#this is the skin of a killer durge

[bluerose5]

Astarion gets the Twilight treatment. I take my crackfics very seriously here.

...

"A little help over here!" Erys called out, grunting as he shoved at the slab of stone covering the hunter's sarcophagus.

They were deep within the latest tomb on their journey to find a way to counteract Astarion's... aversion to sunlight, and all paths that they followed led there.

Astarion watched him with a smirk, his hands on his hips.

"Oh, I don't know if you need me," he said. "I mean, I do rather like the view from here."

In response, Erys's tail swayed from side to side, draconic wings giving a slight flutter at the praise.

Of course that didn't stop Erys from turning to narrow his eyes at him.

"Astarion, my love, if you want to know whether this is what we've been waiting for or not," Erys crooned, "then you'll help me."

"Ugh, alright, fine. Spoilsport," Astarion huffed, poking his bottom lip out into a pout. "Although, if I ruin my nails on this filthy hunk of rock, then you owe me."

Erys snorted.

"As if I expect anything less."

Astarion joined him, brushing his fingers over the Infernal carvings upon the sarcophagus, familiar enough with the language by now to understand a few of the words.

"What do you make of it?" Erys asked.

"Blah, blah, something about darkness and light, yada, yada," Astarion muttered.

"Well, I'm surprised you got that much right," Erys taunted, taking Astarion's hand and guiding it over the script as he read aloud. "Roughly translated, it says, 'Bring darkness into light at your leisure, but remember that light shall always expose the true nature of darkness.'"

"So..." Astarion hummed. "What does that entail exactly? Will I turn into some sort of hideous beast in the sunlight instead of turning to ash?"

"Hot," Erys said under his breath; and when Astarion glared at him, he asked, "What?"

"Just help me open the damn thing."

Together, they pushed against the slab.

They pushed and shoved until, finally, the stone fell off to the other side.

A crash roared throughout the tomb, and a cloud of dust sprang up into the air.

Astarion and Erys coughed, frantically waving their hands around until they could see the remains within.

A blood hunter, or what was left of them at least.

And on their finger was a ring, emanating some of the strongest magic they've felt in a while.

"Is that—" Astarion started.

"Maybe?" Erys answered.

"Well," Astarion said, "only one way to find out."

He reached forward, but Erys grabbed his hand before he could reach it.

"Wait," he said, "what if the effects are permanent?"

"What?" Astarion asked. "Wouldn't you still love me as some sort of horrific, malformed beast?"

"That's not what I'm worried about." Erys grimaced. "I'm worried about you making a choice that you might come to regret."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?" Astarion took a deep, bracing breath. "I have to try. I have to know for certain."

After a moment of searching Astarion's expression, Erys nodded, then released his hand.

Astarion reached into the sarcophagus and wrenched the ring free from the skeleton's bones.

They waited for a lone beat, sharing a skeptical look when nothing happened.

"Really?" Erys raised a brow and searched around them. "No hoards of undead to fight? No angry spirits to ward off? That's it? We can go?"

"Kind of underwhelming compared to the other places we've been to get here, I must admit. Not that I'm one to look a gift horse in the mouth."

When it truly appeared as if their theft didn't trigger any world-ending event, Astarion looked at the engraving along the inside of ring, the words upon the sarcophagus embedded within the band.

Astarion prepared himself for the worst.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then slid the ring onto his finger.

Again, nothing happened.

He peeked an eye open and patted his hands against his face, at least relieved when that remained the same.

"Well?" Erys asked, impatient. "Feel any different?"

"Not really," Astarion answered, his lips tugging into a scowl. "Guess we've come to the moment of truth then. That cryptic warning did mention that light will bring out my true nature or what-have-you. It must mean the sunlight will trigger whatever transformation awaits me."

"Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"As ready as I'm going to be."

"Alright, then," Erys sighed, scratching at his beard. "Time to make camp and wait for sunrise, I suppose."

It all seemed way too easy.

They did, in fact, make camp within the tomb —campfire, bedrolls, and all— but the night was a restless one to say the least.

When Astarion wasn't tossing and turning, trying to slip into his trance, he was up pacing back and forth within the darkness.

Erys eventually dragged him back to bed, unable to sleep without him, heavy wings draped over him in an attempt to keep him there.

Only then, in his arms, was Astarion able to rest.

But he was up at the crack of dawn.

Erys took that as a sign to get the hell up himself, yawning as he made his way outside first.

Once the sun rose, he lifted his hand up to shield his face against the first rays of daylight, peering out between his fingers.

He looked back at the entrance to the tomb, where Astarion teetered on the edge between darkness and light.

Erys reached a hand out towards him.

Astarion nodded to him.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped out into the sunlight for the first time in years since their initial journey ended.

Astarion still didn't feel any change, his brow furrowed, confused by this turn of events.

On one hand, at least the change didn't hurt.

On the other, Erys was absolutely silent.

"Erys," He hissed, panic rising in his voice. "How bad is it?"

The silence stretched on.

Then, out of nowhere, the bastard snickered.

"Are you—" Astarion sputtered, indignant. "Are you laughing at me, you bastard?"

"I'm sorry," Erys wheezed. "It's just that, all of that suspense and build-up, and for this?!"

He barked out another laugh, to which Astarion stomped his foot with a huff.

"Sometimes I could just wring that pretty neck of yours. What in the Hells are you talking ab—Oh."

Astarion opened his eyes, only to be met with the sight of his skin, the same as before except for one teensy-weensy detail.

It was sparkling.

"Huh," he muttered, turning his hands back and forth, but there was no denying reality. This was really happening, apparently. "Never read anything about this sort of thing in all of those dusty, old tomes we dug up."

Erys shrugged.

"Perhaps the ring affects different monsters in different ways. Our buddy in the tomb, ole Hunter-What's-Their-Face, was consumed by the curse of lycanthropy in their final days. Either that," Erys guessed, "or the 'true nature' being revealed relies completely on the individual."

He beamed at Astarion in amusement.

"I think I like the second option more. Would make sense that you, of all people, would become the sparkly, glittery vampire."

"Ha! Whatever do you mean by that, my love?" Astarion crooned with a playful bite in his direction.

The sunlight bounced off his skin in a rainbow of color, casting light all around them.

"Only that I absolutely love that radiant personality of yours."

"You don't say," Astarion drawled, then instantly perked up, twirling back and forth as he basked in the morning's warmth. "You know, as flashy as this may have turned out to be, I'd take this over the alternative any day."

Gathering up their supplies, he reached out and took Erys by the hand.

They followed the path that they took to the tomb, their heads held high.

Erys bumped him with his arm.

"Hey, if anyone asks, we'll just say that this is some quirk of your Fey ancestry. That's if anyone has the courage to ask about it with me at your side."

"Heh, it's as good an excuse as any."

"I can't wait until Gale and Shadowheart get to see this at our next tea time," Erys laughed.

"Is that where we're going next then?" Astarion questioned, embracing the freedom to go wherever their hearts led them, however they pleased. "To Waterdeep?"

"To Waterdeep!"

After all, they owed him that special guest lecture of theirs.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #durge #durgestarion #bluerose shitposts #bluerose writes #inspired by discord #and that one art #this is the skin of a killer durge

[lelalyo]

You know, I always wondered how everyone knew Astarion bit you the next morning.

Did they wake during the moment and just decide not to help you or did Tav/Durge wake everyone up after Astarion left like "OMG GUYS, HE BIT ME, LOOK!!!" ????

(In reality it was probably the tadpole but that's not as funny)

#“I always knew he had the skin of a killer” - Gale probably #Baldur's Gate 3 #BG3 #Astarion #Astarion Ancunin #Bg3 Tav #Tav #Dark Urge #Durge #Bg3 Durge #BG3 Dark Urge

[eldrichthingy]

I want to bite them I want to bite them I want to-

#yeah we're in grymforge again and I love the lighting here #this is the bloodstained killer of the group btw. they're irredeemable and I love it for them #I want to crawl under their skin- I APOLOGIZE #the whole character arc of their is just cleric of lolth ➡️ cleric of bhaal pipeline ✌🏾 #what I think is canon ending for this particular durge of mine.. everett's ending is ruling the world before destroying it with astarion :'> #although.. I do love rejecting bhaal & taking over baldur's gate with astarion. it's better because there are epilogues #I will do both anyways because I love reloading #everett is just pure chaos I love it for them #bg3 #*bg3 oc: everett

[spacebarbarianweird]

ASTARION X IMMORTAL NECROMANCER I AM ACTUALLY BEGGING. SINCE THEYRE BOTH IMMORTAL AND HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE DEAD I THINK IT WOULD BE FUN!!!!!!!

Astarion x Necromancer!Durge

Masterlist

Headcanons

You don't want to remember the past.

Whatever it was, it was only blood and gore in honor of Bhaal.

You don't want to do anything about it. It's not you anymore.

You have the right to be someone else, not your father's creation.

Just as Astarion has the right not to be an evil creature of the night.

You give up the profane gift of Bhaal, and he takes away your life.

The last thing you remember is Astarion's scream. 

You awake, reborn and free.

Immortal. The champion of Jergal.

Astarion kneels beside you, his face red with tears. He says nothing, just embraces you, rocking you in his arms.

Years ago, Astarion prayed. He begged for mercy.

That someone would save him, that someone would help him.

Maybe Bhaal heard him after all and helped him in his own twisted way?

Sent him you?

You were both made for death and pain. Vampires are innately evil. Bhaalspawns are the chaos unleashed.

Two spawns. Two killers. Two doomed beings.

You have made your choice. Your path to the light is not a matter of morality or saving the world.

Your path to the light is the pursuit of freedom.

Astarion's freedom is to defy his master.

Your freedom is to defy Bhaal.

You leave Baldur's Gate hand in hand. Immortal and free.

Mostly you are being adventurers, but sometimes, usually after a century, you settle down together, trying to be normal people.

You don't know who you are, what you like, or what you want.

Astarion is constantly trying to help you relax, to give you something you have never had.

You do the same for him.

Your necromantic abilities have stayed with you, and you use them in your work as an adventurer.

In the end, you're an odd couple. Two anti-heroes. If you need to rescue a kidnapped princess, you don't expect a vampire and a necromancer to help you in that endeavor.

You both have nightmares.

Astarion remembers his past and you see horrible shades of past murders and wake up screaming and scratching your skin.

Sometimes the nightmares are so horrible that you run off into the forest reckless and wild, and Astarion has to search for you, risking his own life in the sunlight.

Of course, it's hard to live in harmony with each other. Sometimes you just piss each other off. Maybe once every two or three centuries.

Then you break up and drift apart.

Sooner or later (usually after a century or two) one of you gets lonely.

But how do you find an ancient vampire who is so good at pretending to be something he isn't?

How do you find Champion of the god of death?

You hire monster hunters to go in search of Astarion.

He hires spies.

You both tell them crazy stories. About how you're both dangerous and cruel, and that monster hunters shouldn't do anything stupid, but should let the clients deal with the targets.

The hunters expect bloodshed from you.

But instead, you throw yourselves into each other's arms like young lovers.

You start anew, as tender and passionate as you were at the beginning of your relationship, and give each other several more centuries of happy life together.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96

#spacebarbarian headcanon #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion romance #bg3 #astarion bg3 #astarion headcanon #astarion headcanons #astarion x reader #durge spoilers #astarion x durge #bg3 durge #durge #dark urge #durgestarion #durge x astarion

[astarionmademewriteit]

Make it Hurt

Enver Gortash x f!Durge (pre-tadpole)

Rating: Explicit

MDNI. 18+ only. Minors and blank bios will be blocked.

Wordcount: 1.7k

Tags: Blood play; Knife kink; Mentions of violence and gore; PIV rough sex; Choking; Spitting (in mouth); Act 3 Spoilers; Gortash being a lil' bit submissive but switch-coded.

Summary: Durge and Enver have another council meeting, but it is quickly revealed that Enver was using it as an excuse to see his favorite assassin. The sexual tension had been building up between them for while and Durge finally acts on it, finding quick but mutual gratification in their shared love for pain and blood.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

I grow weary of this cat and mouse game Gortash and I find ourselves playing at. It was no secret that centuries of bad blood bore between Bhaal and Bane. Their respective chosen settling their differences in order to overtake Baldur's Gate. However, the list of differences between Gortash and I happened to be shorter than previously suggested.

He was brilliant, to be sure. His thirst for blood and pain rivaled my own. But I was a seasoned killer, trained in the art of murder and violence. I did not veil the carnal pleasure that ran through my veins at the sight of spilled blood, nor the ferocity of lust that churned deep within me when I was called to dole out executions on his behalf.

Most others saw my duplicitous nature and turned away in quiet disgust, but Enver openly admired me for it. And now we sit at yet another council meeting, carving out our well-laid plans for the city. 

Enver’s hand is splayed out over a letter from General Thorm detailing his work in the Shadowlands and the army he continues to amass. The contents bore me into bouts of restlessness.

I shove away from the table, and in one fluid motion draw my dagger and bury it into the table, right between his fingers.

His unflinching dark gaze meets mine and a smirk plays on his lips.

“Enough with this drivel, Gortash,” I hiss, “This is the second council meeting in one week. If I cared what Ketheric had to say, I'd visit that dreaded place myself. Why am I here?”

Enver chuckles darkly, pulling the dagger from the table and testing its sharpness. He presses his fingertip into the sharpened point, until blood rushes from his finger. Red rivulets flow freely from his wound, splattering on Thorm's forgotten letter.

