#dark urge fic

[keepingclover57]

Chapter 1: The Gala

Click here for the introduction

1477 DR

Solanine's eyes carefully preview the intake of guests attending this gala while her fingers swiftly glide on the strings of her lute. As a relatively well-known bard, the tiefling stands alone in front of everyone; being on a modestly elevated stage gives her a fair view of the whole room. Nina knows she is in the optimal position to find the best of her prey. The spree killings she performed with her butler were fun; especially murdering that bright investigator who was following her tracks.

But tonight marks something new. Something Important.

It has been far too long, in Solanine's opinion, since the elite and powerful members of Baldur's Gate had something to fear. And if she's learned anything from her Father, all lives are equal in the eyes of slaughter. In death's embrace. So why should the rich feel safe from the terror she delivers? The tiefling's Urge wants nothing more than to find the closest person to disembowel, but her hands simply transition to the next chord in her song.

They can't be too powerful, not yet. No need to set the whole aristocracy into a full-blown panic, when she can sow seeds of terror much more carefully. Someone with some influence, but not fully integrated with the politics of the city. The death needs to be shocking, not groundbreaking. After all, this is more of a trial run for Nina, if anything.

With the last few guests drifting in, the Bhaalspawn receives the go-ahead from the organizer. A smile flashes on her lips before she opens her mouth to begin her first verse.  The introduction of the main entertainment causes the majority of the guests to shift their investments toward Solanine, she unaffectedly soaks up the attention. Her focus glides across the unremarkable faces watching her. She does, however, settle her gaze on a young man with no interest in her performance.

For the first time, Nina doesn't feel like the only hunter attending this gala. The man walks with absolute purpose, his smile saccharine. But no amount of charisma can conceal the cold calculation in his eyes, not to Solanine. Against her training, the tiefling continues to watch the raven-haired man. The confidence in his stride, the swiftness of his motions. He seems perfectly natural in this setting. So why is her Urge screaming at her to mutilate him where he stands?

The song continues, but the excitement causes her blood to boil. Nina wants to meet him, wants to hear his voice, feel his heart beating. She wants to explore his innards, the workings of his mind. A murder so lovely to fill her up. But as Solanine continues her performance, a blond, middle-aged elf approaches her person of interest.

Seeing her target's expression tense at the moment of meeting, her interest is piqued. With the flick of her eyes, Nina sends Sceleritas to listen in. This could give her insight into the man, and see if his blood can be on her skin tonight. But, with her butler taking care of the conversation, Solanine focuses fully on her performance. She can't have her reputation suffer, not when she finally has legitimate contact with the city's elite.

Her introductory set has finished, and, after storing her lute carefully, Nina makes her way off the stage. She needs to find her target. Having been updated by her butler, the Bhaalspawn has a wonderful idea. She only has to confirm it. Even without the additional knowledge, Solanine had seen the key detail- that flare of hatred, the want to cause harm. It's intoxicating to her. And, if she can, maybe she can intensify that feeling.

Solanine admits that while her original thought was to kill the dark-haired man, the one who ignored her performance and seemed to focus solely on his mission. But having seen him, and hearing how Sceleritas describes him, the woman wonders how much cruelty is in his heart. Of course, with her curiosity showing through, Nina decides to make the elf, an arms dealer by the name of Ellisar, tonight's prey. To kill a man whose entire livelihood is based on the security of others; would be fun. But even more fun is seeing how her calculating stranger will react to her actions.

The crowd slows the tiefling down- the smiles and handshakes. Compliments and conversations. All boring, a routine to her over the years of performing. Usually, she'd allow the praise and attention to fuel her desire to disappear for the more intimate part of her show. But Solanine simply doesn't have the time for such things, and after a few short moments, she finds herself free of the bulk of guests.

The jewels and ornamentation decorating her hair and body make her noticeable at any angle. And, having already caught the eye of the elf, Solanine makes her way to the refreshments. As anticipated, Ellisar follows her at a distance.

Just as the bard takes up her glass, the man leans in- a bit too close for a first engagement- and speaks in a hushed tone. “Your voice,” He starts, “has such a captivating power. I have a hard time deciding what’s more beautiful, your looks or your talent.”

“Through my experience, I work to have all aspects of my presentation be symbiotic. Being unable to choose only speaks to the performance. I am honored by your words, sir.” Solanine replies politely. Being sought by her target is not quite what she expected. But there isn't a surprise too much for her to adapt to.

The man chuckles, reaching out his hand in greeting. “The honor is all mine, Miss…?”

“Achan."

The tiefling returns the handshake. Her target is too soft in his grip. Nina will enjoy peeling away the layers of his hand. "Miss Achan, I'm surprised that I hadn't heard you playing before now. Seems like you should be attending events all the time."

As he speaks, the Bhaalspawn moves her eyes over to the dark-haired stranger who caught her eye originally. Seeing the hateful stare she is met with before the man quickly looks away, a wicked idea comes to mind. Solanine gives a smile, shaking her head at his remark. "I don't expect for many to know me. While it's true that Baldur's Gate is my home, I spent many years traveling Toril, learning my trade. I've just recently returned. But I truly appreciate your words, mister…"

"Oh, I'm Ellisar Harrele. While I hope you will never have need of my services, know that I have only the best selection of weapons and armors available."

"Is this an introduction, or business marketing?" Nina's question is lighthearted and joking.

The elf responds well, shaking his head as he talks. "No, not marketing. I already know what you do, it seemed only fair that you know the same."

Solanine doesn't add anything, just continues to smile politely. She can't seem invested, lest others take note of it. This man will be dead in a few hours, and Nina doesn't want to be remarkable when people are questioned about it.

As the performer begins to look around at the crowd, the elf takes a step closer to establish his grip on the conversation. "I know that you must get asked this all the time, but is there anyone you're going home to when the party's over? Or do I have a chance to extend this meeting for after this event?"

"Thank you, sir, but I must say no to your question. While I don't have another I'm seeing, I really want to take my time settling back into the city. I hope you understand." She gives a small head nod, trying to appear meek.

Ellisar's brows furrow at her decline, his voice dropping low as, Nina can only assume, to pressure her. "Leaving with me will only increase your desirability, my dear. To refuse me is to ruin yourself right when you are starting." Her target puts a hand around her back, gliding his fingers down Solanine's back. "You'll have a good time, let me show you."

The Urge bubbles at the contact. In these moments, Nina is thankful to have had all those years with Sceleritas. Instead, the bard tries to remove his arm and take a step back. "I want my performance to aid me in building connections with others, not… this." She hopes that luck is on her side as she looks back to her person of interest. Was he watching this issue take place?

Emerald green irises lock onto her crimson ones. This time, however, the man doesn't look away. Solanine recognizes her idea could become a reality and shoots a pleading, panicked expression before refocusing on her toy.

"Come on, now. Don't be so difficult. A bard can't get far on talent alone. You need someone to help get you there. Outfits, instruments, invitations; I can get that for you. I have more power than you could imagine."

