the sound of his belt unbuckling and his buttons being undone before his adorned hand lands firmly on your bare ass. You bite back a gasp, focusing only your breathing as his hand slaps the same spot twice more in quick succession. Pain blossoms over the abused skin as the wrap of gold from the gauntlet on his fingers burns welts into your flesh.

The brutal hold of the Steel Watcher in your hair drops, your head quickly turning to bark at the tyrant but its fingers wrap around your neck before you can, holding you in place against the desk. The thick digit of the construct slips free from you, your slick trickling along your thigh as it does. The effect the Banite has on you is undeniable even in the dim lighting of the Foundry’s basem*nt.

His feet kick at your ankles again, and after a moment’s deliberation, your legs spread against the hardwood. You bristle at the demeaning snort he lets out as you move.

“So easy — almost too easy, if anything,” he sighs, “Now, as fun as it would be to watch you be taken apart by my forces, we both know you only came down here today to get filled with my co*ck.”

Your teeth grind together in response. He may be right, but he didn’t have to be such a smug prick about it.

“Beg,” he says as he drags the tip of his length along the wetness that leaks from you.

“No,” you snap in defiance, though it sounds a lot less hateful than you had hoped when it hits your ears.

“Beg,” he repeats calmly, running his co*ck along your slit again, angling himself to nudge incessantly against your neglected cl*t on every drag.

“No,” you spit again through gritted teeth, pushing yourself back to chase the friction as best you can in this position.

He lets out another soft sigh, the delicious pressure of his co*ck pulling away from you as he moves behind you for a moment. You hear the leather whip through the air before the aching sting of his belt cracks against your ass, adding another welt to the tormented skin. You swallow back a cry at the building sting as the Steel Watcher’s grip around your neck tightens, threatening to cut off your air if it grows any tighter.

Beg,” he demands, his tone firm as the head of his co*ck presses against your entrance.

Your eyes flutter shut as you let out a long exhale, your need for release winning out in the battle of defiance. “Please,” you whisper, “Please f*ck me.”

“I’d hardly call that ’begging’ — try again,” he sneers, his fingers gripping your hip as he lines himself up, ready to sink into you.

Your eyes snap open, craning just enough against the steel grip to meet his dark eyes, his pupils blown wide and that insufferable smirk on his lips. He will come to regret this performance, you’re certain of that. But, if only for now.

“Please f*ck me, Gortash. I need you to f*ck me — I beg you to let me cum on your co*ck,” you growl, a snarl forming on your lips as his smirk grows into a true grin.

“Good girl,” he chuckles, self-assured condescension oozing from his words, “Was that so hard?”

He knocks the retort from your lips as he pushes himself into your c*nt, his hips slamming brutally against yours in one deep, hard thrust. A wanton moan echoes off the Foundry walls as he breaks into a furious pace, leaving you no time to adjust to his girth. His head falls back as he lets out his own moan, loud enough to drown you out.

When you spend a night at the tyrant’s home, his touch is usually uncharacteristically tender. Your pleasure is his priority when he takes you apart with just his tongue for most of the night. He has spent many nights on his knees before you, his hands bound and blood trickling along his chest from the wounds your dagger left on him. A submissive side of the Banite that only you are permitted to see.

But this — these incredibly rare moments when he has you trapped beneath him, his co*ck spearing into you shows no sign of love, no tenderness, no concern for your satisfaction. You worry you’ll begin to crave these moments more often, which is certainly going to wreak havoc on his ever-inflating ego.

“Should I be jealous of how soaked you are from the Watchers, my dear?” he grunts as his hands fall to either side of your hips, bracing himself on the wooden desk for leverage as he uses your body. “Perhaps I should investigate a smaller, more suitably-sized rendition of a Watcher. It could stretch you out and prepare you for me while I tend to Council duties — have you ready and waiting as an eager, little co*ck-sleeve for when I return.”

Your c*nt clenches around him at the thought, a gasping moan barely filtering through the tight grip of the steel claws around your neck. Your hips slam into the edge of the desk painfully on every thrust, his hips angling to perfectly hit that spot within you that he knows so well. His pants grow shallower as he leans across your back, his chest pressing against your skin before you feel his teeth burying into your shoulder, threatening to break the skin.