“Does world domination carve into too much of your precious time?” His rhetorical question was full of condescension, “Perhaps, I just needed to find another excuse to conspire with my favorite assassin.” He cocks an amused eyebrow in my direction and a smug grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

I roll my eyes and yank the dagger from his grasp, hoping it catches against his skin once more so I can watch him bleed so prettily for me.

“There are better excuses than reading letters from that heretic,” I growl with disdain as I gesture towards the letters. Ketheric had his uses, but he never appreciated the finality of death–something I took personally, as his sacrilegious mindset directly conflicted with the tenants of Bhaal.

“Would you rather I prepare some prisoners for torture? Maiming? I understand you are fond of spilling blood,” his gaze never leaving mine, “It's one of the many things I admire about you.”

I circle around to his chair and sit on the edge of the council table beside Enver. I prop my leg over my knee, drawing his attention. He leans back in his chair and watches me closely, his eyes lingering on my form.

“Maiming?” I spit with disgust, “There is art in murder, but maiming is below me,” I grab his wrist and examine his pricked fingertip, “It's about coaxing,” I squeeze the tip of his finger and watch as blood dribbles down his wrist, “It is about taste,” I pull his finger into my mouth unprovoked, sucking and pulling blood from his wound. The coppery taste sends my body into a vibrating thrum of excitement and ecstasy. 

Enver sucks in his breath and something between a sound of approval and a low guttural growl escapes his chest. I slowly let his finger retreat, never breaking our intense gaze. 

“It's about practicality.” I push myself off the table and stand behind him, grabbing a handful of his hair at the crown of his head, pulling him painfully backwards until his eyes are back on me. The sharp edge of my dagger flush against his throat–one swift movement away from nicking his artery.

Gortash’s eyes watched me carefully, but he was neither scared nor nervous. I couldn’t help but feel pleased at this revelation. A look of longing passes between us, and in one fleeting moment I lean down and crush my lips to his. He receives me eagerly despite the steel of my knife threatening to bite into his flesh.

After a moment I bury the dagger into the table and Enver quickly stands and wraps his arms around my waist. I jump off the ground and wrap my legs around his middle, connecting our lips again. Our kiss is messy, filled with teeth, tongue, and lips–molding together with bruising force. His prickly stubble rubs deliciously against my face.

Enver spins and sits me on the edge of the table, hovering over me as his gilded fingers lace through my hair. He sighs deeply into my mouth as our tongues explore one another. I start thumbing the laces of his robes, pulling them open and running my nails through his thick chest hair–not holding back the way my sharp nails bite into his skin.

His golden filigree gloves claw at my scalp and down the back of my neck as he grows more desperate. I bite hard into his bottom lip until I draw blood, smiling against his abrasive kisses. He groans with pleasure as I suck the blood that surfaces from his wound.

I pull back momentarily, panting heavy as I whisper how good he tastes while pulling the last of his laces free. In a flurry of hurried movements, we undress before our lips crush back together, as if our very survival depended on it.

I lay flat on my back in the middle of the council table as he crawls over my body with a predatory gaze. Enver knees my legs open while he trails kisses down my neck. His cock rubbing torturously between my slick folds, teasing my clit and driving me into a lust-filled craze.

Impatience thrums through my body and I quickly grab Enver’s throat with enough force to cut off his airflow. I pull him up to meet my eyes, his dark gaze boring into me with such frantic intensity.

“Fuck me,” I growl, “Before I change my mind and slit your throat. And make it hurt.”

He chuckles darkly. Clearly amused by my threats, “As you wish, my assassin.”

Without a moment lost, he painfully forces himself inside me, threatening to split me in half. I cry out in pleasure, relishing in the way he fills me completely–his hips snapping into me with newfound ferocity. His golden filigree claws dig into the very wood of the council table, leaving deep splintering grooves.

My nails dig into his back, tracing painful welts into his flesh. The pain only motivates him to rut into me harder, pulling out far enough so that the swollen head of his cock forces me open wider, before snapping back into me with unrelenting force.

I wrap my legs around his waist, lifting my hips up off the table so that he is hitting my pleasure points with devastating precision. His name falls from my lips like a haunted hymn, echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the council room.

Enver’s lips meet mine with such brutality that my skull presses painfully into the table underneath. His back is now spattered in bloody scratch marks, dripping down his back artfully.

I groan in pleasure, my ecstasy building into a dizzying crescendo. Enver’s teeth suddenly dig into the flesh of my lips, and the familiar coppery flavor of my blood spills from the wound. He sucks at my blood, groaning with carnal delight while he continues to thrust relentlessly into my dripping cunt.

He pulls back, reveling in the taste of my blood–savoring it on his tongue. “Open up, dear assassin,” he growls. I comply instantly, opening my mouth wide and letting my tongue fall from my lips seductively.

He hovers over my mouth and allows a mixture of my blood and his saliva to fall back into my waiting mouth. I whimper–elated with our own debauchery. His pace becomes more aggressive–abusive, even, as I chase my release. 

My pleasure peaks and I’m falling victim to the white hot flash of ecstasy that rocks through my body, seizing my muscles until I’m coming undone–completely unraveling under his body. My cries ring through the room, Enver’s name the only prayer I care to recite.

Gortash breathes heavily in my ear, chasing his own release. His thrusts become uneven and sloppy. His eyes are glazed over and his pupils are completely blown out as he watches me while I continue to fall apart as he ruins my cunt with his punishing pace.

As my orgasm starts to subside I pull the dagger from the wooden table and press the sharp edge to the soft flesh of his throat once again. His eyes roll into the back of his head, enjoying the cold steel against his neck–the possibility of death lingering close by only motivating him to fuck me harder–deeper.

“Come inside me, Enver,” I hiss, tightening my legs around his waist as he continues to rut into me, desperately. His golden claws dig into the table, further marring the council table–leaving behind evidence of our violent tryst.

“Yes, my assassin,” he relents, shooting ropes of cum deep in my slick cunt, filling me with his seed. Enver whimpers into my neck, biting viciously at the soft flesh of my throat, leaving bruising evidence of his lusty confessions on my skin. His cock spasming uncontrollably inside of me.

His orgasm begins to subside, our sweat mixes with blood and violent ecstasy as he stills inside of me.

I run my fingers through his dark, bedraggled hair, having discarded my dagger momentarily.

“Regain your strength, Gortash,” I command arrogantly, “We are not done yet.”

He laughs breathily as he tries to regain some semblance of composure, “Whatever my favorite assassin commands, I shall happily deliver.”

I felt momentary relief now that we have finally acted on our building sexual tension. The feeling is quickly replaced with a new kind of hunger–one that rivals the murderous fantasies that occupy my mind. We complement one another, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming together to create a beautifully violent masterpiece. 

I knew at that moment that something incredible would have to pull us away from one another. The impossibility of it amused me greatly.

#Durgetash #Durge x Gortash #F!durge x Gortash #Enver Gortash fic #Gortash Fic #Baldur's Gate fic #baludr's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 Smut #Gortash x Durge #Gortash x f!durge #Gortash x Dark Urge #Dark Urge x Gortash #Enver Gortash #Gortash smut #Enver Gortash Smut #Durgetash fanfic #Durgetash fanfiction #Durgetash fic #Dark Urge #Gortash

[the-dork-urge]

Wicked Urges || Durge X Gortash

SUMMARY: Durge has a hard time getting a certain man out of her mind. She tries one final distraction. But to no avail.

WORDCOUNT: 1387

NSFW

Her turmoil knew no bounds; Enver Gortash lingered in her mind. Not even the crimson stain of her darkest deeds could purge the persistent ache that gnawed at her soul, pushing her to the brink of madness. In the night's embrace, she would slip away into the shadows, her blade gleaming with the promise of release. Yet, even as she carved her path through the flesh of her victims, their anguished cries, once a cacophony that drowned out the clamor of her inner turmoil, now played second fiddle to the relentless image her own mind had conjured – his eyes, piercing into hers, his large hands exploring her flesh with invasive intent, her nails digging into his skin with desperate urgency.

To entertain the notion of a Banite, to allow herself to be drawn into the gravitational pull of Gortash's allure, was to court damnation in its purest form. And yet, with each rendezvous in the recesses of her mind, she found herself dancing dangerously close to the edge of her Father's disapproval. Thus, she stood before her final avenue of escape.

He was exquisite, graceful, and lean, with gentle eyes and soft skin—a fair elf. His aesthetic starkly contrasted with the one she struggled to expel from her thoughts. The courtesan batted long eyelashes as he extended his hand. She accepted it, more than just taking it—she claimed it as her own. He was now hers, to employ as she pleased.

She pushed the elf down onto the bed, his graceful body sinking into the red, silken sheets, eyes fluttering, fixed on the ceiling. The scene was almost familiar, reminiscent of a morbid masterpiece—a body displayed against a canvas of blood.

Urgency gripped her as she shed her armor, each piece clattering to the floor. Naked she crawled onto the bed, her skin bare and exposed, mirroring the man beneath her. She prowled over the elf, her hands gliding over his soft skin, her mouth nuzzling at his slender neck. Beneath her touch, she felt the steady thrum of his pulse. Despite his ethereal beauty, he remained as mortal as any other.

It was a thrilling thought, the realization that he remained oblivious to her true nature, unaware of the depths of her capabilities. To allow a killer to come so close, to let them feel the steady pulse of life beneath their touch, all while remaining ignorant of the potential for sudden cessation—it sent shivers down her spine.

Perhaps, she thought, she ought to kill the Banite snake, for slithering his way into her brain. Making a canvas much prettier than the one she saw before her.

She leaned in to kiss his neck, pushing aside thoughts of Gortash. Moving up to his jaw, his cheeks, the taste of inexpensive cologne lingered on her tongue as she delved deeper into his mouth. Hunger drove her as she sought his tongue, while his hands roamed over her scarred body, tracing delicate fingertips over her healing bruises. He responded in kind, wrestling with his tongue, his hands finding their way to the back of her head, pulling her closer. Their mouths melded together in a fervent kiss. She sank her teeth into the elf's lower lip, drawing blood. She kissed him again, with even more intensity, savoring the ironic taste on her lips and in their mouths. Yet, amid the heightened moment, thoughts of Gortash intruded—his lips between her teeth, the sweet tang of his blood on her tongue, and the fantasy of his body beneath hers.

Feeling the stirring of desire within her, she allowed her hands to glide along the elven body, envisioning Gortash beneath her fingertips instead. As her touch trailed down the smooth chest of the elf, she imagined Gortash's dark hair, always peeking out from his clothing, his gentle curves where she now felt muscles, and the trail of hair leading down as she settled between his legs. The elf shuddered at her touch, twitching under her palm as she teased him. She wrapped her hand around the elf's cock, before she slowly started stroking. Every whimper or moan he let out was stifled by her mouth on his. She wondered what noises Gortash would make as she touched him, and what it would feel like if he'd run his hands over her skin. She tried to dispel the improper thoughts of him again, but they lingered, like a cheap perfume.

The prostitute's hands wandered towards her thighs and his fingers travelled upward to her heat. With gentle fingers, the elf teased her, spreading her wetness. As she kept stroking his cock, he moved his fingers inside. They were too slender, and she longed for Gortash's plump fingers. She cursed at the intrusive thoughts. But the thought of it set her body alight and before she could stop herself she spoke: "More," her voice a sultry command, as she pressed herself against him. The elf responded, adjusting the intensity of his touch to meet her craving. Despite the disparity between his fingers and the ones she longed for, the sensations he evoked stirred a primal desire within her. "Fuck me." The tantalizing thoughts proved too arousing to resist, and she abandoned the struggle against the fantasy. Bhaal. Father. She pleaded for his forgiveness.

Her mind swirled with imagined sensations - the scent of Gortash, the phantom touch of his hands, the image of his cock inside her. With a deep breath, she positioned herself just above the elf, gradually lowering herself down. His head eased in slowly, and she couldn't help but groan at the fantasy of Gortash stretching her out. As she sank down, taking all of him, she clenched around his cock, relishing in the illusion.

"You feel fantastic," the prostitute whimpered, his voice shattering her brittle illusion.

"I didn't pay you to talk," she bit out, covering his mouth with her hand as she started riding him. With each thrust, she immersed herself once again in her fantasy. In her mind's eye, it was Enver's cock pumping between her legs, pounding into her again and again. Though she dared not speak his name, it danced on her lips, stifled by the bite of her lip. In her visions, she heard him vocally - grunting as sweat dripped down his chest, cursing as he filled her up.

As the fantasy unfolded in her mind, she felt every imagined sensation with vivid intensity. Enver's hands gripped her hips firmly, guiding her movements as he thrust into her relentlessly. Each powerful stroke sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body, building a mounting tension that threatened to consume her completely. She moved her hand toward his neck, slowly digging her fingers in, relishing in the sensation inside her wet cunt. Softly, she whispered his cursed name as it seemed to burn on her lips.

Reality faded completely as she saw Gortash's eyes staring back at her from beneath her, pleading, glistening with desire.

With every movement, she felt him deep inside her, stretching her to her limits and igniting a primal desire she could no longer suppress.

In her mind's eye, she visualized Enver's powerful thrusts, his hips grinding against hers in a rhythm as old as time itself. The image of his sweat-drenched chest, his muscles straining with each movement, fueled her arousal even further. She imagined the sound of his voice once again, low and guttural, filling the room as he voiced his desire for her, his words sending shivers down her spine.

As she rolled her hips forward even faster, drawing her own orgasm, a scream escaped her lips, followed by his name, "Enver."

For a moment, she released her hold on his neck, her body shuddering as she rode out her climax, spilling her wetness. Beneath her, the man's body shuddered as well, and she smiled as she pushed herself off the bed, his semen spilling down her legs.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Durge found herself returning to reality, breathless and spent. Yet, even in the aftermath, the name of her obsession lingered on her lips.