The man's composure is faltering. The woman highly doubts this stranger will resort to anything more than coercion, especially at an event. But this is getting irritating. His words sound like pleas, ones that are given before death. His death will be glorious and she can bathe in his blood, the warm liquid pouring-

The man's arm is forced off her, held by the raven-haired stranger. When did he get here? Was the Bhaalspawn too deep in her Urge to notice his approach? Rookie mistake.

"I'd personally love to see this power and money you so confidently flaunt. After all, I've heard that your clients all seem to be leaving you for younger, fresher offers." The human's voice is calm and collected, enjoying the position he's in.

"At what point in my conversation with Miss Achan did you feel it included you, Gortash?" Ellisar snaps, tearing himself out of the other man's grip.

The stranger, Gortash, hums softly at his declarative, a slight grin appearing on his face. "Seeing as this is a public setting, with an entertainer who doesn't seem to be enjoying your presence; I don't think this is the place for private discussions. Or… desperate propositions."

The elf begins to shy away, but his opponent continues, still just as composed as before. "Did you finally catch your wife in that evident affair she's been having? It's been lasting for a year now, and with your brother? Seems someone is about to end up washed up and alone."

Solanine wants this to continue, wants to see this man who acted so bold be ground into dust by words alone. But she'll have that fun later. The tiefling reaches forward, gingerly taking the man- Gortash's forearm in her hand. "Please don't make it a scene. I don't to cause an issue for the others."

Gortash stops, allowing her prey to escape, and turns to Nina as if nothing had happened. He smiles at her with a slight bow of his head. "Apologies, I must have gotten carried away. I hope that Ellisar hasn't ruined your night, he is not an example of the rest of us, I assure you."

"I'm glad to know that he is the exception, not the expectation. " Solanine responds with earnest. "Thank you for your aid, sir."

Deftly taking her hand from his forearm, he waits politely for a moment before kissing the back of it. "Gortash. Enver Gortash. It is a pleasure to have heard your performance, Miss Achan."

"Solanine."

The human looks back up at her, confusion laced in his expression.

"I've been told I should use my last name more often, but 'Miss Achan' just doesn't have the same ring to it. So I use it when being polite, or when I'd rather not give my first. But for you, it's Solanine."

"I'm honored, Miss Solanine. I only did what any person should do in a situation like this." Letting go of the Bhaalspawn's hand, he offers her his arm as an escort.

She accepts it, the contact once again setting her blood in a frenzy. What is it with this seemingly normal man to have such a deep-seated hatred by her Urge? She is but a divine tool- has this man blasphemed against her Father? Solanine isn't sure. But until she knows, she decides to enjoy this while it lasts.

"So, Mister Enver Gortash, what has brought you to the gala? Is it for business or pleasure?"

Gortash grins a little, and the two begin to walk the ballroom's outer area. "I find that business can be pleasurable, depending on the endeavors. My visit here was originally for business. But that is on hold while you have me."

"No proposals to offer or propositions to try and convince me of? Whatever will we talk about, then?" Solanine glances over at him, his emerald eyes giving her full attention.

"That is difficult, I must admit. How have you enjoyed your return to Baldur's Gate?"

Nodding along to the question, the tiefling quickly works to lead the conversation to what she wants. "It's been going well. I love seeing in what ways it's changed, but how it always feels the same. Although, the popularity of my name has now made interactions like Mr. Harrele much more common. And I don't always have someone kind enough to step in." She bites her lip as her tail wraps around her leg sheepishly. "If you don't mind my mentioning, the two of you seem to have a slight history. I didn't add a new topic in a lifelong feud, did I?"

Gortash laughs lightly. "No, no. Nothing that important, I assure you. Ellisar is a competitor of mine, a rather brutal one. He makes it a point to crush anyone trying to start a company with any similarities to his." The familiar look of bloodlust in the man's eyes betrays his nonchalant demeanor. "Much like his approach towards you, Ellisar is rather heavy-handed in his tactics. Made it easy to work around his obstacles. So, I am a particular eyesore to him, which I am sure to exploit."

"Oh," Nina starts, "Then you're an arms dealer, like he is. Have you become more influential in your time than him?"

The raven-haired man shakes his head. "No, not yet." Gortash extends his free hand in front of him, closing his fingers into a firm fist. "But he's within my reach now. It won't be long now."

Solanine gives a smile, a little too harsh for the personality she's given off to the man, but her excitement can hardly be contained. The blood she can already feel on her hands, and watching the soul beside her slowly corrupt into the man she knows he can be... how can she not be ecstatic?

"It'll happen. You don't look like the type of man to be hindered by something for long. Just how many ideas brew in the head of you, Enver?"

His brows raise for a moment, but a smug grin soon follows. "More than I'd ever admit to. How did a bard learn to gain such insight on others?"

The tiefling shrugs, her enjoyment still tugging at the corners of her lips. "I have no choice but to read people. Find the difference between a good gig from a bad one. Or a bad man and… someone like you."

The two look at each other for a moment, reading one another. A spark of realization hits Solanine. "Say, did you ever-"

An attendant approaches the pair, a look of urgency in her eyes. Solanine's eyes turn harsh for the smallest fraction of a second, having her conversation interrupted, but she recomposes faster than anyone would notice.

"Excuse me, Miss Achan, you are requested for your next performance of the evening." the Bhaalspawn nods and dismisses the young man before turning back to Gortash with a tinge of disappointment.

Gortash smiles, seemingly understanding her current obligation. "Duty calls, I see. And I much change back to the business side of this event. If you'd be inclined, perhaps we could continue our conversation after the gala?"

"My, Enver, are you asking to spend more time with me?"

"I am, but unlike the brute earlier, I will respect your decision."

The want to say yes is so pressing. But if she does this, her Urge will surely take over and this human would be nothing more than a stain of blood. And she has so much more fun planned. "I'm afraid that I do have an engagement later that night. But, we definitely will be united again- sooner than you may think. Call it a premonition.

Gortash goes to open his mouth, but the man before calls for the performer again, more pressingly. Without time to prolong the encounter, Solanine leans closer to him, kissing his cheek. She relishes his heat, the pulsing of his heart that seems to pound this close. She would taste his blood. Leave him inside out on the floor… But not yet. Squeezing his hand, Nina pulls away and begins walking to the stage.

"Don't let anything get in your way, Gortash." The Bhaalspawn gives a cheeky smile before ascending to the stage. With a renewed vigor, Solanine starts her second set.

| | |

Gortash stands still, watching the tiefling as she begins performing. Having his offer rejected stings, but hearing the confidence in Solanine's voice when she said they'd meet again. He can't help but feel like she is telling the truth, as ominous as that may be. He smiles.

What is going on in that head of hers? How could that kiss could be so sincere, yet make him feel that he was no longer the hunter, but the hunted? Gortash recalls the lethal glare in her eyes for a flash of a second. Maybe she would be a good follower of Bane with some guidance. Maybe she doesn't even need any.

Regardless, he allows himself to enjoy her show for a song or two. But he has a job to do. They both do.