His hand snakes between you both, disrupting his brutal pace for just a moment before his fingers land on your cl*t. Your hips buck against the desk instantly, every nerve in your body alight as he rolls the swollen nub beneath the calloused tips.

“Cum for me,” he mumbles into your skin, “Show me how desperate you really are to be under the Black Hand of Lord Bane. Give me that tight, wet hole to fill — to ruin.”

Your back arches as his fingers pick up speed, his thrusts growing vicious as he slams you into the edge of the desk, trapped between the hardwood and his hips. A scream falls from your lips as your finish rips through you, every inch of your skin feels ablaze as he forces you through it, a blinding white spreading behind your eyes. Your c*nt clamps down around his length, your body trying desperately to urge him to his finish. Each movement of his fingers draws another involuntary buck of your hips, his other hand moving to press against the small of your back to keep you in place.

His fingers keep rolling across the oversensitive nub under you as you regain your senses, every flick of his fingertips making you tighten around him. Your moans turn to cries as the sensation becomes almost unbearable. Thankfully he follows not long behind you, his hips stuttering from their rhythm as he pulls his hand away, gripping your waist tightly as he buries his co*ck to the hilt in the warmth. A low groan falls from his lips as he empties himself deep inside of you, the telltale flood of heat blooming within as he fills you with his spend.

Gortash’s last, lazy thrusts finally cease as he lets out a content sigh, his hands running along your back as he steadies his breathing. The tips of his gauntlet gently scrape over the burning welts he’s imprinted into your ass.

“Would you believe that wasn’t my intended outcome of this test run?” he mutters as he straightens up, pulling his softening co*ck from you as he moves. He wipes the remnants of your tryst from his length across the inside of your thigh before tucking himself back into his pants.

“No, I wouldn’t,” you scoff, your knees quaking as you try to shuffle your feet into position beneath you.

“Good,” he chuckles, “Though I wasn’t joking, you know — I do believe we should at least consider bringing one home, dear.”

His fingers replace the steel grip around your wrist as he lifts your hand towards him as if inspecting every inch. He lets out a contemplative hum as he moves to grab a scrap of parchment to scribble down his thoughts.

“But in the interest of a true, equal partnership — you would require your own gauntlet should a moment arise where you need to control it, of course,” he smirks as he settles into the chair before you.

“Can I get up now?” you snap, making a show of pushing against the unmoving steel grip pressed to your neck.

“What a good girl, asking ever so nicely—” he starts to mock though your brow furrows instantly in response.

Enver,” you threaten, your tone enough to show him you’re not fooling around anymore.

He rolls his eyes at you but his smile spreads wider all the same as he fiddles with the dials on his gauntlet. The steel grips instantly release you, the rush of blood tingling your hands as it floods to the limb. You straighten up as best you can, suppressing a shudder as you feel his cum leaking down your thigh while you rub the tender skin of your wrist absentmindedly.

You circle the desk on shaky legs, approaching the Banite who watches you with an air of caution in his eyes. Your hand burrows into his hair, craning his head back enough to wind your fingers around his throat.

“I ought to snap your neck here and now for that performance,” you murmur as you lean towards him, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“You owe me a new scar,” he says as he pulls against your grip in his hair to press a soft kiss to your lips, his hand rising to cup the side of your face as he moves.

“Good answer,” you say as you drop your hold on him, moving away to rummage in his box of spare clothing tucked into a corner to find something that will cover you enough for the walk back to the Temple.

“Will I see you tonight?” he asks, turning back to his desk as he gathers the parchment left scattered on the floor.

“No, you won’t see me,” you answer, pulling on a pair of his pants before you move to leave the Foundry, snatching his belt from the floor as you pass, “Not until it’s too late.”

Gortash settles back into work, the sound of his quill scratching furiously on parchment leads you think he’s less focused on your intricate scheme at this moment, and more concerned with what a more domestic-sized Watcher with better suited mechanisms would require to build.

His smile is clear in his tone as he calls after your retreating form; “Until tonight then, my dear assassin.”

Wrest Control - madeoflightning - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)
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