"Enver Gortash. Really?" The prostitute's amused whisper cut through the silence, his grin betraying a hint of curiosity.

"I told you not to speak," she warned him, her tone sharp as she scanned the room for her belongings. A thought crossed her mind, dark and insidious, as she considered the consequences of leaving a witness to her forbidden desires.

With a calculated calmness, she retrieved her clothes, her mind already set on a course of action. There could be no witnesses to her longing for the Banite snake; it would be a stain on her honor that she could not bear. He had to die.

"Come and get your pay, elf," she beckoned as she watched him crawl from the bed, wrapping the crimson sheet around him. It was perfect, she thought, a sly grin spreading across her face as her hand trailed to the knife concealed in her clothes.

Atleast this way she could please her father. But it was a long road to make up for her transgressions. One she was afraid she just started traveling.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 durge #dark urge x gortash #durgetash #enver gortash #bg3 gortash #gortash

[animentality]

Since my Durge is the default/canon dragonborn I had this idea of him feeling self conscious about his appearance - looking like a big scary monster in general for one and for two, feeling like an inadequate partner for Gortash, cause Gort can’t even really kiss him the way he’d be able to kiss a human/elf/tiefling/etc. He doubts Gortash even really loves him because he just looks so different. So one night as a surprise Durge casts disguise self to look like an average human and he sets up all seductively in bed and when Gort gets home, Durge is all like “Look! Soft skin! No spikes! Kissable lips! You can make out with me properly now!” 

But the plot twist is that Gort refuses to even get in the bed unless they change back immediately lol.

I don’t know how in character this is technically - like I do think the way these two are insane about each other goes far far beyond physical - but I am really charmed by the idea that at a certain point Gortash is so attached to HIS Durge that it would be too weird for them to look any other way. Even dragonborn Durge, enough that Gort wouldn’t even miss something like proper kissing after a while. He wouldn’t kiss them with a magic human face because that’s not Durge to him. It’s Durge’s real face that makes him so happy every time he sees it, and that’s the version he wants.

So if Gort saw his dragonborn Durge had magicked into a human for him, he’s like nope, absolutely not, too weird, change back right now. I think he would be more annoyed that Durge would even THINK that’s what he wants, more than anything lol. He wants them exactly as they are, thank you very much, so get that other guy out of here!

Tldr I just think what Gortash has with Durge is special and atypical on a lot of levels so that it doesn’t matter what Durge actually looks like, as long as they look like themself... if that makes sense 😭

This is really really sweet actually and I love the idea.

Part of me wants to say though that dragonborns are present at baldur's gate, so we at least know that they're somewhat normalized and I doubt fucking a dragonborn would really be taboo.

You can fuck dwarves and drow and elves and tieflings and whatever the fuck.

However. I admit. Just logistically. It's pretty hard to kiss a dragonborn. It would be even harder to fuck one, I mean, just look at those scales. You'd get your ass peeled off. Some skin chafing at best, flaying at absolute worst.

So I like this idea because maybe dark urge would be a little self conscious because they aren't supposed to love, so they never thought about it before.

But now that they are like...in a weird relationship, then maybe they start feeling odd about it or want to be more normal for him.

And the idea of Gortash insisting that he likes how they look and wouldn't have them any other way...

How romantic :) for those two serial killers.

But also.

Dragonborn. Monster.

Loving someone who sees them as more than that.

Who loves all of their abnormality.

Psychological and physical.

Hrrrrrr.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #enver gortash #dark urge #durgetash

[sorcerous-caress]

Ok imagine Tav/durge human who romance Minthara, power imbalance will be insane. Minthara fuck the shit out of her favorite human while degrading her condescendingly for being the short-live young human.

— RED Anon

Welcome new anon <3

God I have so much to say about this, my human kink is insane.

As durge, you're a weapon, a terrifying killer that was made for the sole purpose of murder. The trail of gore and guts you leave behind is unlike anything she has ever seen before. You're murder itself. She found herself staring in awe at the heights of sadism your mind could reach when dealing with your enemies. She worships you more than she ever worshipped Orin back when she was brainwashed.

And yet, you're a mere human.

A mayfly, a short-lived spec of dust. She could live your lifespan ten times or more.

Your body is weak, fragile. Your skin is too soft for a murderer, too smooth, unlike the riges and sharp edges of the devils you've buried under your fragile feet.

You're fascinated very easily, too curious and bold. The traits that seemed prevlent in all of humanity.

And you're just so...human. the way you put importance on small things, the way you easily get attached to mundane objects. Why do your blades even need a name? They're blades!

For something so meek and short lived, you're an endless hurricane of emotions. Constantly changing and shifting. Your highs and lows would make other speices look like birck walls in comparison.

And that ircking charm of humanity in you. That intoxicating smell. That endless chatter. You do 2 or 3 things at once while maintaining a conversation with her.

The brightest star she has ever seen, the wildest of fires she has witnessed condensed into a single fragile being that will perish before a century passed by.

Burning bright and fast, drow people had a hushed respect for humans at how much they can achieve in such a short lifespan. At how fast they mature in merely 18 years while their own pathetic faerie reltives took a century to be considered an adult.

She was getting addicted to your fire and in a way, her life will always be much dimmer after your departure. You made sure to leave your mark on everything you've touched, to prove that you were there.

That you existed, you were a human being with thoughts and feelings, and you made an impact. Leaving your fingerprints glowing like ambers against the pages of history.

She learns to appreciate you more whenever she is reminded of that grim reality.

#♡red anon #♡Minthara #♡Human!reader #♡durge!reader #♡fluff #♡angst

[lamortwrites]

songfic tag game!

tagged by @say-lene, thank you!!

Pick a song to accompany each of your fics or as many as you like. This might be the fic's inspiration or just pure vibes that you'd like to share with readers. Tag as many people as fics you feature (or do as you please!)

tagging: @todderwodders @secondsundering @plethomacademia @spellmage @archduke-enver-gortash @nullcanary @chronurgy if you guys feel like playing!

this should be the easiest tag game of my life since all my fic titles are song lyrics, however that feels a little like cheating so extra challenge mode I'm gonna try and pick an additional song for each!

take his body as a relic to be canonised (durgetash, explicit, m/m, body worship, 1k)

title: Foundations of Decay / My Chemical Romance

Let our bodies lay while our hearts will stay Let our blood invade if I die in pain And if, by his own hand, his spirit flies Take his body as a relic to be canonized, now And so he gets to die a saint But she will always be a whore

extra challenge level: Body And Blood / Ghost

Son of God The bitter taste is sweet So eat Nazarene And you kiss the obscene Anointed feet

His body and blood Sharing in common His body and blood His body and blood Serving Messiah

---

a fading reminder of who i used to be (durgetash, explicit, other, tusk sucking/bondage/clothed sex, 5k)

title: Something I Can Never Have / Nine Inch Nails

I still recall the taste of your tears Echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore Scraping through my head 'til I don't want to sleep anymore

extra challenge level: Pleasure of the Pain / Fearless Vampire Killers

The pleasure of the pain Consumes all I feel It steals But what it leaves Is a monster of me

No matter where I run I can smell you on my skin Distinct But when I need your taste My body doesn't slake the thirst

---

am i too lost to be saved? (durgetash, explicit, other, canon typical durge daddy issues/crisis of faith/traumatic brain surgery, 5.8k)

title: Tourniquet / Evanescence

And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming Am I too lost to be saved? Am I too lost?

My God my tourniquet Return to me salvation

extra challenge level: Frankenstein / Rina Sawayama

Put me together one more time Love me forever, fix me right I can be your Frankenstein, Frankenstein Put me together, make me better Love me forever, hold me tight I can be your Frankenstein, Frankenstein

I don't wanna be a monster anymore I don't wanna be a monster

---

you get me closer to god (durgetash, explicit, other, necrophilia/consensual but not safe or sane/temporary character death, 4k)

title: Closer / Nine Inch Nails

You let me violate you You let me desecrate you You let me penetrate you You let me complicate you

extra challenge level: Bone Church / Slipknot

We kill what we love We love what we kill Nothing ever changes Oh, nothing ever will

and

Don't take the place of my sins Prayers will not save me again

---

lose the halo, don't need to resist (durgetash, explicit, other, blow jobs/bondage/edging, 7k)

title: Sick, Sick, Sick / Queens of the Stone Age (and the very durge coded mv -- cw for eroticised cannibalism)

Young, dumb, don't see a problem Bloodshot, stare like a hoodlum Simple as this — I'm in love with the risk I know what I've done But tell me what did I miss So please don't save something Waste not, save nothing Lose the halo, don't need to resist A lick of the lips and a grip on your hips

Sick, sick, sick Don't resist Sick, sick, sick Don't resist

(we're now past the thin threads of plot I had managed to work in so these last ones will just have the titles)

---

love you to death (durgetash, explicit, other, desk sex/anal sex/murder kink, 1.7k)

title: Love You to Death / Type O Negative

Shall I prove I mean what I'm saying? Begging, I say the beast inside of me's gonna get ya, get ya, get.. yeah.

Let me love you to… Let me love you to death.

---

wear you like a stain (durgetash, explicit, other, hand jobs/frottage/murder kink, 1.7k)

title: Before I Forget / Slipknot

I'm smeared across the page, and doused in gasoline I wear you like a stain, yet I'm the one who's obscene Catch me up on all your sordid little insurrections, I've got no time to lose, and I'm just caught up in all the cattle

#this was v fun ty for the tag!!! #tag meme

[astarionfreak]

Exile (Or: How you learned to stay)

// Astarion (Ascended) / Reader (Fem!Durge) &

// Shadowheart / Reader (Fem!Durge)

You turned away from everyone after defeating the Netherbrain. You spiraled out of control. Then, at your very lowest, Astarion, the Vampire Ascendant, found you. You give him everything. But your heart still belongs to Shadowheart -- and Astarion will never let you go.

You kiss him like you need him. You grab him like you’re holding on for your life. He returns the favor. Your lips are moving against his, but you’re thinking about her. Her hands on your hips, not his. Her mouth on your lips. The way she whispered your name as you held each other in the dark. But she’s not here. He is. You have to forget.

18+ • NSFW • 22.6K words (6/?) | Read on AO3 (the first chapter is available below)

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Check the tags on AO3 for a full list of warnings.

Tags: Dark, Trauma, Abuse, Smut, Obsessive Behavior, Emotional Manipulation, Mind Control, Dubcon, Noncon, Unreliable Narrator, Torture, Somnophilia, Evil Astarion.

Chapter One: Run (and forget)

It’s pouring rain. You’re running. Your bare feet carry you over cobblestones, through alleyways — always in shadow. Never in the light.

Don’t let him see you. You can’t let him find you.

Your heart pounds. Your lungs ache. It’s raining. You’re running. You can’t remember why.

You only know you can’t stop.

Were those footsteps behind you? Do you dare turn your head? Your body keeps moving you forward. But your chest is burning now. The rain obscures your vision.

Is that blood? You lick your lower lip. It’s cracked and swollen. Did you fall? Were you hit?

You can’t remember. You can’t remember anything.

Keep running. Don’t stop. He’s right behind you.

The alley splits in two directions. You have to choose.

You turn right, nearly slipping as you careen around the corner — and find yourself up against a wall.

No. No. No.

You have to keep running.

You turn again — then you hear it — a man’s voice, right in your ear.

“You’re mine now, little bird.”

But there’s nobody there.

Run.

But your feet won’t move.

Run.

But there are fingers tangled in your hair.

Run.

Your head meets the pavement with a sickening crack.

You should have turned left.

The world goes black.

---

six months before you ran

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the tavern window. A bruise, deep purple and black decorates the skin around your right eye. You can’t remember how you got it.

It doesn’t matter. Probably a bar fight. You’ve been drinking a lot lately. This isn’t even your first tavern of the night — at least, you don’t think it is.

Your memory is unreliable these days.

You push your way inside the tavern, through the crowd, and make your way up to the bar. You catch the barkeep’s attention and ask for the strongest drink they have.

“You’re one of them, right? One of the heroes?” The barkeep slides a mug your way.

“Hero. Yeah, I guess.” The word leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You dig in your pockets for payment.

They call you a hero, but you know the truth. You are a killer. A monster. Your father reclaimed his blood, but the darkness still festers in your veins. You’ll always be a Bhaalspawn.

“On the house,” the barkeep says.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

You take the drink and find the darkest corner of the tavern. You prefer to be alone these days.

This is your punishment for the countless atrocities you committed in your father’s honor. You can’t even remember the names of your victims, you can’t recall their faces — but they still haunt you.

The amber liquid burns as it slides down your throat. You drink to forget what you cannot remember.

You’ve almost emptied the mug when you feel eyes on you. Shifting in your seat, you scan the room. Nothing.

Nobody is paying you any mind.

You’ve been so paranoid lately.

You close your eyes and sigh. When you open them — he’s in the seat next to you.

“Astarion.” Your heart leaps up into your throat.

He reaches up and cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing over the edge of the bruise. You wince, but not from the pressure — from the affection that you know you do not deserve.

“What happened to your eye?”

“I don’t know. Bar fight, probably.” You lean into his hand.

“You should ice it,” he says.

You notice now, just how warm his hand is.

“I used to be able to use your hands for that,” you say.

“Mm. Yes. Not anymore.” He drops his hand and smiles. His eyes never leave your face. It makes you dizzy.

“What are you doing here, Astarion?” you ask.

“I should be asking you that question, darling. This place is . . . beneath you.”

It’s been a month since you vanished from the docks without saying goodbye. You thought it would be easier this way. You were wrong.