[platonicwithbenefits]

I saw the begining bits of a fic while trying to go to bed and scrolling. The art for it was a slayer form, maybe? In scribbles almost.. I was very tired though, so who knows.. I vaguely remember something about people praying to bhaal in hopes they would be spared and their enemies wouldn't. That the bhaal spawn used an illusion magic to appear as a white dragonborn.

That's all I remember. Help?

[ziphius]

Well, Baldur's Gate finally got me- I wrote fanfic.

This is about Hap, my Dark Urge OC. He's an Oath of Devotion Paladin who uses his oath as a crutch to decide who it's morally OK to kill as a way to deal with his urges. This is going really well for him he only cries like 3-4 times per day at the horrors.

Read it here -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/53503246

[hemoglobinjuicebox]

Decided to write a Durgestarion fic inspired by my current playthrough.

Tags: Very brief depiction of gore. Barely. I'll warn for the sake of warning.

Mynra rubbed the back of her head, as if her palm alone could ease its soreness. The thick, cuprous taste of blood filled her mouth. Was it hers? She ran her tongue along the roof of her mouth.

Yes, it was hers.

She opened her eyes then screwed them shut instantly. The golden light of the sun burned. It pierced through the tender film and scorched the insides of her head. On the undersides of her lids did she see the faint silhouettes of foliage and water lapping at the banks. With a hand shielding them, her eyes parted to thin slits. The world was askew, knocked from its upright posture onto its side. No, that wasn’t right. She sat up and looked down and saw her body lying in a bed of sand, nestled loosely in a divot it had made. Her leathers were mostly intact, save for the occasional rip and loose stitch. What concerned her most was the blood. There was more of it. Could it also be hers?

Mynra brought a fistful of deep blue fabric to her nose and inhaled all that she could. It smelled of he; it smelled of ash, charcoal, and the distinctly rotten smell of sulfur. Yet she felt no pain. She rocked her upper body back and forth in one slow motion, testing it for a hidden ache, some wound that had not shown through. She still felt nothing. That left but one conclusion: it was not her blood.

That was one relief. Once her eyes adjusted, she opened them fully to take in her surroundings. Cartilaginous chunks of debris were scattered about in the sands. Some were charred, their fires long snuffed out. Others were still burning. Sculpted purple flesh peeled from muscle and crumbled to dark flecks that blew with the warm wind. Gigantic pale tentacles loomed in dreadful arches overhead, marking a path forward that Mynra had no choice but to take.

Mynra stood, wiped the sand and dirt from her legs and shook the rest off, patted her hips to check for her shortsword and the two brown glass bottles of pig’s fat secured to her belt, then took a step. It was a strong, stable step. One that left a proper mark in the ground. Her muscles did not waver and remained steadfast as she took a dozen more.

There was a corpse. It laid still, its head snapped at an awkward, grotesque angle with its patchy strawberry locks splayed over its scalp. That was not how heads were meant to move, Mynra noted. She tried to turn her head that far. It was too painful, so she stopped. A thought then struck her with the force of a sledgehammer but with the delicate sound of a whisper: How pretty.

Yes. Very pretty. The crack must have been so satisfying.

She shook her head and kept walking. There was no time to stop and be leisurely. She needed to find someone to remove the worm in her head. How convenient it was that no more than ten more steps away from the pretty corpse was the cleric in shiny silver, lying face-up with her eyes shut. As Mynra approached, she saw it—the trinket

What was her name? Shadowheart? Yes.

that Shadowheart had been so defensive over. Perhaps it was valuable? It looked rather uncomfortable to hold, its metallic body jagged and spiked. It sat in her relaxed palm. Mynra checked again, and the cleric was still not awake. Her eyes found the trinket again. The cleric clearly did not know how to rid herself of her worm, or she would have obviously done so already. As far as Mynra was concerned, the cleric had served her usefulness aboard the nautiloid by killing some of those wretched infernal abominations and was, as a result, no longer needed. She could find her own way out of her mess. In one swift swipe, Mynra plucked the trinket from her palm, then sprinted across the beach and rounded to a dirt path leading up a hill.

Brain things. She had forgotten what they were called, but what did their name matter? They were dangerous. There was one of her and three of them, and she did not intend to die to walking sacs of pink fat and nerves. They scampered along the chitin floor of a ruined sector of the nautiloid, searching the air with slender feelers. To the right were the broken remains of platforms that ascended in reasonable heights. Mynra crept towards the platforms, footfalls silent, gaze trained on the brain things as she climbed. One wrong noise, and it was her end.

Fortunately, Mynra managed to pass undetected. She even managed to spot a chest on the other side of the sector. She would have to come back for its goodies later. Once she was a safe distance from the brain things, she righted herself and jogged in a steady gait along the path.

Suddenly, a distressed voice crowded the still air, disturbing her thoughts: “You there! Come here—I need help!”

the critter of the hour, Mynra

[lea-labryssal]

Wrote a difficult chapter on my Dark Urge OC Ilinarie's story - meeting Karlach, fighting paladings, getting a visit from Sceleritas.

Two things I wanted to explore in it:

1. what if Karlach could recognize the Dark Urge from the olden days? Not recognize-recognize, just remember their appearance beside Gortash, see a trace of Gortash in the Dark Urge's mannerisms (or in this case, jewellery).

2. a more intimately side of Bhaal, within the context of a female Dark Urge. I feel that's a very most resonant story for a resist-Urge, fitting with the cult's recurrent glances at reproductive exploitation, the creation of more Bhaalspawn and Helena Anchev's story.

Chapter 14 of All Are Awaited, available on my AO3 - CWs for implied sexual violence.

[kawareo]

You ever noticed that Cazador apparently visits Flymm's Cobblers?

Little promo for new chapter for my prequel fic Unsaved :)

[lovelybluebirdie]

The astonishing failure of a simple plan

Astarion x f!Reader

Summary: Astarion tries to wrap his head around you, when a sudden tumult in camp occurs.

[AO3]

The concept of altruism had always been quite strange to Astarion.

Doing something solely for benefiting others, without one's own needs primarily in mind – how outrageously foolish. 

And yet, he caught himself considering the idea more often since he had met you. 

You, the soft-hearted soul who always seemed to stumble directly into the next best opportunity to solve the problems of complete strangers that would cross your way – gladly interfering with any sort of personal drama. 

Although you and the rest of your travel companions had been infected with a tadpole to the brain, leaving you in desperate need for a cure to this rather urgent condition, somehow you would always manage to save a child from getting gruesomely killed by harpies, pick a fight with a powerful hag to rescue some random woman you just met or annihilate an entire camp full of goblins to ensure safe travels for a bunch of Tieflings – without at least demanding a proper compensation for all your troubles. 

You just did those things, and it drove Astarion mad.  

Perhaps one of the reasons for your undeniable saviour complex were the recurring thoughts that plagued you. You had once explained it as particularly dark urges, the impulse to hurt and kill spreading its roots inside your brain, evolving into a yearn to act out the most gruesome visions one could imagine. Gloriously kill an innocent to bathe in their blood, crush a squirrel to death with your bare fists or rip off a stranger's hand in need of help – malicious ideas that would otherwise never cross your mind.