In fact, you should have left the city by now, but you just couldn’t stomach abandoning your home. It’s as though something kept you here.

“I’m drinking,” you say.

“Yes. I can see that.” He’s judging you.

You down the rest of your drink and slide the empty mug to the middle of the table.

“Not leaving so soon? I’ve only just found you,” he says.

“I didn’t ask to be found.” You sway when you stand. You’ve had one too many.

Astarion stands when you do. His hands are on your hips, holding you steady.

You’re too drunk, too slow, to swat him away. Besides, as much as you hate to admit it, his touch feels nice.

You recall the last time someone touched you with such kindness. Shadowheart. The night before you tried to kill her in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. The night before your body betrayed you.

Your fingers twitched as you approached Shadowheart’s sleeping form. You wanted nothing more than to curl your fingers around her throat and squeeze the life from her lungs.

You shake your head as if trying to erase the memory. Your stomach lurches. Bile crawls up your throat.

You miss her. You don’t want to think about it.

“Why are you here, Astarion?” You ask.

He pulls you closer to him. One of his hands slides up your lower back, under your shirt. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?”

Oddly enough. You do believe him. “I’d have to be a fool to believe that. You must want something from me.”

He smiles. It’s so sweet it makes you sick. You thought the ritual killed the man you knew. Maybe you were wrong.

“Walk me out?” you ask.

“It would be my pleasure.” He holds you with a firm grip now.

You definitely drank too much. The room is spinning. You lean into Astarion for support.

Gods. You’ve been so lonely.

You walked away from everything, everyone you knew, to protect them. To hide your shame after your —

No. You definitely don’t want to think about that.

But, Astarion. He doesn’t need anything from you. Maybe he can withstand any damage you inevitably cause just by being around him.

And, he’s here now. He’s holding you. You stumble out of the tavern and stop on the steps. It’s much quieter out here. You hope the brisk night air will help sober you up.

Astarion pulls you against his chest and wraps his arms around you. You shiver when his lips find the curve of your neck. He breathes you in.

You remember all the nights you let him feed. You swore to yourself it was to make him stronger, a better fighter. But your body betrayed your secrets. You both know exactly how it made you feel.

His breath tickles your neck when he whispers, “Why’d you have to fly away, little bird? You know I’ve missed you so.”

You slide a hand up between your bodies and push him away, just far enough to meet his eyes. You look up at him and smile.

“You caught me now, didn’t you?” This is a terrible idea. But the alcohol did not do its job this time. You still need to numb the loneliness that crawled into your heart and died there.

Besides, nobody else bothered. You thought you had friends. They didn’t go looking for you.

Shadowheart didn’t find you.

Astarion did.

“And, do I get a prize?” Astarion purrs.

Shadowheart woke up the night you tried to kill her. She tied you up. She stayed by your side all night. She would have remained by your side — but she saw you for what you are — evil, unlovable. So you left her. And she let you.

But, the way Astarion looks at you now. Like he would love you if you let him.

It’s . . . something.

“Yes. You get a prize.” You take his hand and drag him down the steps and around the corner into a dimly lit alley.

He follows you into the shadows. “I like where this is going,” he teases.

You wonder if you’ve ever killed anyone in this alley. You wonder if Astarion ever took a victim here.

You lean back against a brick wall and look up at him. He’s waiting for you to make the first move.

You can do that.

You can do this.

You fucked him once before. When you were still practically strangers. So much has changed since then. Neither of you are those people anymore.

You slide a hand to the back of his neck and pull him toward you. Your lips collide in a moment of desperation.

You kiss him like you need him. You grab him like you’re holding on for your life. He returns the favor.

Your lips are moving against his, but you’re thinking about her.

Her hands on your hips, not his. Her mouth on your lips. The way she whispered your name as you held each other in the dark.

But she’s not here. He is.

You have to forget.

He presses you against the wall and you roll your hips, testing him. The movement pulls a moan from his throat into your mouth.

You take his wrist and guide it up your shirt. It doesn’t take much enticing before his hand cups your breast — thumb bringing your nipple to a hard point.

You are pressed impossibly close to him as your hands explore each other’s bodies with fervor. He is a distraction from the ache in your chest.

She’s not here. He is.

You’ll use him to forget.

“Fuck me,” you whisper against his mouth.

He nips at your lower lip and pulls back. He bumps his forehead against yours. Have his eyes always been this dark?

“You’re drunk,” he says.

“Not that drunk.” The alley is spinning. He’s all you can see. “I just want to feel good. Make me feel good, Astarion. Please.”

He likes it when you beg. You remember that much.

Astarion laughs, and it stings. He rolls his hips and you can feel him, hard, beneath his trousers.

“Ask me again,” he demands.

“Fuck me, Astarion. Please.” You try to kiss him, but he leans away.

He grinds himself against you, harder this time. “No.”

You whimper and reach between your bodies, trying to undo his pants. “Please.”

He grabs your wrists and pins them to your sides. “No.”

But he’s still pressed so close to you.

You whine and throw your head back against the wall. His lips find your neck, pressing light kisses to your warm flesh. It gives you an idea.

“If you won’t fuck me, then bite me,” you say.

You feel the drag of his fangs.

“No,” he whispers against your skin.

He releases his grip on one of your wrists and slides a hand between your legs. The light contact is enough to drive you to insanity. You wonder if you’ve soaked through the fabric.

You close your eyes. For just a moment, the world dims. You feel him release you. When the lights come back on he’s holding your shoulders and looking into your eyes.

“Don’t you want my blood?” you slur.

“Of course I do,” he says.

“Then bite me. Make it hurt,” you say.

You’re too drunk to track his expression. His hand slides to the back of your neck. “I could never hurt you,” he purrs.

You’re so dizzy. Your heart is thrashing around in your chest. His eyes are on your throat. If he doesn’t want you, then nobody does.

“Then what good are you?” You struggle against his grip, but he’s far stronger than you. He holds you in place.

“Why do you want me to hurt you?” There is concern in his eyes.  You can’t tell if it’s real, or if it’s just part of the mask.

“I deserve it, don’t I?” You squirm, but he doesn’t let you go.

“Did our little adventure teach you nothing?” He bumps his forehead against yours again. You will drown in his eyes if you aren’t careful.

“It showed me what I can have. I lost everything, Astarion. My friends, my . . . “

You’re drunk. You’re dizzy. You haven’t told anyone this. You shouldn’t tell him. But the words are already in your mouth, and they threaten to spill from your lips.

“Your what?” He holds you steady. “What else did you lose?”

Before your brain was ruined, before all of this — you were a sight to behold. You killed without mercy or shame. Your heart pumped a deep magic through your veins. The power over blood. Something you kept secret. But it was yours.

You felt the magic in you die when the tadpole was removed. Now, you have nothing.

You are alone.

Well, you were alone.

Astarion is here now.

“I haven’t told anyone . . .”

“You can trust me,” he whispers. There is no trace of venom in his voice. Your gaze stays locked with his. “We saved the city together. I can help you. Tell me what you lost.”

Tears burn in the corners of your eyes. You shouldn’t say this. You wouldn’t say this. Maybe it’s the alcohol? Honesty will be the death of you.

“My power, Astarion. It’s gone.”

You’re crying now. Silent tears break free of your eyes and roll down your cheeks. You don’t know the last time you cried. Maybe never.

He pulls you into his arms and presses your face against his chest. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Pressed this close to his chest you hear his heart. You can feel the power in his blood. Another reminder of what you lost.

Was he always this sweet? It’s disgusting. You taste bile. Your tears will stain his expensive doublet.

You’re not sure how much time passes before you pull away and wipe your tears. You avoid his face.

You can’t look at him, not when you’ve been this vulnerable. Fucking alcohol. It would have been so much simpler if he’d just fucked you and fed. At least that was an exchange you understood.

Astarion grabs your chin with two fingers and turns your head. You continue to avoid his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You sigh and give in.

“Come home with me,” he whispers.

You’re not sure why, but you nod. “Okay.”

Read the next chapter on AO3.

#baldur's gate 3 #ascended astarion #ascended astarion fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #exile (or: how you learned to stay) #af.op.fic #af.op

[bloodlust-1]

꒦꒷ Blood Bond ꒷꒦

Bound by blood, associated by marriage.

Gortash x fem Tav durge Explicit 18+

Chapter: 7

Part 1 ->here<-

No warnings. You know what you came here for.

As Tav laid, it was like she could feel someone’s hand on her shoulders, tightening a grip. But there was no one in her room, she was all alone.

And the dream that night would ingrained in Tav’s head.

A knife in her hands, and the thirst for blood. But not just anyone, the mistress she saw with Gortash in particular. It was like Bhaal's influence had seeped into her veins and possessed her into a heinous killer.

Stabbings over and over covered Tav in the warm slick of this woman's blood. truthfully, Tav was okay with this gruesome scene, even if it wasn't 100% by her own influence. In Tav’s twisted mind, she deserved it. Bhaal was forcing Tav's body into the crime.

The adrenaline raced through Tav's heart in her dream, and it was like her bed turned into a hot barrel of coal, coating her skin. Tav loudly screamed in this trapped dream.

Her father's wrath.

Tav gasped.

She opened her eyes and saw a cleric healer and Gortash standing over her bed. She frowned and eyed the both of them, her heart pounding. Gortash yelled at the healer, "You did something wrong. She's acting delirious again."

Tav rubbed her sore head from last night. The memory she saw of her and Gortash resurfaced again and Tav frowned to herself. Gross.

The healer's voice quivered, "I-I did everything I could, my lord. She seems perfectly fine now."

Tav glared at Gortash. "There's nothing wrong with me, fool," she snapped.

"You nearly fainted last night, I will not be questioned of my better judgment. Especially from you." Gortash eyes averted from Tav and coldly turned to the healer and waved his hand away as a 'fuck off.'

As the healer quickly bowed and left the room, his tired eyes fell back at Tav, "And you - Stay in place. I will not argue this."

Tav scuffed, "That's real rich, that you think you dictate where I go." She rolled her eyes, "Besides, I didn't faint. I just felt a little dizzy."

Gortash shook his head as his thumb fell onto his temples. Gods. Tav was so stupid. He rubbed his head for a moment of annoyance, "That's what fainting is."

"I'm not incapable all of a sudden." Tav's eyebrow curved up. She wasn't sure why he was hounding her so much about last night. It's not like they were close. "I can take care of myself."

"Clearly you did not last night," Gortash nonchalantly crossed his arms, unamused.

Tav rolled her eyes and turned away, completely pulling the blanket over her head. Gortash watched her for a moment, "I'm going to be busy today running blueprints. Don't be bothering me with any more of your nonsense."

In a mocking tone, Tav spoke muffled into the blankets, "Good bye, Gortash."

Gortash sighed annoyed and left the room. Slightly slamming the door as he was leaving. Tav finally peeled away the blankets, sitting up with a groan. Why did he have to be so contradicting? Whatever mind games he wanted to play, Tav wasn't interested.

“Blueprints he says?” Tav whispered under her breath.

Yes, that’s right, she remembered the bird-like machine drawn in his notes the day he caught Tav in his office. But that was months ago...and Tav wondered how everything had been going now. She remembered the striking resemblance of an eagle of some sort but in machine form. It was intriguing.

What is he up to?

Tav kicked the blankets off of her, hoping out of bed with one thought in mind: I’m going down to the foundry myself.

Tav put on a black dress with frilled sleeves. She knew that Gortash would be angry if he found out she was sneaking out of the palace, but she didn't care. She needed to know what he was up to.

She snuck out of her bedroom and down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. She paused at the door to Gortash's room and listened. It was silent. He had already left the palace it seemed.

She snuck out of the palace past the steel watches, hiding behind the walls and pillars before leaving out the doors. She scuffed in annoyance that Gortash would even try to keep her away from their estate business.

The crowd on the streets of Baldur's Gate was thick, and Tav was careful to keep her head down as she made her way through it. She didn't want to be recognized, not yet.

A little Tiefling child tugged at his mother's shirt as they saw Tav, and the child's eyes widened in recognition. "Mommy, it's the queen!" he said.

The mother looked up and saw Tav, and her face paled. She quickly pulled her son away and hurried off, muttering something about needing to get home.

"But wait!" The child tried to tug away from his mother's grip.

Tav smiled wryly. It seemed that her reputation as a fearsome warrior was well-known. She put her finger against her lips and shushed the child with a wink. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd like nothing had happened.

A few moments later, Tav arrived at the foundry. She walked up to the door and crossed her arms. She knew the Steel Watchers would rat her out that she was here - uninvited. All well. He wasn't going to do shit.

"I know you can hear me, and if you don't let me in I will blow this entire building up with you in it." Tav tapped her foot waiting for the Steel Watchers to move aside from the doors.

And that they did.

Tch. Tav chuckled amusingly. Well...that worked.

Tav strode into the Foundry, her boots echoing off the walls. The Gondian workers stared at her with scared looks, but Tav only stared at their metal collars.

She hated the way they looked and it seemed so restricting. How could anyone work like that? And Gortash expected them to work their best chained like a dog? Impossible.

"Oh!...M-my, uhm, Miss Tav! I mean - Queen." A worker, seemingly in charge of the Gondians came stammering over to Tav. The man was visibly nervous, stumbling even over his own feet.

Seriously? Tav scanned the man from head to toe, unimpressed, "Collect yourself before speaking to me."

"Yes! I am the captain in charge of watching over the Gondians." Before he could utter a word more, Tav cut his whole spiel off.

"What is it they are building?" Again, her eyes fell on the group of engineers. Perished and famine they looked.

"We're making good progress," The captain said. "We just received blueprints from Lord Gortash just this morning.."

"Good," Tav said. "I want to see them, now."

She turned and walked away, heading over to a nearby Gondian worker. Tav peered over their shoulders as they twisted screws into the iron pieces between their fingers.

"Here you are," The man handed the blueprints to Tav with a slight bow.

Tav looked up and glanced at the blueprints. She chuckled. "The Iron Wings?" she said. "That's a stupid name."

"It's Gortash's idea," the shift leader said. Their eyes trailed from Tav's lips to her eyes. Her features were delicate and soft, unlike her personality.

"Well, he's got a stupid name too," Tav said. "Tell him I said so."

Tav's eyes detailed every piece of mechanic she could on these papers. And something caught her attention...She shook her head in disapproval. "The wing span is too small," she said. "It won't be able to fly properly."

The wing span was small compared to the body. Tav wasn't surprised that Gortash wasn't good at bird anatomy. "Stretch the wing span at least by 6 more inches."

The worker was unsure to listen to Tav, "My lady, Gortash has finalized these I can't change them without his approval. He will have my head."

She glared at the cowering man in front of her. "I said do it," She snapped, her voice low and menacing. "Or I'll have your head."

The worker nodded and began to sketch over the wings on the blueprints.

But to no avail, Across the room, Tav caught a glimpse of Gortash. his scowl deepening when he saw her standing in the middle of the room. He didn't need to say a word; his expression was enough to tell her that she was not welcome.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Hi to you too, Lord Gortash" she teased his name, unfearful of his threats, unlike the captain who was cowering just the sight of Enver's angry expression.

Enver didn't have time for sarcasm. Just from the sheer deadpan of his face Tav rolled her eyes at his seriousness.

He should learn to have some fun, especially after Tav somewhat was trying to forgive him in her head. Or maybe just toyed with the idea of forgiveness.

"By the way, I fixed your machine." Tav hummed and tilted her head, a contradicting smile on her face. "Call it an improvement."

There was no way Tav actually thought she was smarter than Gortash. Especially not at his invention. Gortash laughed. "You? Improve my design? You're a joke."

Gortash stepped close enough to throw Tav off guard, but she stood her ground. Arm in arm, Tav looked up to meet his challenging gaze as his lips opened, "What do you know about building a machine?"

His tease snaked into the air and tried to choke Tav of her better judgment. Tav challenged Gortash's dark eyes, "I know enough to know that a bird needs a wide wingspan to fly," Tav said. "If you don't increase the wingspan, this machine will never get off the ground."

Gortash snatched the blueprints from the captain's hands and began to look them over. As Enver read, his expression changed from anger to disbelief to annoyance. When he was finished, he handed the paper back to the man's hand.

Fuck, she was right. Tav couldn't be doing this to him: making him look stupid compared to her. So he decided to play it off.

Gortash grabbed Tav by the waist and pulled her to his side. He leaned his head over and whispered in her ear, "That’s the sexiest thing you've said in months."

Tav felt her cheeks flush as Gortash’s hand lingered on her waist a moment too long.

The warmth of his breath tickled Tav's skin and she quickly pulled away from him, "I better get going now." Her heart raced in that brief moment. It was like her body enjoyed his knowing touch, but her mind said: Absolutely Not.

Tav took a few steps back, her gaze shifting to the captain, whose mouth softly dropped opened from Gortash flirting so openly with Tav.

Shit, this is awkward.

Tav was both flustered by Gortash’s attention and frustrated with herself for allowing it to affect her so deeply.

With a firm sigh, Tav nodded her head at Gortash, quickly turning a heel to leave the foundry.

Yeah, nope. Not happening. Tav shook her head as her inner thoughts tore her piece by piece. There's no reason for Tav's heart to race under his touch. She didn't even really like him much.

Or maybe she just didn't like that he was with another woman.

Tav bit down on her inner cheek. It's not like she liked it when Gortash touched her waist. She instantly knew she didn't want to be so close to him, but at the same time, her body betrayed her. How annoying.

She blankly walked past the docks and stared out into the ocean. It must have something to do with their past relationship, that she feels so connected to him. Tav groaned in annoyance, running her hands down her face, and dragging her skin down. She hated feelings and what they did to her mind. She just wanted to be angry at him and keep it that way.

To Be Continued ~

Any Thoughts? Comment 👇🏼 I love to engage!

Next part here

I thought it was funny

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #tav x gortash #gortav #gortash x durge #dark urge x gortash #gortash smut #gortash x tav #gortash x reader #lord gortash #enver gortash #bg3 gortash

[transgortash]

i LOVE being enabled to write about gortash tiddies. thank you & amen. uncharacteristically for a durgetash drabble, there isn't anything major that needs a warning!

(tagging @volotramp <3)

Gortash has been getting ready for ‘only’ the past hour or so. There’s perfuming, teasing out his hair, swiping on his eyeshadow with a thumb, putting on his gauntlets and rings, and getting dressed. He’s just at that last step, starting to think his wonderful Dark Urge is really too preoccupied with sharpening his knives to notice the daily creation of an Archduke’s display. He’s looking in his full-length mirror as he fiddles with the ties on his shirt, adjusting so that they’ll look perfectly and unintentionally loose. That’s when his companion deigns to join him, easily more than a head taller than him, filling out the length of the mirror. His draconic form making his presence quite imposing - just how Gortash likes his partners.

His darling Bhaalspawn could’ve worshipped him in celestial and he would’ve still paid more attention to his actions. No time wasted on soft, introductory touches - hands on his waist, slides up to his chest.

Gortash says, “Pleasing to know my effort is appreciated,” even though he doesn’t need a pair of hands on his tits to know he looks good.

The Urge just huffs, snout near his shoulder, and squeezes. His talons dig a little into his skin, leaving potential pinprick holes through his shirt. Gortash makes a noise that’s supposed to be an accusatory hum, but it comes out a little too pleasured to be so playful. He intends to silently enjoy this passing groping, before Durge squeezes one of his tits, hard, and he thinks it won’t be passing so soon.

He also thinks, ah, fuck, that’s kind of hot.

“Do you intend to fondle me into being late for my duties?” he accuses, eyebrow arched, glaring most interestedly into the mirror.

The response is yes, but for the second time, Gortash is more focused on the ministrations of those scaled hands.

He continues until Gortash's nipples stiffen, just visible through his shirt. Durge lightly scores a talon over one, and Gortash hisses ever so softly. His eyes have been mostly on his own reflection, the growing blush across his neck and chest, but for a second, he looks into Durge's mirrored red eyes, and poses a challenge there.

He stops.

It's unexpected and a little embarrassing but Gortash sags against durge's broad chest - must've leaned back into him at some point. He's flushed and the expert arrangement of his shirt & coat are dishevelled. The mirror has never had a better sight to behold.

"You can go now." Durge says mildly, even though his big hands are on Gortash's hips, and he's not moving to step away.

"You are a beast of a manner most foul," Gortash says, as wry as he can when he's keenly aware of the solution to this.

Durge simply eyes him in the mirror.

“My dearest darling, would you do me the kindness of placing those mighty claws back upon my tits?” he relents, with a snide sort of coquettishness, “i just can’t do without them.”

There’s another huff from the other man that might be an approximation of a laugh, or just a sound of approval. His hands slide up Gortash's front again and add another few wrinkles to the fabric – but it's somewhat difficult to be irritated when those hands are back on his chest.

He starts practically playing with his tits, holding them and letting them drop to feel the weight, squeezing them roughly together, seemingly uncaring over how much his talons are digging into Gortash's skin. Not that Gortash cares either.

He sags a little further against durge, lets out a quiet noise; both things he'd pretend were entirely voluntary.

Hr's still watching his reflection in the mirror as he gets groped, with an intensity he could be called vainglorious for. And if his favourite little killer knows anything about him, he'll accuse him of just that.

#my writings #roachified wife #requests #nsft

[todderwodders]

Hello! I see so many bits about your Durge and they're so juicy. Changling? PARENT? Can you tell us more about them and their relationships to the other chosen and Orin?

Omg hiiiiiiiii

So. This durge was born from an idea that the Dark Urge could be anyone, would be anyone, and is inherently a faceless entity with no name nor creed beyond death. They are an interrogation of gender, intimacy, and what it looks like to be a child of a god who can peek into your brain at any given time. There’s a darkness inside of you that’s inside of me.

If you enjoy this very long breakdown, check out Libations, which will be updated soon!

Let’s start from the beginning, one more time.

I will clarify some things before hoping into lore: I use he/they in meta because the urge uses he/they pronouns personally, but they almost universally allow other people to assume their pronouns/refers to himself as ‘this one’ or ‘this child’. He appears, largely, as a tiefling male, an ambiguously gendered elven adolescent, and a human woman. All of them are pale, all of them black eyed, all of them closely tied to the urge’s identity. The Urge is roughly in his mid 40s by the time of bg3’s events.

The Urge, was not born, The Urge was planted, seeded in the flesh of a newly sculpted infant and made to bloom under the conditions of puberty and awareness and crushing expectation. The Urge was gifted, in the mysterious ways of gods, to a family of doctors within the Lower City, and raised as one of several adopted children. They were well educated. They were loved. They knew nothing of hunger but everything of the human body and it’s inner workings, and the way to breath through the decay and clinging stench of bloating corpses in the summer, when not even their false father’s cellar could delay rot for long. Even in youth, their genius and calm understanding of the raw, sinew stringy facts of life impressed and inspired their foster parents.

Their entire childhood and young adulthood was virtually a carefully constructed test to measure this ideal by Bhaal himself - or so he claims. This is an aspect of Dead Three lore I really want to play with - the gods are former men, and even if they weren’t, like many living creatures they are stupid and cruel and thoughtless. They just have enough power to make people think otherwise. Bhaal robs The Urge of their innocence in all things, slowly, and has convinced then he is all powerful in doing so.

Killing is easy. It’s hurting that’s hard. They come into their menstruation and their skin splits in ways yet unknown to them, spikes and open mouths. Something bloody slips from their body - they do not recognize it as a living thing until they find bloody foot prints where it fell. They are reminded viscerally of calves or colts or other animal things - which means they are that animal things mother, away backed filly bred too soon. The Urge culls their false family and makes it look like an accident later. Everyone thinks werewolf or beast, not child. They scrub the walls clean themselves. They find a new tutor for their medical training, and they carry on, and live next to the shadow of their new self.

The Urge was summoned for his true purpose years later, when they were more adult than child. They put down his old life’s name and the body and face that went along with it, and embraced The Urge. Primal, refined, savage and clinically precise - a knife in the dark and the hand that wields it.

The twist is is that The Urge is still mortal and still a person because he exists within the context and confines of a mortal world - he prefers his fluid body and murderous faces, but is a man at heart, he bathes in ritual blood and lives in dark places but still retains encyclopedic knowledge of rose care from his adoptive mother and cultivates them in Gortash’s garden, etc. a killer that has lived the good parts of life, and understands the world in a much wider capacity, for good or ill, than most people. Life clings. Life informs.

The Urge was created to be in direct opposition to sarevok and his brood - a kind of built in drama for Bhaal to follow as his own progeny makes their way about the world. He and Sarevok hate each other, and do not see eye to eye on almost anything beyond the service of their mutual lord. The cult is split into two unspoken factions in this regard - a conflict that is repressed so thoroughly that no outsider has any real concept of it’s going on beyond some guesses by astute associates.

The urge is a ranger-rogue, classes that greatly affect their leadership and religious theory as it pertains to the running and organization of the Bhaalist cult. He wants to make them ‘true hunters, not scavengers in the bleak midwinter hoping to nip at the weakest heel available’. Implying scavenging, implying wasteful, implying breeding into oblivion when the circle of blood and prestige eventually becomes too rotten to expand on itself.

A huge snub to Sarevok, who understands exactly what The Urge drives at with their schemes. For someone who is virtually a demigod, The Urge goes out of their way to cultivate a ‘pack’ mentality and ensure the basics of running and organizing of a group of people - the Bhaalists who adhere to his way of thinking are, and I mean this with caveats so long they look like terms and conditions page, good to each other, but everyone else is liable to become prey. They are family, they feed each other and kill for each other. They are soooo good at cult retention rates, it makes Sarevok look stupid.

Which is the point. It’s really hard for sarevok to control this very strong willed, well educated, emotionally unstable individual with very little compunctions about blatantly but slowly edging him out of power. The only one with any real power over The Urge is Bhaal. The urge is terrified of their father even as they act as dutiful son and priest, but does his bidding to the letter.

They have very lofty ways of speaking and very needle meets thread ways of going about things to get what they want. They twist pre existing doctrine to their liking, they grab at whatever they need and do not let go. I personally with the inbetweens of human experience, the middle ways, if you will, and I really wanted to make a Dark Utgr that walks in a strange veil of emotional ambiguity, rather than binary morality, even before the lobotomy. No one can truly understand all of them because he’s just the demigod they cling to, not a real person, and that’s how they want to keep it, that’s how they keep their power over others.

I think consciously, they became aware that escape is impossible very early on, and Bhaal’s influence will never slacken, but there’s always a little bit of rebellion brewing at the back of their mind anyhow. The clever child changes shape until they can slip their hands through the bars and feel the sweet breeze of the world they used to know. Bhaal is always willing to remind him who he is and what he is. Not because they don’t like killing, murder is a genuine pleasure and an easy, modern solution to their myriad of modern problems, they just don’t like being told what to do and they certainly would not be a cult leader in the sewer if they had the choice.

As an example, part of their obsession with taxidermy and autopsy is born out of a genuine fixation with medicine and the humanoid body. They have truly ground breaking notes and papers that could only be achieved through inhumane torture and misery that they guard jealously.