The origin of these unwanted desires were unknown to you, but you sensed that it had to be connected to your past somehow – a part of you that had yet to be completely revealed. Of course, you had sworn to give everything in your might to resist them. And luckily for the life of your travel companions, you were mostly able to succeed.

Regardless of these murderous tendencies coming with your affliction, you were still the kindest person Astarion had ever met. A contradiction in itself, and yet you were – well, you.

Lately, Astarion had caught himself just perceiving you. 

Taking in your soft expression as you were mindlessly humming a song to yourself, sitting barefoot by the river, hands elbow-deep in the cold water to wash your clothes, sticking this stupid little melody to his head for the rest of the day.

While resting at camp, he had watched you reading – one of your favourites, the lexicon of bird species in Faerûn – a terribly boring topic, but you seemed to indulge in the lengthy descriptions of a blue jay’s wingspan. You would fetch Astarion a caught smile between slowly turned pages, eyes half-closed, before eventually dozing off in the flickering light of the fire. He had barely been fast enough to catch the edges of your slipping book, saving it from landing in the dirt.

The other day, he noticed you carefully picking flowers from the road, acting like it was the most important task on your schedule. Later, you would sit in silence, brows furrowed in concentration and hands busy with knotting them into a beautiful headband. A gift for Karlach, since you had sensed that she hadn’t been too well on this particular day.

A sickeningly sweet gesture.

And yet, so typically you. Affectionate, always looking after your dearest companions.

He remembered the feeling of you casually squeezing his shoulder after an exhausting battle, the concerned look you would give him as you noticed that he had been injured, and how you insisted on treating his wounds with the utmost care, not leaving his side before you made sure his bleeding had entirely stopped.

There was the sensation of your fingers gently forming circles through his white curls, while he had buried his fangs deep inside your neck, greedily gulping down the blood you had been willingly offered to him. The quickening of your pulse, the little shivers your body would give away as he was feeding on you. 

Your thumb shyly placed against his brow, the tender movement as you traced his features. The sincerity in your voice as you described the outlines of his face to him, after he had shared with you that his lack of reflection had turned the image of his own appearance into a dark shape from his past. Profane vanity was all he had initially seeked from you that evening, listening to you calling him beautiful and stroking his ego, and yet there had been a certain intimacy resonating in that moment. You had described to him what the world would see when it looked at him – what you would see. 

Astarion groaned and pulled his blanket up to his chin, almost covering his bottom lip with the thin woollen fabric.

Gods, how you irritated him. 

How you had infested his mind with your nauseating goodness. 

When you first met, Astarion had decided that precisely this outstanding character trait of yours should be your undoing.

You offered an easy prey, he had thought to himself in a blissful glee, as he imagined all the ways in which he would bargain your trust. 

Luring and deceiving were practically moulded into him, therefore charming you appeared as easy as picking the lock on a broken chest. In order to survive under his former master Cazador, he had become an unwilling adept in these abilities. 

Astarion flinched as the memory of his ruthless tormentor reentered his mind. Cazador had turned him into a vampire spawn almost two centuries ago and made him his slave, forcing him to a life in complete darkness and made him use his body to bring more than thousands of victims to him.

In order to deceive you, Astarion had formed a rather simple plan: Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you would never turn on him – old habits that cemented over the past centuries had kicked in.

Therefore, it should have been easy with you. Instinctive. Following a pattern of studied behaviour, throwing his best lines at you until you would breathe his name between tousled sheets - leaving your body aching for him and trusting him unconditionally.  

All he had to do was follow this nice little plan of his, deepening the selfish bond he aimed to create between the two of you in order to secure his safety. To get you on his side. 

It should have been nothing more than an insurance. A simple transaction, so to speak: His honeyed words for your protection. Performing an act, yourself delightfully unaware of your leading role in this little play of his.

Well, and what else could it ever be? After all, manipulating others in order to get something out of them was the only way he had ever known. 

And yet: with you, things had somewhat felt entirely different.  

At least, his plan had evidently borne fruit by now: Not only were you voluntarily offering your blood to help him with his cravings after he had revealed his past of being a vampire spawn, you had also sworn to help him finding out the meaning of the scars on his back and dealing with Cazador when the time would come.

Still, instead of savouring his accomplishment he found himself distracted with his attempts to wrap his head around you. 

Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to peek inside this little skull of yours, picking your brain until he would satisfy his curiosity with you and determine the reason why you were lingering on his mind of late. 

He wanted to figure out what made him actually want to listen to the things you had to say, admire your wit when you would share a heartfelt laugh over one of your foolish jokes or why he would seek your company after a night spent in familiar solitude. And even worse: Why in the Hells he had caught himself enjoying how your face would light up after you had saved another unfortunate soul in need on your travels. 

Astarion sighed and pushed his fingers to his eyes, hoping that pressing them shut would free him from his vexing thoughts, as a sudden noise distracted him.

The pounding of hurried footsteps and jumbled voices rose outside his tent, growing louder and faster.

He let out another disgruntled sigh.

Gods, what would it be now?

Whoever was roaming around your camp this late at night, screaming like an animal, better had a rightful reason to do so.

His annoyance fell off immediately as he came to understand what the unfamiliar voices were yelling: Your name. Followed by pleas for help.

Before he even comprehended what exactly posed this sudden level of urgency, his feet had already dragged him outside in the dark, a cold breeze brushing against his skin.

“What is going on?” he heard his own voice meddling into the sudden tumult. 

Then he spotted you: Arms and legs hanging lifelessly, brought down on your bedding by one of the Harpers he remembered from the Last Light Inn. You were followed by a few other Harpers who positioned themselves around your tent - they were desperately shouting for a healer.

An icy grip twisted Astarion’s chest as he stormed forward to reach you, stomping through mud and dirt.

“Is she hurt?” His voice broke as he saw your face. You were lying on your blanket, eyes rolling behind closed lids, cheeks all flushed and a thin line of sweat forming on your brow. You looked utterly terrible: Weakened and sick, seemingly in a feverish delirium. 

Astarion had seen you wounded before, due to blood and gore being in the nature of your journey to free yourself from the tadpoles, but never like this: more dead than alive, not moving a single major muscle.

What in the Nine Hells had happened to you?

Astarion swallowed hard before he found his voice again and turned to the ones who had brought you in.

“What did you do to her?” he hissed, readying himself to grab the Harper next to him by the throat and shake him until his tongue would loosen. “Explain yourself, now!”

Before any of the men could open their agape mouths in response to Astarion’s daunting request, Shadowheart broke the heated atmosphere with a soft push to his shoulder and made way to kneel beside you. 

“Let me see her.” She spoke quickly as she felt for your pulse and started to spread her hands protectively over you, encompassing you in a blue radiance. She was already casting a healing spell.

“Your friend, she… she was fighting a shadow creature, and it must have poisoned her,” the Harper that had carried you pressed between quivering lips. “We already sent someone to call for Isobel. She will know what to do.” As he met Astarion’s furious glimpse, he hastily added “They – they should be here any minute.”