They were born, primarily, to propagate Bhaalspawn, with fate killing off all but the one that was conceived in … dubious circumstances. Which is how a changeling, against the laws of nature and the gods, gave birth to a Dragonborn with a red throat. There are children after that, but within five years of his son’s birth, they meet gortash, are elevated to chosen, and are gifted a new purpose. A sexual magnet. Bhaal Laura Palmer’d them so hard, another click in their choke chain collar. Now they’re just a dark venus in a dark sky.

Orin used to worship them like a mother-father and the urge used to dawn over her until she saw them break down and be human, just for an instant, at which point the hate was fucking real and solid from then on. The Urge - and this is a running theme here - thinks Orin wastes herself on a god who will never love her back. She’s brilliant but dumb, too desperate for approval when she could be making ‘real art’. They also think of Gortash in the same manner, and encouraged him to try to break from Bane at least once, which … wasn’t happening, and by then The Urgr was too obsessed with their friendship to really push it. In their eyes, it’s those such as himself that is designated by fate to kill and cull, and those who are blessed by the gods to create. These two idiots could be artists and inventors and instead they’re playing hopelessly devote child right next to him. It’s almost embarrassing. He’s also too selfish to ever make them turn from him in any way that matters.

And on the topic of Gortash … they are not normal about each other. They’re … ‘friends’ of 15 years and equals and they fuck routinely (‘be my seal wife for tonight, I’ll hang my skin at the door’) and plot to take over the world together but neither can truly possess the other while the other is shackled to his god so they just sit and commit tax fraud together, at the end of the day. Any explosive mutual destruction shit is long past. It is both hilarious and deeply fascinating for me for these two to have done some truly insane shit trying to cling to the other and it’s driven them so insane that they’re now like ohhhhh Enver dear if you must wed the patriar’s daughter I want to watch you fuck her on the wedding night. As your friend. And Gortash is just like sure man okay. Can do. Arguing over Gortash getting new drapes even though the urge doesn’t even live in his house. They aren’t for each other to keep in any substantial way and that’s fine, it’s life, moving on.

Unfortunately he and Kethric hate each other. They think the other is a terrible parent when ladies, you’re both awful in different, delicately flavored ways.

Also he loves pink.

#editing most of some pre existing text this is getting too long #bg3 #the dark urge #changeling dark urge #asks #my oc #resisting posting like fifty wips to go along with this #durgetash #if you think they’re old and amicably divorced #well. ‘old’ as in ‘old love���. old evil love. #also yes I’m bending the slayer lore a widdle. I think first periods deserve a free skin buster moment. my statement #redeemed durge #the urge and gortash in my beautiful post game canon: married to other people and swinging between #‘you were supoosed to stay celibate for the rest of your life you fuck’ #and ‘normal. happy. no we aren’t extorting money or scheming’

[victorgrwrites]

Higher Than Death | Prologue: Little Dark Age

Prologue of my multichapter Gortash/Durge fic focusing on events pre-game. The prologue happens after the coronation, where Jack (Durge) sneaks into Gortash's office to learn more about Gortash, and maybe himself in the process

Chapter posted below if you do not prefer AO3, and a song for your listening pleasure.

Enver never really knows where he will sleep on any given night in recent months. Joyously gone were the days where he could fall asleep on any cold patch of stone he could find, though it means he insists on having a bed in several key areas.

Moonrise is the bottom of the barrel with the constant howling winds and frigid interior. He prefers the cot in his private workshop over that, even though he rarely makes it there from his workbench. At least it's warm there.

His grandiose room in the temple of Bane is the preferable choice, but tonight he will make do with the four poster in the fortress office. It's comfortable enough, and he doesn't want to miss the arrival of his returned...

Well.

Even he admits he eagerly called him 'favorite assassin'. 'Nearest and dearest'. 'Kings', 'Gods'. He had to wonder if he was too eager at today's coronation, played too much of his hand.

The Bhaalspawn is not the same man Enver knew. Where he would expect to find quiet confidence and a surgeon's dissecting stare pointed toward a stranger, the Archduke found him on flat footing, his eyes desperately flicking about to find the invisible pieces of his mind. Perhaps he was too gentle, but even the faintest glimmer of a possibility to have Jack at his side once more made his heart skip embarrassingly.

Enver's assassin.

His killer, his blade, his daredevil, his audience, his admirer, his candid observer, his confidant, his promised doom. Masochist, sadist, equal.

His equal...

Enver blinks away the jumbled mess of words from his head to find a pool of black ink spreading over half-legible words. With a frustrated huff he sets the quill back in its holder on the writing desk, lifts a small cup-like contraption to set over the ink blot, and clicks a button on the side to suck the errant ink from the parchment.

...Yes, the words too, his mindless confessions erased from the page to return it to pristine parchment.

Better to try to get sleep. With any hope Orin will be too busy bothering Jack to bother with his guards tonight. With a tired groan, he lifts himself out of his chair, dark eyes flicking to the Steel Watch, the only guards left in the room itself once the sun had dipped beyond the ocean's horizon. They were better than any mortal guards anyway.

His firm steps thud from wood steps to stone, moving down the length of the long table and behind the elegant chair sat at the head. Once he rounds the corner where his bed sat, he realizes...

Perhaps he should have kept the guards inside.

Jack sits with his legs out in front of him, one leg bent up, wedged into a corner that was difficult to see from the main room. He has a book, one of *his* memoir notes open to a page, warm eyes flicking quickly along the lines. Speed reading.

Tens of possibilities flew into Enver's mind, each with their own appropriate response. A slight glance down to his gauntlet and, no, it does not resonate. He did not have the last netherstone, though he clearly still had Ketheric's on him.

He should call his Steel Watch. How did they not see, how many books did he have stacked next to him, how long has he been here?

The mild shock on the Banite's face melts into a cool smile, one of his more dangerous expressions. "I thought I had been very clear," he begins, sliding into his usual calm cadence.

"You were," Jack responds simply, as if Enver's statement is a question, his eyes not leaving the book. The deadpan response itches under his skin while tugging at his throat; a tone he's heard many times before.

The Bhaalspawn's voice sounds a touch more gravelly, though the deep tenor remains otherwise intact. Jack had always looked shockingly... plain for being the son of Bhaal. He looked half elven, his black hair streaked with gun metal greys that have started to multiply in the time he has been away.

Jack clearly feels unconcerned when he should be very much so, because Enver is one word away from alerting his guard.

No. He should have patience, control.

"Then why," he turns his hand up, gesturing toward the assassin, "are you here?"

Perhaps more control than that.

Jack's eyes slowly look up from over the top of the book, the rest of his face tipping up a second slower to reveal more grey added to his goatee.

"When I... kill Orin," he rumbles these words softly, his expression shifting from placid to rage filled for only a split moment,"...I will need to make a decision. And I don't have enough information for it."

"And," Enver tips his head, still perturbed that Jack didn't seem to understand that he had threatened his life. "...I? Have this information you need?"

"You know me."

Jack states simply, leaning forward, letting the book fall closed and lowering it onto his thigh, all one easy and flowing movement, his expression becoming almost innocently earnest.

"Don't you?" Just like his movements, Jack's expressions shift strangely fluid on his face; the Banite had seen many different kinds on that face before. He could go from angelically placid to an intensely insectoid curiosity, gleefully bloodthirsty to feral rage, amused snark to heartbreaking melancholy. Jack's face lied as little as he did, and most would be downright disturbed by the sheer range of his truth.

Enver's own expression falls, discarding the mask of dangerous geniality for a more cold but uncertain one, arms crossing across his chest. "...I should kill you."

"You would be right to."

"Would I?"

"If you could catch me," Jack adds with a smirk, arrogance and playfulness on those lips.

The archduke let out a huff as he looks up at the ceiling, lips pursed as he genuinely considers the option.

Clearly Jack was looking for... Enver. Without looking for him. Through his memoir notes and ideological ramblings, the only connection he has to his past that wouldn't kill him immediately. To learn about himself.

His cold eyes come back from the ceiling to meet the Bhaalspawn's warm ones, letting the thoughts in his own mind refine into something verbal, buying himself time with a slow inhale.

"There was a... sort of game we used to play, you and I," he began, uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to the Bhaalspawn nearly at the same time Jack leans forward with earnest and intense curiosity, the cocky attitude all but fleeing.

"We would ask one another questions based purely on conjecture, with little to no context," he continues, his clawed hand gesturing between them.

"If the questions were spot on, then the other had to decide how to answer. What to say in order to find out how the other discovered their information. How much to feed into the other's ego. All while determining what more information to give."

Jack's eyes widened ever so slightly, head tipping an inch and with a slight snap to the movement, a glimmer of that insectoid curiosity. "And... you didn't lie?"

"Only as much as you did."

Jack stared, eyes flicking over Enver as if he were reading the muscles under his face and the pulse in his veins before smiling and smoothly leaning forward. "Alright. Let's play then."

The other man bows his head slightly, turning his hand in offer, "Beginners go first."

Something... too fast to read passes over Jack's eyes before an intense look of concentration took over. Once again he seemed to be looking under Enver's skin to the sinews underneath, though less with an intent to see more of him and more as the parchment to map Jack's own thoughts.

"...When we met, who did I kill?"

He chuckles softly at the question with a shake of his head. Not a good one by Jack's normal standard, but for this new person sitting in his bedroom... not bad. "No one except your butler."

Blinking once in surprise, Bhaal's scion sat back again, waiting for the other's question patiently.

It was a terrible question himself, but Enver had to quell his annoyance if this was going to continue.

"How did you get in," he asks with a touch more force than he intended.

Clearly Jack caught this annoyance and seems to find it amusing, but quickly relents the information. Reaching into his pocket he displays four empty vials held between the knuckles of his right hand. "Your steel watch need to scan for invisibility more often."

He knew the answer the moment the vials came out, rolling his eyes and straightening, "An issue with power output that I do not have the form factor efficiency to solve, yet." In simpler terms, he didn't have room for a larger engine or the means to make a smaller one equally powerful. Another annoyance, like a drop in the sea, but the quick and willing answer calmed the waves. He pauses, then lifts a clawed finger, "One moment."

The chosen of Bane walks back over to the larger, ornate chair just in sight of Jack's perch, wrapping a hand around the arm. A loud, screeching sound echoes around the chamber as Enver drags the chair to the bedroom area. Jack seems... hm. Amused? Exasperated? Delighted? At the action, or the result? He couldn't quite tell.

Either way, with the chair positioned facing Jack, he takes his seat, heel resting on the edge of the chair and one elbow propped on the arm. "Go on," he invites with a turn of his hand.

Jack's back straightens, his feet shifting to press the bottoms together and the sides of his knees flat on the floor in a butterfly like position. No loss of flexibility then.

Jack's question comes quicker this time. "What did my butler do that had annoyed me?"

That question gets a soft chuckle out of him.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 gortash #bg3 durge #durgetash #gortash x durge #OC: Jack Punch #Spotify

[astarionmademewriteit]

Death Would be Too Easy

Astarion (Unascended) x (unnamed Durge) female reader/tav

Rating: Explicit

MDNI. 18+ ONLY. Blank bios will be blocked.

Wordcount: 5k

Tags: Smut; Act 3 Durge spoilers; Blood, gore and violence; Suicide attempt (tav); Drowning; Fingering; Piv sex; Slight Sub/Dom dynamic; Tiny fluff ending.

Summary: Dark urge tav has had enough of killing and the subsequent loneliness in her life and decides to try and end it. Astarion comes to her rescue, commiserates with her suffering and tries to make her (and himself) feel better.

Author note: This is my first fic so be kind 🥲

I glance around the forest, shrouded in darkness–not a sound save the lively insects and the occasional hoot of an owl. I drag the body of my victim to the edge of an unsuspecting ditch and let them fall to the ground. I huff out of exhaustion, considering I haven’t slept in what felt like ages. I wipe the sweat from my brow and place a foot on the back of my victim, ready to dispose of them for good.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

I glance down at the blood on my hands–recognizing the ways in which my thrill for killing has slowly lost its edge. I send a quick prayer to father, but it is empty–hollow and missing its usual vigor. I sigh deeply, transfixed on washing away the evidence from my brutal killing. The blood seeps into every pore of my skin, almost as if my body invites its welcome essence.

I glance down at my victim, their eyes gouged out of their skull, blood leaking from every stab wound inflicted to their chest and abdomen. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. A wave of guilt washes over me. It has been decades since I felt any remorse for my actions. However, having been displaced from my home and severed from all my familial and cult ties, a little bit of humanity seeps into my very soul. I kick their body down into the ditch, the lifeless husk crashing into roots and stone until it comes to rest on the banks of a ravine.

I turn back to the forest, peering into the dark. I feel something’s eyes on me, traipsing through the dark with a curious gaze. I brush it off–not the slightest concern tugs at my mind. I am the most dangerous thing lurking in these woods. I start back towards camp, looking forward to a quick dip in the lake.

I pass by my companions, sleeping soundlessly around the fire–the others tucked away in their tents awaiting dawn’s kiss. I note Astarion is not in his bedroll, no doubt suckling from some unappetizing beast. It’s almost comforting to know that I am not the only nighttime killer, even if no one else is aware that I too lurk in the shadows, killing innocent lives in the name of a God who has not seen it necessary to save me from this predicament I have found myself in. I cannot help but wonder why I continue to ritually murder fellow vagabonds, especially when I receive no reward–not even the pleasure that used to accompany slaughter.

I shake my thoughts away and walk to the shore, watching as the moonlight bounces off the gentle waves that lap against my feet. I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it overhead, discarding it further up the beach. I move to my pants, unlacing them slowly, savoring the way the cool night air kisses my bloodstained skin. Once my clothes have been discarded, I test the water, it was cool but not unbearable. I let my hair down and wade into the refreshing water.

The blood slides from my skin and tendrils of red swirl along the surface of the water as I venture deeper into the pond. I dive the rest of the way in, ready to rid myself of the violence I committed earlier. I sink to the bottom, and for a moment, I will myself to stay. Perhaps I should die here. End my suffering. Bhaal knows that if I left this world, then it would be saved from any more of the suffering I would be forced to unleash.

My vision goes blurry. If I weren’t under water, tears would surely slip from my eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut. They would be false tears. A cold-blooded murderer does not weep for its victims. That’s all I am after all–heartless, unfeeling, an empty shell for my father to puppet.

Darkness begins to take over my vision, my lungs yearn for breath and my body is in agony. I would be better off dead. I will never love. I will never know a gentle touch. I am doomed to a future filled with blood and gore. At least this way I can save what little soul I have left.

My head grows foggy and I can feel my heart slowing. My body is ready to gasp for air that will not come. Instead my lungs will fill with water and I will sink away, forgotten by the world. I have made my peace with that.

Before I can drift away, a loud splash interrupts my thoughts. I dare not open my eyes or break my concentration. My body will want to reach the surface, and I am unwilling to allow my antagonisms to ruin this world. A pair of strong arms wrap around me roughly and pull me to the surface. I try to fight against my so-called rescuer–beating at their chest and fighting against their grip… to no avail. My head breaches the surface and my body instinctively pulls air into my lungs. I gasp loudly, welcoming the air as it enters my agonizingly painful lungs.

I cough uncontrollably, my head swimming with pressure. Once I catch my breath I open my eyes, only to be met with those dangerous vermillion eyes that I have come to know over the last few weeks.

Astarion looks at me annoyingly, clearly not impressed by my suicide attempt. I glare at him while my breathing calms. I slam my fists into his chest as my anger resurfaces.

“Why?! Why did you save me,” my voice breaks, betraying my hopelessness, “I-I wanted to die you prick.” A tear falls from my eye and my body shakes with unfiltered rage and torment as I continue to scream obscenities in his direction and beat my fists on his bare chest.

Astarion does not let go of his grip around my waist, his arms snake around my waist and interlock into an inescapable prison. His face is set in stone and none of the hurtful things I hurl in his direction seem to phase him. Instead he sits there quietly until I grow tired of badgering him.

My exhausted body cannot take anymore and I burst into tears, the repressed emotions spilling out of me like a dam breaking. I cry, my screams of agony and sorrow flow unfiltered.

Astarions arms tighten around me, “Just let it out,” he whispers gently. His firm grip on me refuses to allow me to fall below the water’s surface once again, so I do as he says. I let my sorrow unfold in the ugliest of ways, letting it crash down in devastating pain.

I nuzzle my head into his chest and unleash all of my sorrow. I cry for the love I will never feel. I cry for the pain I have inflicted on countless people. I cry for the loneliness that has plagued my blackened heart for so long–the feeling of isolation and duty weigh so heavily on my soul that I can feel its crushing burden. I allow myself to unburden my sorrows, not even caring how utterly foolish I must look to the vampire.

Astrion slips an arm under my legs and starts towards the shore. I wrap my arms around his neck, accepting that he will not allow me to drown tonight. We emerge from the water and he sets me on a log and quietly walks to his tent to retrieve a blanket to cover my naked body.

Once his blanket is draped over my shoulder he begins building a fire on the shore and allowing me time to collect myself. His scent completely engulfs me, his embroidered blanket smells strong of his scent–bergamot, brandy, and a hint of musk. I drink it in, letting it soothe the heaviness of my emotions. I watch as Astarion breathes life into the fire–the flames licking up the sides of the logs and illuminating his ruby-red eyes.

His gaze meets mine before he moves to sit next to me on the log. I look at him, half-expecting him to lecture me on my stupidity. Instead, the look he gives me is one of understanding.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks after a moment. His eyes search mine. I break our gaze and turn to the fire, contemplating on how much I should tell him. If I tell him about my need for slaughter, my uncontrollable state of bloodlust, will he still understand? Or will he wish that he had never pulled me from the water?

“I… There’s something wrong with me,” I stammer, unable to meet his gaze out of shame. I can barely bring the words to my lips, “I think it would be easier to show you,” I mumble. I turn to look at him. His eyes search mine once again, a look of worry paints his face. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to intrude on my privacy.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, wrapping the blanket tighter around my shoulders, “I want you to see,” I make up my mind. I open my mind up, allowing the tadpole to reach out to him, waiting for him to latch on to my memories… to my past and my fears.

He nods his head and pushes his mind into my thoughts. I allow him to peer into my past, the thousands of ritual slaughters I have committed in my father’s name. I show him my childhood–bloodspawn teaching me the location of the main arteries, the most precise cuts to inflict, and the reverent slaughter I was to commit in Bhaal’s name. I show him the countless faces of my victims after death, their lifeless gaze, their blood draining into pools in Bhaal’s temple below the city. I show him the aching loneliness I feel, the isolation I subject myself to. The emotional ties I have cut with others, to save myself the sorrow for when I inevitably end their lives. I allow him to feel what I feel, the hate, the sorrow, the anger, the aching loneliness and the hopelessness of my future. I show him that I am a slave to murder, that I am not worthy of his or the other’s recognition. I wish only for death, because it is far better than the alternative.

Astarion unlatches from my memories and I inevitably wait for the verbal lashing. I wait for his rejection. I wait for his blade to kiss my throat once again, all his restraint gone as it slices through my neck as he leaves me to die. I can barely look at him, I feel so ashamed. I am a false hero. Nothing I have tried to correct will ever make up for the lives I have ended.

While I continue to wallow in my self-loathing, Astarion places a gentle hand on my shoulder and forces me to turn towards him. My vision is blurry as tears threaten to spill from my eyes once again. I am not sure I am ready for this.

“You could have told me, you know,” he whispers gently. I look into his eyes and see none of the hatred or anger I expected, “We….We have walked very similar paths, you and I.” He searches for his words carefully, “I do not judge you, if that is what you are fearful of. Actually, I am somewhat relieved to know the truth, especially after coming upon you in the woods earlier,” he confesses, a small nervous laugh escapes his lips. “Regardless, if you are unhappy with your situation… I am sure we can rectify that once we enter the city. Gods know we all have our demons to overcome.” He looks off into the distance, clearly reminiscing over his own troubled past.

I look at him, taken aback by his kindness and understanding. "W-wait. Y-you aren't going to kill me?" His profile is sharp, but his features soften as a smile plays on his lips.

He throws his head back and laughs loudly, "Ha! Kill you? Why ever would you think that, my dear?"

I blush at his little nickname. We have certainly spoken to one another, flirted even. But that was the extent of our interactions. Friendly, if not a little stand-offish, and full of playful banter. Of course, I could never get too close to him, otherwise images danced in my mind of his pretty corpse. I shake the silly thoughts from my mind. I'm sure it was harmless.

"W-well… I'm a monster," I croak.

Astarion chuckles darkly, "A monster? Far from it. Dangerous? Potentially. Scandalous? Absolutely. But a monster?" He strokes his chin in thought, "We are similar, you and I. Never hoping to have full control over our bodies. Committing unspeakable acts of violence in someone else's name. It does not mean we are past the point of redemption."

I watch him contemplate silently, tracing the sharp features of his profile with my eyes. Taking in his beauty and the unguarded expression gracing his face. I’ve never fully had the opportunity to admire him in this way. Furthermore, his usual hardened facade has slipped from his demeanor and I feel like I am seeing his true self. I get the feeling most people do not see this side of him.

He blinks away whatever thoughts were swimming around in his mind and he turns to me, the glow from the fire outlining his face in a beautiful aura–he looks diabolically angelic in this moment.

I blush at my own thoughts. He has no idea how beautiful he is, but his perfection catches in my throat, rendering me speechless. I turn away, unsure of what to say.

“Thank you,” I finally breathe, “Most people look at me with disdain in their eyes. I think… I think I’ve come to expect it.”

He laughs breathily and scoots closer to me–his body mere inches from mine and making me flustered. He throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me the rest of the way in. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “When I look at you… I do see the bloodlust,” I stiffen, dread filling my body once again–worried that I was doomed to be seen as a monster first and foremost by the ones I care about, “But,” he continues, “more than anything, I see someone who wants to do good… someone who wants to be redeemed. I see your heart, and it is a beautiful thing. I see the true you.” He grabs my chin lightly and forces me to look into his eyes. My breath hitches in my throat. “I see someone who wants–no, needs–to be known. He leans in and places a gentle kiss on the corner of my mouth before pulling away. “You deserve to feel loved. You deserve to be seen for who you truly are. I want to give you that. If… you’ll allow me.”

I look up at him with rounded eyes, completely taken off guard, “I-I didn’t think you liked me… like that.” I fidget with my fingers, suddenly feeling vulnerable and slightly embarrassed. I always had a crush on Astarion, but I pushed those feelings aside to protect him. He couldn’t be on the receiving end of my ritual dagger. I wouldn’t allow it.

“Y-you saw my memories. I’m destined to kill anyone I get close to. How… how could you be okay with that?” I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. “I’m cursed to be alone forever.”

He chuckles softly and his eyes soften, “I have the utmost confidence that it will never get to that point,” He cocks an eyebrow at me playfully, “But if it were to come to that, I’m sure some restraints could go a long way.”

The way he is looking at me now, his vermillion eyes bore into me reflecting a hint of danger–a hint of unrestrained lust. How could I say no to this beautiful man? “I crave more than anything to be touched…” I admit, finding it difficult to meet his gaze.

“Mmm,” his voice is gravelly and heavy with ecstasy, “Where, my love?”

I exhale in amazement, I clearly did not expect my night to end in such a manner. I blush uncontrollably, “Everywhere.”

A devilish grin forms across his face flashing his fangs, sharp as a knife, “Your wish is my command,” he whispers before pulling me on top of him. The blanket slips from my shoulders, and falls unused to the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist and snake my arms around his neck, playfully running my fingers through his perfect ivory curls.

He looks at me adoringly before leaning in and pressing his perfect lips to mine. I haven’t been kissed in what feels like years and I hungrily kiss back pressing my entire body into him. He greedily accepts my desperate tongue, and we explore each other’s mouth with all the passion that can be mustered. His fangs rake against my bottom lip and I moan into his mouth. I press my lips to him harder before he is pulling away and flashing me his gorgeous fangs. Astarion drags a thumb lightly across my bottom lip, eliciting a feral moan to escape my mouth.

His other hand traces down my spine, sending heat directly to my core. His tender traces along my body brings my senses to life–no, he sets them on fire–for I have never felt this good from just a few sensual touches. His hand comes to rest on my ass which he squeezes playfully. I yelp in response which only motivates him to continue.

Astarion begins to guide my hips, rocking them back and forth against his lap. I can feel his growing arousal beneath his pants which sends me into a lustful frenzy. I begin to rock my hips to the pace he has set for me, and I throw my head back when I feel my core grinding against his still growing arousal.

He leans in close and drags his nose up my throat, drinking in the scent of my blood, “That’s it, darling,” he whispers gruffly. I suddenly crave for him to bite me, to drink from me. I want to feel the pain, my essence slipping away as I continue to stimulate myself.

I can barely speak from the pleasure I am feeling, but I manage to whimper, “Take from me, Astarion.” I lean my head back further, offering him my throat for his pleasure. He chuckles darkly, his hot breath pounding against my skin, further lighting my senses on fire. I rock my hips harder, “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate a moment longer. He sinks his fangs into my soft flesh, the pain like ice in my veins before my warm blood falls from the newly made twin puncture wounds. He sucks greedily, savoring the taste of my blood. I moan against him, taking pleasure in the way my body reacts against him. His hand slides from my throat down my sternum and comes to rest just above my throbbing sex.

I whimper uncontrollably, craving for him to go lower, “P-please,” I beg.

Astarion smiles against my throat and pulls away temporarily, “Your begging sounds so sweet,” he coos. He only makes me want to beg harder.

“I need you,” I cry.

A growl escapes his throat and he latches himself back to my throat and pulls more blood into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat. He has gone completely feral. He drags his fingers to my cunt and begins slowly circling my swollen clit.

I gasp loudly, unconcerned with waking up the others in camp. I haven’t been truly touched in so long that I forgot just how wonderful it feels. His fingers expertly circle my clit, igniting something deep in my core. Pleasure begins to build and I can feel myself ready to fall over the edge. I grind against his fingers, feeling needy begging to be filled.

He laughs against my neck and slides his fingers into my aching cunt. I cry out in pleasure, coming completely undone by his long slender fingers. I can barely handle how much he is already stretching me out and I buzz with excitement and anticipation when I think about what else he has in store for me.

His fingers penetrate me deeply, and his lips on my neck have me spiraling. He slides his fingers in and out of me quickly, using his thumb to stimulate my clit. He pulls away from my throat and looks at up at me through his pale lashes, “Does that feel good, darling?”

I nod my head rapidly, unable to form words as his fingers work their magic. My vision begins to blur and I pant uncontrollably. I can feel myself nearing the edge of no return and it is a delicious feeling.

Astarion smiles dangerously, licking the blood from his fangs, “Come for me, pet,” he pleads darkly.

His voice sends me over the edge, I come undone around him, my cunt tightening around his fingers and my hips bucking of their own volition. My orgasm rocks through me, my body spasms with pleasure and my toes curl to an ungodly degree. I let his name slip from my lips as I cry out in pleasure.