Poison? Astarion wrinkled his nose. Indeed, your blood smelled different – somewhat tainted. 

He focused his gaze back to you, suppressing the urge to slap that damned Harper straight across the face. 

Instead of acting out this violent thought, he sank to his knees next to Shadowheart and carefully laid one hand on your cheek. You were burning hot and letting out ragged breaths between your cracked lips.

“I can cast my spells, but I am not versed in the toxins of the Dark”, Shadowheart declared with the most tensed look on her face, her magic still hovering over your body. “We need Isobel – fast.”

Another twist in Astarion’s chest. He racked his brain for a solution, his hand still held helplessly against your cheek. You were in need of healing, desperately, and more adept than Shadowheart could provide. His senses began to blur.

Through the pulsing sound of blood rushing through his ears he could only gather a few scraps of the enfolding conversation between the Harpers and the rest of your companions that had hurried to your aid.

It was enough to paint a picture of what happened to you: During your night watch, you had noticed a Harper being dragged away in the shadows and went immediately to his aid. With a few quick blows, you had managed to kill the attacking creature and save the unfortunate man from his demise, but for its final act it stroked you with its claw, leaving a deep scratch on your right arm – the source of the suspected poison that would flow through your veins. 

Astarion bit the inside of his cheek, spilling blood. His mind was racing. 

Of course you had gotten yourself in danger over saving someone else again. 

In normal times, he would have loved to tease you for your foolish act of heroism and give you an “I told you so”, probably earning a defiant look from you while you would emphasise the importance of helping those in need. 

Hells, he desired nothing more than to listen to your moralising if it meant that he could just hear your voice right now. 

But instead of lecturing him on morality, you were still lying on your mattress, unmoving and probably on the verge of death, and he couldn’t think of a single way to rid you of this terrible state.

He felt numb. Useless. It made him sick.

A gut wrenching thought rushed over him. 

What if you would die right now – just like that? 

Before he could… Well, before he could do what exactly?

The image of your limp lifeless body with dead staring eyes entered his mind.

No. You didn’t deserve to die. You couldn’t die. Not like this. Not now, not ever, not from saving a goddamned Harper.

Then you whimpered. 

Silent, almost inaudible, but enough to set Astarion ablaze. 

The urge of punishing every single one who had dared to lead you to harm overcame him like a ruthless wave crashing shore. He wanted to cut open, to rip apart and to send everyone into eternal hell.

Fire took over his crimson eyes as he bared his fangs, the look of a predator on his pale face, ready to curse those wretched Harpers or worse, as another quiet sound spilled from your lips.

“As… Astar... ion…?”

He froze.

His name – spoken as gentle as a flicker of moonlight glistening through leaves. Not moaned in lust or used to denounce him in anger – just… him being called, in the most faintest way. 

He felt his eyes wet before he even knew it, his mouth opened for a split second only to his lips pressing it shut again, forcing himself to blink before a single tear could make its way down his cheek.

You sounded so fragile. So ... in need of him.

“Asta...rion?”

His chest twisted again.

He wanted to whisper words of comfort to you, chanting them over and over like a prayer, assuring you that everything would be alright.

“Don’t speak,” he managed to breathe in a cracked voice. “I’m here, my sweet.”

Your eyes were still closed and moving fast underneath your lids. You spoke in a fever, and he could sense that you were in pain. 

Astarion brushed a strand of hair off your sweaty brow, using just the tips of his slender fingers. A most careful touch, as if a hint of deeper force would break you. 

Then, there was no more sound coming from you.

“Hells, where is that goddamned cleric? If she doesn’t arrive here any second, I’m going to drag her over myself-” Astarion’s voice was nothing more than a helpless plea. He sounded way less threatening than he had wished for, almost spilling those tears he had to hold back, and seconds before bursting if there would be no aid for you right now.

“No need to shout, my friend. I’m right here.”

Isobel. Finally. 

A fire in his stomach again.

How dared she sound so calm, considering your condition?

With haste, Isobel knelt between him and Shadowheart and opened her pouch, revealing a set of different sized bottles. She began to examine you with concentration, lifting your eyelids to look at your pupils, checking your vitals and thoroughly inspecting the wound the monster had inflicted on you. 

Astarion gritted his teeth in anticipation, a thick lump forming in his throat. 

“Will she be alright?” he eventually demanded, his voice cracking like a violin out of tune, but Isobel ignored him and silently continued her treatment. 

“Astarion, I’m worried about her too, but I think we shouldn’t disturb Isobel right now,” Wyll interfered softly and squeezed his shoulder. 

Taken aback, Astarion pressed his lips together. Of course Wyll would be the voice of reason in a situation like this, but unfortunately he wasn’t wrong. Isobel was the most profound healer available, an expert on the shadow creatures - and unlike himself, she offered the possibility to save you.

“As I thought,” Isobel mumbled after a minute that had felt like eternity and opened one of her potions with a loud plop. “She will need this.”

She then put her thumb on your chin, carefully opening your mouth and pouring in a dark liquid, before she continued to clear your wound. 

Astarion eagerly watched her hands treating you with expertise, still not laying his gaze off you.

“I gave her a powerful antidote,” Isobel began to explain calmly as she spread a colourless balm on your torn flesh. “Such poison needs fast treatment. Fortunately, if dealt with in time, it can still be cured. I’m glad I was able to aid your dear friend before it made its way through her entire body. Otherwise… It most likely would have been fatal.”

Astarion’s muscles tightened and his stomach turned. You almost died tonight.

Isobel seemed to notice his tension, so she quickly added “With this antidote, she will be completely fine in the morning. Her fever might continue through the night, but I promise that there is no more reason for concern.”

“Are you completely sure of that, Isobel?” Shadowheart asked, seeking out reassurance that the treatment truly had succeeded.

“I swear by Selune, she is not at risk anymore. The antidote freed her from the poison and the balm will heal her wound,” the cleric responded confidently. “Her body will do the rest.” 

The tight, dark blanket that had wrapped around Astarion’s chest began to loosen up.  

“I… I’m glad that she’ll be alright,” was all he managed to vocalise as the adrenaline slowly faded from his body.

“Thank you, Isobel,” added Gale, who had been nervously walking up and down your tent as Isobel had tended to your condition. 

Even Shadowheart, a devoted follower of Lady Shar, spared a few words of gratitude towards the cleric following her sworn enemy’s beliefs.

A general sense of ease took over from the strained atmosphere that had prevailed just a moment ago.

“She needs rest and quiet now,” Isobel claimed and gave a telling look to your companions and the assembly of Harpers that gathered around your tent. 

An unspoken demand that it was time to give you some space now.

*

“I will stay with her,” Astarion announced to Shadowheart and the remaining group after Isobel and the Harpers had left for the Last Light Inn. There had been a quick discussion if you should have been brought with them, but eventually it was decided that you were more safe in your own bedroll than being dragged through the shadow infested lands again. 

“Are you sure, Astarion? I’d be more than glad to watch over her myself,” Shadowheart responded, not hiding her surprise over his proposition.