“There you go, darling,” he coos, talking me through my orgasm, “Just. Like. That.”

His thumb doesn’t let up from his ministrations until my orgasm has slowly faded and I come back down from my high. Not wasting any time I press my lips back to his, kissing him deeply and hungrily. I need to feel him inside me and I cannot wait much longer. I move to untie the laces of his pants and he stands, hoisting me into the air as I continue to straddle his waist.

Once I’ve successfully unlaced his pants, his throbbing member springs free. I grab the base of his shaft and begin pumping his large cock. He throws his head back and moans loudly. He places me on the soft sand and hovers over me as I continue to service him.

“I need to be inside you,” he breathes raggedly.

He lines himself at my entrance and rubs his throbbing head against my clit. I’m dripping with anticipation. He enters me slowly at first, and he grunts loudly.

“Fuck,” he whispers in my ear. He pushes himself all the way in, fighting against my tight dripping cunt.

He spreads me out wider than I have ever been before and I cry out with pleasure.

“Your pussy is so perfect,” he growls. He pushes further in until there is nothing left and I wrap my legs around him, not wanting him to pull back out.

He begins slowly pumping in and out of my aching pussy, and my arousal rings out like a symphony.

“Oh god, Astarion,” I whine. The way he fills me so completely as if my pussy was molded perfectly around his cock sends me into a feral frenzy.

“That’s right, darling,” he hisses, “Say my name like a fucking prayer.” He picks up the pace, punishing my pussy with his forceful thrusts.

“Astarion,” I cry again, letting his name fall from my lips in absolute reverence.

He snakes an arm around my back and lifts my hips up slightly which only serves to penetrate me deeper than I ever thought possible. He picks up his pace further, letting his cock slip in and out of me with ease.

I can feel myself on the verge of toppling over the edge once again, “I-I’m gonna… Oh Astarion,” I whimper, unable to fully form a sentence.

“Come for me, love,” he growls in my ear, “I want to feel you come for me.”

His words send me over the edge and I’m falling into another orgasm. I cry out loud, a mix of screams and moans fall from my lips as my orgasm rips through my body. My walls tighten around him and he hisses in response. I keep falling, holding on to my orgasm for as long as I can. My toes curl and I pull back on his ivory curls, eliciting a growl from the depths of his core.

“Gods below,” he growls as I tighten around his thick cock. His thrusts slow as my orgasm subsides. Before I can catch my breath he flips me over onto my hands and knees

I breathe heavily, panting uncontrollably, my body spasming in the aftermath of my release. Before I have time to think, he enters me once again, the new position filling me with unadulterated pleasure.

Astarion grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls me to his chest, arching my back to an ungodly degree. He clasps to my neck and pierces my throat once again with his sharp fangs. The pain lances through me and the pleasure I receive from the pain is worth it. He starts to drink my sweet blood once again while thrusting in and out of my pussy. I meet his thrusts with my hips, and the force ripples through my body–my ass bouncing gracefully against his hips.

I ride his cock until I can no longer see. My life’s essence slips from my body and the accompanying delirium empties my mind from all the worries from earlier. I cry against his punishing pace. He pulls away from my throat once again and growls in my ear, “You are invigorating, you know that?”

I nod helplessly, unable to focus on anything but the way he stretches me out and hits my sweet spot. I cry out, his sweet words egging me on.

“I think you deserve to come one more time,” he snarls in my ear, pulling on my hair just a bit harder until my back can arch no further. He continues to fuck up and into me, his thrusts becoming faster than anything I’ve ever experienced. I nod my head pathetically.

“Please,” I beg.

His powerful hips rail into me over and over again and I fall deeper and deeper into his rough embrace. His tongue drags up the back of my neck sending shivers down my spine. He sucks and kisses the back of my neck adding another layer of pleausre.

“Fall apart,” he growls deeply in my ear. It is the only thing I care to hear. I come undone around him all over again. His thrusts become sloppier, and he pounds into me quicker and quicker until he is falling with me.

“Yes,” I cry, “Come for me Astarion,” I whimper. He unloads himself inside me, his panting is the only thing I hear as I fall apart with him. Pleasure ripples through our bodies–our collective ecstasy is the only thing that matters at this moment.

He continues to pump into me until he has spilled all of his spent. My orgasm subsides and he falls on top of me, pinning me to the ground.

We breathe harder, waiting to come back down to Faerun. His body moves in time with mine and I savor the aftermath of my orgasm. I shall never come down from the heavens after that.

Once we have collected our strength, he pulls himself out of me and rolls over onto his back near the fire. I roll over onto my side and memorize his features as he looks up at the sky, a look of satisfaction paints his features.

He turns to me and smiles, his guard completely down and I have never seen anything quite so beautiful, “That was… amazing,” he breathes, licking some of the blood from the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

“I–” I can’t seem to gather the words I want to say, “Thank you,” I finally amend.

He rolls to his side and faces me, tracing small circles into my skin with his cool fingertips, “Thank you,” he whispers. And for a fleeting moment, I wonder what he is thanking me for. I smile in response, not wanting to ruin the moment with my questions.

He reaches forward and tucks some hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone in the process.

“I–I want you to know,” he says softly, his hand never leaving the side of my face, “I’m glad you’re here. With me. I don’t think I want to be in a world without you,” he smiles softly, “Whatever that may look like.”

I smile shyly, “I’m glad I’m here too. Thank you… for everything.”

He wraps an arm around my midsection and pulls me to him until both his arms are wrapped around me securely. He places a gentle kiss on my temple. I turn my head and plant a soft kiss on his lips.

“Don’t let go until the morning,” I whisper. My smile is gone, but admiration still takes over my features. My savior. My hero. He saved my life in more ways than one. I’m excited to see where things take us. While the future is not set in stone, I have a feeling I’ll be able to get through anything with him by my side.

“I won’t,” he whispers before kissing me softly. “Promise me,” he begins, “Promise me that you will find me the next time you feel like death is your only option.”

“I swear,” I whisper. “Promise me you will open up to me as well… Whenever you’re ready.” I can tell that something weighs heavy on his soul, and I never want him to feel the depth of loneliness I felt.

He chuckles, “I save you…and you save me.” The statement is a promise. I smile knowing that this is the start of a beautiful relationship. I let him squeeze me in his strong embrace until we both drift off to sleep, relieved to have distracted ourselves from the painful reality that awaits us on the morrow.

#astarion #bg3 #Durge fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion x dark urge #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #durge x astarion #f!reader x astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #baldur's gate iii

[rinwellisathing]

You're Awful, I Love You: Part 10

Enver Gortash/Trans male Tiefling Durge

Dusk painted the sky beautifully as Sentry made his way back through the lower city on his way home. He considered returning to the temple directly, after all, Gabraela and Sceleritas were likely to be beside themselves if he'd been gone as long as he guessed he had. Jackal and Orin? Probably could care less, maybe even hoped he'd stay gone. Who ever knew what Tomi was thinking, so no guessing whether she cared or not, far more concerned with her face and her victims. But one thing stropped him from going directly for the sewer entry. A man bumped carelessly past him. Rude, but easy enough to ignore...except for a fascinating stoop to his figure. There was an ever so slight curve to his spine. Elegant, beautiful, and perfect for a sculpture piece Sentry had been agonizing over for months.

He changed direction to discreetly follow the man, his pace lazy and casual, stopping to buy a copy of the Gazette from an urchin or to stoop down and pet a stray cat. But he never let the man out of his sight. Sentry followed the man at a steady pace and easily deniable distance even after the sun had fully dipped below the waters of the sea.

The path brought them outside of a large building with a gated outdoor area littered with toys. A school? Sentry thought a moment and remembered, yes, the magic school for the little ones. Before they were old enough to be apprenticed. Some acolytes had spoken about attending in the past. It occurred to him to perhaps wonder why this might be the man's destination, but he fairly easily shook off the question. It hardly mattered, there were valuable materials that needed harvesting and as they passed by a fairly hidden alcove near the school, he struck.

He hated using anything but his halberd, he truly did, but he had been traveling light and a hatchet would have to do. He'd improvised before and he would have to improvise again, it was all part of his process. Before the man could realize how thoroughly doomed he was, his head was cleaved from his shoulders and his body collapsed to the ground like a fallen tree.

Sentry was about to begin harvesting, when he noticed a small, frightened figure, staring up at him with terrified blue eyes. A young Tiefling, maybe a few years younger than he was. She was short, her face freckled, her skin a shade of greyish blue that reminded him of the sharks that swam in the harbor. Her blonde hair was tied back in a simple braid and she was dressed in the robes of a junior magic teacher. He could see her hands just losing the glow of a person about to cast and sweat beading on her forehead.

“Oh.Was this your kill? Terribly sorry, but I need these parts for a project.” Sentry gave a crooked smile to the girl. “And anyway, your methods were sloppy. You'd have got caught. So really, I did you a favor. Now run along back to your little students, sweet girl. You're not cut out for this.”

The girl's mouth opened and closed for a moment like she was about to say something and then she simply bit her lip, shook her head, and turned, barely catching her breath before running back to the school.

“Amateurs. Fucking amateurs.” Sentry murmured to himself as he expertly flipped his skinning knife and began to work through the meat, flesh, and sinew to dig out the spine. As he shook his head at the thought of these wannabe killers making a mockery of his art, his eyes fell on the rib cage just barely peeking out from one of the incisions. “Hmm...More ribs would be good, perhaps a crown for my Muse.”

A smile played across his pretty mouth as he imagined his Tyrant crowned in bones, slumped in a throne of corpses, grin slit from ear to ear, emerald eyes bereft of life but caught eternally in a devoted gaze, Sentry's own lips smeared in blood from a final cold kiss.

Sentry felt his stomach churn with arousal and he hurried worked to extricate the ribs as well, wishing in the back of his mind that he had asked Sceleritas to tag along. Extrication could be so tedious, especially when taking care to keep the parts intact. Still, it wasn't a difficult task, one Sentry had done hundreds upon hundreds of times, after all. Soon he had finished and packed up his bag.

Footfalls sounded from the direction he had come, so with his work finished, Sentry dipped into the nearby alleyway, scuttling into the sewer entrance, but watching to see who came. Another young tiefling, male, but otherwise similar in coloration to the girl. This one was dressed in Flaming Fist armor, the armor of a new initiate, but still. He was flanked by two other men, a half-orc and another Tiefling, pretty small patrol. Sentry watched them talk for a moment, expecting them to call for aid, after all, his gruesome work should have required backup, yes? Surprise and mild insult crossed his face when no backup was called, however. Instead, the three packed up the body carefully and he watched as they dumped it in the harbor. A perfect waste of good meat and blood. Damn.

He only wondered for a moment what this strange breach in protocol was for before deciding he really didn't care all that much. Better a cover up than some massive manhunt that would result in having to lay low for a while. This way he could keep hunting, collect more pieces for his Tyrant's glorious crown. So what if some fist jackboots were too lazy to do their jobs? All the better for him.

He made his way through the slimy, reeking sewer tunnels towards the old ruins that held his home. His bag rattling with each step, laden with his prize from the evening. He stopped ever so briefly to crumble some bread from his pack for the rats that scurried around the sewers. Sentry liked rats. He liked most animals, honestly. Animals didn't deny their nature, animals didn't feign civility, everything was out in the open. More than that, animals were truer companions than many people, he recalled a time when rats were his only friends. It was a favor he felt he needed to repay.

The Tiefling took only a moment to watch the rats pick up the small pieces of sustenance and begin to munch at them, a brief smile crossing his face at the sight. With that done, he continued all the way down to the temple, crossing the threshold and stopping, crossing his arms with a bemused smirk as he witnessed the argument occurring below.

“And you didn't bother to look for him!? You gave our Chosen a location, a Banite hideout, and you didn't follow him!?” The tall female Tiefling was shouting at Jackal, scythe brandished in her strong hands as she circled him, her long stark white hair flowing behind her.

“I'm not the brat's keeper, Gabraela. And it's like you said, he's our Chosen, ain't he? I did as he asked. Maybe if you didn't kill your actual kid, you wouldn't have to mother hen this one so much.” The grey haired Drow sneered, circling the Tiefling and lazily flipping his daggers in his scarred hands.

“I did as father commanded! My husband and child were the sacrifice he asked, anyone here would have done the same!” The woman snarled.

“Not so reluctantly. My wife was an easy kill. Best fun I ever had.” Jackal snorted. “You don't see anyone else being so precious about their first murder and you don't see us using the little princeling as a way to play house neither!”

“Ahem! Entertaining as your squabbling is and as wonderful as a night of bloodshed would be, children, it seems our Lord of Carnage has returned home!” Sceleritas cut in from the sidelines, announcing Sentry's return.

“Thanks, Sceleritas, always pleasant to make an entrance.” Sentry raised up his arms dramatically as he descended the steps. “I just lost track of time, yeah? Painting is such a process after all. And it's as you said before, my sculpture garden is overdue for a new piece. I could hardly pass up the one I found.” He reached into his bag and produced the bloodied, crooked spine. “It'll really make my Slayer Stalking piece more realistic I think. A true nightmare come to life.” His sharp teeth glinted in a manic grin.

“Oh, that it will, my boy. That it will.” Sceleritas beamed with pride. “And now, my sanguine scion, you really ought to get some rest! You look exhausted and you know how your art vexes you when you're overtired.” The butler chastised, wagging a claw.

“Alright, alright. But if anyone tries to kill eachother, please wake me. I'd like to watch.” Sentry smirked, yawning and stretching as he made his way to his room.

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