Even if Astarion wasn’t sure about anything in particular right now, he felt the pressing need to remain by your side until you would open your eyes again, ensuring that Isobel had spoken the truth and the threat had passed. 

“Well, I won’t be able to get some more rest tonight anyway, so I might as well just stay over here,” he attempted in a more indifferent manner. “Besides, her tent is by far the most comfortable one our excuse for a camp has to offer, and I’m looking forward to indulging in some peace and quiet after all of this night's terrible trouble.”

Karlach listened to his explanation in slight amusement and gave him a supporting nod. Liar, her smiling face said.

“Well, if you’re sure, and there are no objections… Then it’s fine with me, I suppose,” Shadowheart replied with a raised eyebrow. “But promise to shout for me if something’s the matter, will you?”

“Gods, would you please give me some credit here, you mother hen. I got this,” Astarion said and rolled his eyes. On the inside, he was still shaken up, and he could only hope that the slight pitch in his voice wouldn’t give him away. “So hush hush everyone, off you go now. Get in some  beauty sleep, as you all are evidently in need of it.”

“Chk!” Lae’zel interfered in the most angry whisper she could muster. “Leave Astarion to look after her for the night if he insists. I’m certain he knows the fate that will await him should she come to harm under his supervision.” Lae’zel’s very own way to express that she came to care about you.

“Charming as ever,” Astarion replied at this implicit threat, still holding no intention to move merely an inch from his spot next to your bedroll.

“You see, Shadowheart? There seems to be no need to worry about our dearest friend,” Gale added with a slight chuckle. “I suppose she’ll be in good hands for tonight.”

Shadowheart let out a grunt and readied herself to leave with the others, but not before she would lay one last gaze on you, ensuring that you had not gotten any worse over the last few minutes.

*

Astarion watched your chest rise and fall in a soothing rhythm.

What a mess this night had been.

From the moment the Harpers had brought you in it had been like a heavy weight violently crushing his chest over and over, turning him into an angry, scared wreck, and the pressure only began to wear off by now.

Realistically, he knew that you were safe and the danger had passed. But then, why was there such an uneasiness lingering on him?

He had been scared in his life before, probably more times than he could recall, and yet… The fear over losing you tonight had shifted something in him. 

You had called for him in your feverish delirium, as you were lying helpless and in pain. 

It was an image hard to shake off.

Astarion sighed, when he noticed that you were still in your armour. There was no way in Hell he would let you sleep in this reeking dirt-covered piece of cloth, so his dexterous fingers began to peel it off, piece by piece. Carefully not to wake you, he stored your armour aside, until you were lying in your undergarment. Then he took your blanket and wrapped it around you.

With another gentle motion, he let his finger stroke along your brow, brushing over the dampness of your skin. You were still feeling hot. 

His nose wrinkled as he pulled down his sleeve to cautiously wipe your sweat away. There was no need to get up to fetch some extra cloth, and he would be perfectly capable of cleaning his shirt the next morning.

For a while, Astarion would just watch over you, mustering your relaxed face and ensuring that your breathing continued steadily. You seemed to be in a calm sleep, still feverish, but evidently better looking than the moment you had been brought in.

The next morning came to his mind. Perhaps he might attempt to prepare your favourite food for you, a simple but apparently very delicious berry porridge. Not that he had any particular experience on the matter, since his culinary needs were restricted to blood these days, but if someone like Gale was able to cook it, he surely would be too. Maybe he would surprise you with the dog or the owlbear for some morning snuggling in bed, as you seemed to never spend a single day without indulging in some pets on your journey. Well, he probably should bring in both. Oh how delighted you would be, waking up to these furry little beasts, he thought with a grin. 

Then it hit him.

Shit.

His nice, simple plan with you had truly and utterly fallen apart.

What should have been nothing more than an insurance for his safety, a way to rid himself of the tadpole in his brain and offer him a powerful ally to face Cazador some day, had developed into something he never experienced before.

He genuinely cared about you - more than he thought himself to be capable of. You had become most precious to him, and he felt the urgent need to be honest with you. 

You were incredible, and you didn’t deserve to be lured into a selfish alliance.

You deserved something real. 

He wanted things between you to be something real - even if he didn’t know what real looked like. After all, charming and deceiving others was the only way he had ever known. Forming a sincere connection and being close with someone posed an entirely new and remarkably scary sensation. But maybe, with you…

Your faint voice brought him back from his thoughts. 

“Asta...rion?” 

His face softened, not as an act of will, more like a reflex.

You looked at him with half-open eyes, sounding still a little weak.

He bowed his head closer to you and spoke softly, letting his thumb brush gently over your cheek.

"There you are, my little fool. Getting ourselves in trouble over our constant need to do something heroic again, weren’t we?”

“Mh… Is that so?” you asked in a raspy voice, offering a weak smile through glistening eyes underlined with dark circles, your hair pressed damp to your skull. “And you saved me, I suppose?” 

Astarion’s heart grew tight with adoration. To him, you had never looked more beautiful.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. Actually, you have been poisoned by a shadow creature, so you were in need of a more adept healer. Isobel treated you.”

“Mhm.. How bad was it?”

He thought for a moment, the fear he had felt rushing over him for a split second and piercing his chest like ice. 

"Well, not as bad as it could have. I’ll spare you the details for tomorrow.”

“That’s… good.” You hummed, sounding drowsy and still a little feverish. Then, you gave a soft plea. “Astarion… Would you… stay with me tonight?”

There it was again, a pull at his heartstrings. 

Gods, you wicked little thing.

“Of course, my darling. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

A promise, unimaginable honest had it been another time, with another person, but this was now, and this was you.

He gave another gentle press to your hand, carefully intertwining your fingers with his, as if to underline his words.

"Thank you,” you whispered, eyes closed for a second before you let your gaze meet his again. Another quiet mumble. "Could you... hold me please?"

Astarion was overwhelmed by your vulnerability for a second. He wanted nothing more than to provide you comfort, to make you feel safe, but didn't know if he should give in. Even though you had often shared your bedroll these days, this somehow felt more open, more intimate.

Before he realised what he was doing, he swiftly lifted off your blanket to slip underneath and laid his arm around your waist, pulling you in close.

He could feel your hand on his chest. Your head gently resting on his shoulder, fingers loosely clutching around the end of his collar. Your warm body against his cold.

Astarion let his fingers gently caressing the small of your back.

You were breathing steady, already seeming to doze off again. A soothing calmness came over him.

“I hope… I didn’t worry you too much,” you mumbled, more asleep than awake.

Astarion bit his lip.

“Well…” he said and cleared his throat. “I managed.” A complete understatement of events, but this was also a confession for another day. “Rest now, my love.”

Astarion continued to gently stroke your back, his lips turning into an affectionate smile. He never thought his heart to be this full over the failure of such a simple plan.

Masterlist

[rawrsatthetree]

Tired: Tav that’s good for Astarion cause they play therapist and give him support and space to heal

Wired: Tav that’s good for Astarion cause they’re such a disaster he has to get his shit together cause gods above one of them needs to be a functional adult

[shadows-aflame]

The thing about Enver Gortash that gets me the most is like

Here’s perhaps the most complex and well thought out character in the game. You can feel his presence all throughout as early as act 1 by seeing just how far his influence has come. He’s ruthless and irrevocably evil, but also broken in a way that doesn’t justify any of his wrongdoings. He’s a brilliant mind who clawed himself out of the hells and into this seat of power, yet he doesn’t want to rule alone.

He’s grieving over his partner, and it’s very apparent when you look at the actions he took after losing the Dark Urge.

He wants to rule with you. If you play as the Dark Urge, he clearly loves you in whatever manner you interpret that love to be.

But you can’t love him back.

[cephydeluxe]

durgetash fics should explore gortash's transhumanism and durge's medical knowledge, i think....

gortash and durge designing cyborg parts, gortash's mechanical expertise meeting durge's anatomical expertise

durge volunteering to be his surgeon cause how could they possibly miss the opportunity of dissecting gortash??? Even if putting someone back together after ripping them apart is heretical to their father's doctrine???

gortash choosing durge above literally anyone else to do the surgery, because even though durge is constantly fighting the urge to kill him, they're still the most trustworthy person in gortash's life

gortash, a natural born human, wanting durge, a demigod who was created, to perform the surgery that would help gortash ascend from the limits of his flesh,,,,, idk if I verbalized that right, just unwanted, messy, fleshy gortash idolizing durge's divine body because they were created to be perfect in their purpose DO YOU SEE THE VISION.......

[javsarts]

At some point, he made a silent oath to himself that someday, he will repay that girl’s kindness.

.

.

And he unknowingly did

Just a random HC of mine where a little Jenevelle did help a little Durge at some point, set in a time before Bhaal and Shar.

[chronurgy]

Gortash designs and builds mechanisms so I imagine he has to be able to sketch fairly decently in order to sketch his projects and designs. And I'm imagining a pile of charcoal sketches of Durge, done over their entire acquaintance, starting out with sketches of them in battle and then slowly becoming more detailed and intimate and as they do, the titles changing from things like "The Bhaalspawn" and "Bhaal's Chosen at Their Bloody Work" to "The Chosen in Contemplation" and finally just Durge's name

[dragonsfictavern]

Reminiscent Nightmares

Astarion Ancunin x Durge!Reader

a/n: I am consumed with soft wordless sex. Total physical communication showcasing a couples intimate knowledge of each other. I love I love I love.

summary: After a nightmare of past pains you’ve inflicted, Astarion is right there to comfort you. While you feel as though you can’t talk about it, Astarion will be there for you in other ways until you can. He will always be there for you.

warning: MDNI +18 make outs, groping, soft p in v sex, clitoral stimulation. Nice and simple.

word count: 2K

Your brows furrow, shaking your head, even as you lay in a deep sleep. Squirming around in your bed a whimper escapes you as visions— no memories, whirl through your mind in a torturous loop. Pools of blood come in waves, crashing against the walls and flooding the vision of your dream. Endless faces pass the view of your eye, being presented with them all before they fall off to the side and another takes its place.

Kill after kill you’re reminded of every single one. Your mind not allowing you to forget about a second of the pain you inflicted on others. An unending stream of the damage you caused and the torture you brought upon others. All of it now coming back to you.

By the time you’ve gone through them all, you’re whimpering, tears streaming down your cheeks even though you remain asleep. Just when you think it’s over, when all is done, when you’ll finally be able to gain some release… one more head slowly floats through the river of blood.

The head slowly comes to a stop and the face that greets you is none other than Astarion’s.

You scream and a second later Astarion is shaking you awake. Your eyes shoot open and scatter around as you try and take in your surroundings, your breath is heavy with panic, and you can’t stop squirming as you feel your skin crawl. The idea of Astarion being gone, and worse by your hand, haunts your every waking thought.

When Astarion gently cups your jaw, bringing your gaze to his, you cry out at the sight of him, more tears streaming down your cheek. Astarion shakes his head, quietly shushing you in hopes to calm you down. Your tears seem unable to stop as your eyes move over his every beautiful feature. Your hands reach up, taking his face in your hold. Thumbs rubbing over smooth cheeks. You feel him. He is here. He is unharmed.

Your eyes catch onto your hands and you know that he is safe. He is safe in your embrace. You aren’t like that anymore. You don’t do those things anymore. Neither of you do. Ever since everything ended and you’ve both settled into your new lives in Baldur’s Gate. You would never hurt him, not then nor now. While there were some close calls you have full control. You’re positive.

Nothing will ever harm him. Not you or anyone. You two will spend your days protecting each other from whatever threat may come your way. You’re a team. You continue rotating through those thoughts, filling your mind with them as you inhale and exhale deeply, meeting Astarion’s worried gaze once more. His free arm moves around your waist and he brings you impossibly closer. The feeling of his body against yours furthers your comfort.

With time you eventually calm down, your breath slowing down and the panic dissipating. When fully relaxed against his body, Astarion’s eyes furrow in a silent question. You blink back, not wanting to even think about it right now. Not wanting to think about anything. So you lightly shake your head at him and his features drop just as quickly as his question, understanding you immediately.

Instead he uses his hold in your jaw to gently guide your lips to his, continuing to provide you with closeness and comfort. You inhale sharply through your nose as your lips collide. A small moan escapes you as you lean into his touch, lips simply connecting for a moment. But you both easily fall into a gentle rhythm as your lips caress each other lovingly.

Astarion’s hand slides into your hair and he uses it to pull you in closer, groaning as his mouth devours yours. Both of you quickly become swept up in the easy dance of your mouth’s movements. You whimper, everything Astarion being the only thing you can focus on. The only thing you can think about.

When he slowly brings you back down on the bed, hand on the back of your head for extra cushion, you moan again, flicking your tongue along the seam of his lips. Astarion rolls on top of you, legs cradling your hips as he opens his mouth to you. You both grin as you take turns teasing each other with your tongues. His actions meant to distract and comfort and you weren’t ashamed to say they were working.

Astarion slowly works to undress you both, taking his time, savoring the taste of your tongue on his. Only separating when you have to and then his lips are crashing back down on yours. You moan, softly pulling him down once he’s finished, your body shuddering to feel his cold skin brush along the heat of yours. The contrast sending sparks up your spine.

Your body arches into his as you feel his hand slowly making its way down your form. The sensation of his mouth and hands continuing to drive all worrying thoughts out of your head. Astarion takes his time with you, wanting to feel every groove and curve that makes up your body. His hand slips between you both once he reaches your hips.

A hiss escapes him and you feel his breath ghost across your face. Your brows furrow and you whimper, hips jolting up, knowing his next movements precisely. A moment later you feel the crown of his cock parting your folds. Your eyes snap open only to meet Astarion already looking down at you. A soft expression on his face as he gages your reactions, always making sure you’re ok. You do the same, reaching a hand to touch his cheek. You bring his forehead to rest against yours, taking a moment to connect with him emotionally.

You gasp as he teases the hole of your sex and your heart skips a beat at the slight quirk of his mouth. Which only grows wider once he hears the way your pulse instinctively reacts to him. Your moans rip through the silence as Astarion pushes inside of you with ease. Your eyelids drop as you let out a whine, the feeling of him entering you has your body filling with warmth.

Astarion easily moves straight into a languid pace, his length gliding through your wet heat as he works you open, stuffing you full of him. Your hands slide into his hair, foreheads remaining connected as he thrusts inside you. Both of you maintaining eye contact. The intensity of emotion in his gaze takes your breath away. He wants to be here for you. To look after you. And though you may not be ready to talk, he is right here to comfort you.

Your nose nuzzles against his in a silence appreciation, your chest blooming with even more love and devotion for this man. Astarion grunts, a low rumble in his chest at your sign of affection, before picking up his pace only slightly. You sigh at the feeling of his cock massaging your walls, head falling back slightly as hips roll into yours. Soon your body falls into rhythm with his, pushing back against every pump into your core.

A soft cry leaves you as he hits your G-spot. Arms tightening around him, you’re desperate to feel him close. Astarion’s hands squeeze at your waist while his cock leisurely pumps its way inside you. He nips at your jaw gently, wanting your attention back on him. Your breath stutters as your hips meet once again in a quiet smack. Tilting your head up you meet his gaze and his lips are immediately connecting with yours, causing you to groan.

Heat swirls at the bottom of your belly as you feel your orgasm begin to grow. Your hands softly play with Astarion’s curls as you kiss. Your lips moving in tandem with the steady rhythm of his pulsing length. The feeling sends your heart racing and your skin tingling. An easy passion falls over you both like a thick cloud, blocking away the rest of the world and all that remains of you and Astarion.

You whimper against his lips, mind growing hazy as you’re lulled by his soft lips and the occasional nip of his fangs. Your nerves are on fire, your entire body prickling over as you savor each time he fills you. With the building pressure within you, you know you’re getting closer and closer to your climax. Astarion groans, feeling the way your muscles tense underneath him, feeling how your body radiates heat those moves through him and drives him with a need he’s only ever truly felt with you.

His hands caress your thighs, soothing out the slight twitching occurring as you find yourself just on the edge. Then a hand is moving to the apex of your thighs, his diligent fingers quickly finding your clit. Your jaw drops slightly and he uses this to his advantage, tongue slipping into your mouth to brush along yours. Your body jolts into his touch and you melt against the slow circles applied to your bundle of nerves.

It only takes a few more soothing strokes before your walls are fluttering around his cock and you’re falling off the edge, your release coating his cock. You moan loudly and Astarion swallows it all down, mouth latching down on your tongue and sucking lightly. Your body shudders in response, making the slight shaking of your body all the more worse as your orgasm moves through you in gripping shockwaves.

You clench down on Astarion, not even aware of your actions as your release consumes you. Astarion grunts, his stomach clenching and with a few stuttering thrusts, he sinks down inside you before spilling himself. Your eyes roll back into your head and you gently grind against him, milking him for every last drop.

Both of you rock into each other slowly, helping each other ride out your highs. Your kisses grow lazy, mouths smacking together, unable to stay away for longer than a few moments. Your eyes flutter as you desperately try and stay awake. Astarion watches you, his own eyes half-lidded, a storm of powerful emotions brewing in the depths of his red gaze. Yet you don’t back away from it, instead lulled into its embrace.

Astarion rolls you both onto your sides once you’ve both calmed down. He keeps you connected as he draws you tight against his chest. You breathe deeply, your body relaxed, contentment now coursing through you as you lay in Astarion’s arms. Both of you protected. Both of you safe. You slowly begin to fall asleep, grateful for your love and the way he flawlessly has come to understand you.

A moment later you feel a hand rest on the back of your head and your body jolts a bit, the touch waking you up more. Astarion shushes you gently, leaning in to press calming kisses across your brow. You hum and snuggle back in closer to him, accepting every kind of comfort he’s been giving you since your dream rousted you two up. It was only when he started to kiss your forehead did you realize you still remain partially tense. But with his lips on your skin your body completely melts into his and you fall into a dreamless sleep without issue.

Astarion stays by your side, not wanting to get up or move away from you. Watching over you as you rest and hoping the night passes by without anything else waking you. He knows you will talk to him once the morning comes. Share your concerns and let him be there for you in that way as well. He will always be there for you so long as you wish him and doesn’t mind having to prove so. Looking down at you and thinking this all through, he can’t help but lean in and nuzzle into your hair. He closes his eyes, for even if he won’t really sleep, he’ll bask in the act if it means lying with you.

[dmbakura]

i finally finished the first part of my "astarion brings my durge back to cazador" pre-bg3 AU. it goes with this picture :3c link is right here

[daemon-in-my-head]

At last, here it is. A while ago, I had the pleasure of commissioning the wonderful @lokorum to portray my beloved idiots in all of their tragic glory.

So without further ado, after months, here's the first chapter of my durgetash-centred, possibly very long, post-canon Genfic (cuz even if he's not featured in the picture, he's very much the one behind it, and yes, I said genfic but they do fuck, there's just also other themes that are more important than whatever it is those guys got going on).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63147115

Rated M; further elaboration, summary etc behind the cut.

As per usual, please mind the tags. This is rated mature and may turn explicit depending on—let's be so fr—nothing but my mood. It IS a tragedy. I know how it ends. Trust me when I stress the tragedy part. I'm writing this story through tears at times. There's fluff, there is hurt comfort, there is true old man yaoi but there is just as much 'doves that aren't simply dead but rotten' and pain.

So to everyone who's not scared shitless yet (which is very valid), here's a summary:

The year is around 1530 DR. The once-revered and reformed Bhaalspawn returns to the city he had both saved and nearly doomed, emerging from his exile in the Underdark. Though he claims to seek only rest, the city's de facto ruler, Archduke Gortash, sees through the monster’s carefully crafted facade. Perhaps if the elf had never saved the Banite all those years ago—when he was little more than a blurred and distant memory—his own fate might have unfolded differently, perhaps even more mercifully. But regrets have long since lost their weight. The past is immutable, and all that remains—all that truly matters to him now—is the purpose that once again draws him into this treacherous den.

And on a personal note; I'm still squealing and shoving this artwork into the face of everyone I meet irl. I absolutely adore it. I'm not sure I'll be stopping with that soon. You will see reblogs.

Again. Tragedy. I mean it. There's fluffy moments, but I will absolutely exploit them to enhance the pain. I'm dead serious about Bhaal being able to learn from me. I caused his kid more agony than he could ever dream of delivering. And I haven't even shared the worst parts yet.

Edit: I also mean the psychological warfare tag. It's my guilty pleasure. And whatever over one year of obsession amounts to.

[kawareo]

And in the end, you were nought but a blink.

I finished Unsaved!! :)

I had such a blast writing it, thank you so much for everyone who commented and gave support, I read every single comment and they mean so so much to me

Feel free to send me your thoughts on the fic as a whole or just anything in general! I know for a fact I wouldn't get this far without such an active feedback ^^