#writing: the dark urge

[iironwreath]

We Grew Into That Perilous Place [The Dark Urge]

[title is from mary oliver's essay "bird"! also on ao3]

Astarion had improved at feeding. There was no dramatic rearing of his head and lunging like it’d be his last meal, or what Cihro dubbed his “battle bite.” Now, he let Cihro crawl into his lap and wind his legs around his waist. He cradled Cihro’s head, fingers catching his earrings and the short, crisp hairs along his nape. He tilted.

His teeth still plunged in quickly—there was no way around that without making it more painful. They’d tried, but it was like sinking into a bathtub of ice. But he sapped slowly, patiently, no longer sucking like he was on a timer while wrestling a boar. He had better restraint; he’d learned just how much Cihro could give, pulling away before Cihro could ask him to stop. 

Sometimes it was nice, letting Astarion feed past what was responsible. Being lightheaded made it tricky to think too hard about all their problems. It was an excuse to have him close, trading tender touches after getting stabbed and beaten. And after finding out he was Bhaalspawn, it meant that for a little bit, there was a fraction less of Bhaal inside him. 

Astarion feeding gently felt a bit like love, when the word still didn’t come naturally to them. 

“Does it taste different?” Cihro asked. “Without the Bhaal?”

Astarion’s tongue looped around his bloodstained mouth, red as a poppy. Lines creased his forehead, considering, then he nodded once.

“No better or worse,” he concluded. “Not completely different, either. Turns out there was some of you when you were Bhaalspawn after all.”

[frickerdoodle]

Mild act 2 Durge spoilies

My Dark Urge has been vehemently denying any thoughts of bloodlust to their companions and has hiddentheir evil deeds whenever possible (threw a certain body in the river and played dumb about where they went, for example) so imagine my shock when everyone knew about his deep dark secret after the most harrowing night of his life.

[kawareo]

Former cult leader learns he's actually really good at having people bow to him, more at 8

New chapter of Godsbound is out!

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Durge: *Slams a cultist up against a wall, holding them by the throat.* I'm going to enjoy skinning you alive. I'll make it slow, so that by the time it's done your throat will have bled raw from your agonized screams.

Astarion: Darling, I'm hurt. I thought that sort of talk you only reserved for me in the fervor of our bedroom?

*Collective groans of exasperation and disgust.*

Lae'zel: Kainyank! Put gold into the Jack's Ass jar.

Gale: *Holds up jar.* Jackass jar. We've gone over this.

Lae'zel: As I have said before, this term 'jackass' is illogical. Who is this Jack and why is it an insult to call somebody his ass?

Gale: And as I have said before, there is no Jack! That's just what the word is! It doesn't have to be logical!

Lae'zel: You humans are tiresomely vexing. I propose we call it the Galeass jar. Then, at least, the insult will have weight.

Astarion: *Drops a gold into the Galeass jar.* Worth it.

- - - -

BG3 Incorrect Quotes Masterlist.

[memepocalypse]

They Lost Control

Memes for when the other character has lost it! Some of these can have heavier connotations so peruse with caution.

"You're hurting me!"

"Get off me!"

"This isn't you!"

"Get control!"

"I trust you - but you need to stop -"

"Don't make me tie you up."

"Take a breath, focus."

"You're here with me."

"I don't like that look in your eyes."

"You are stronger than this!"

"You have to fight it off."

"Come on, come back to me..."

"Take a breath. Remember to ground yourself."

"You're better than the monster."

"Don't let it take you over."

"Hold my hand. Take a breath. You're here. You're safe."

"No! No! Please -"

"Why would you do this?! I thought you were better than this!"

"You're meant to be fighting it!"

"We were friends, weren't we?"

"How could it end like this?"

"Please - don't -"

"You're out of control."

"Someone needs to put you down."

"Like a wild dog, aren't you?"

"Get the muzzle."

"If you don't stop, you're going to make me hurt you."

"Oh, poor thing... so much wildness in you, hm?"

"Someone help! Please!"

"Oh, no. Its too late, isn't it? Far too late."

[foolishsunshine]

Meme redraw! Astarion knitting content is pretty much all I’ve got in my brain rn sorry (not sorry?)

(I’m not anti-acrylic yarn please don’t yell at me)

[marmialadee]

Writing poetry because crying in my mothers’ arms isn’t an option.

[divorcedwife]

life in death and death in life

[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.

[corpocyborg]

the thing that drives me absolutely crazy though is that gortash is presented as this commanding dominating tyrant and yet it's consistently shown that the thing he appreciates about durge (or tav for that matter) is when they're not willing to submit to him & when they are strong enough to either stand against him or to stand with him & when they are his equal.

an insane thing for someone like him to want. you'd think he'd want to rule alone and yet the insight checks all show that he actually prefers to share so long as there's someone around worth sharing with.

"Half a smile shows he is teasing you. He doesn't think for one moment you'd fully submit to him. Nor should a spawn as formidable as you."

[thedorkurge]

Okay hear me out....AU where Enver never escapes the hells, until he's an adult warlock sent by Raphael to find the crown for him.

Meeting the son of Bhaal, planning to use him to reclaim it, instead catching feelings/realizing how much he could accomplish if he was free, and using Durge to get Raphael murdered. And then, well, taking the crown is still a good plan. And they can do it for themselves now.

Do you see my vision. Do you see the potential.

[iironwreath]

I Received the Grace of Shadows [The Dark Urge]

[see ao3 version for tags and notes]

Cihro put off finding his reflection come dawn. He knew he’d looked worse—covered in gore up to his elbows, blood smeared across his face like a child who hadn’t figured out how to eat, or drenched in it from standing too close to Lae’zel or Karlach in a fight. He was no stranger to the grime and sweat and other hideous textures of travel. It was what he’d see past the surface that slowed him. 

He poured boiled water into a basin and scrubbed it over his face, then smoothed it over the back of his neck. He sighed. There were a handful of mirrors in camp—a hand-sized one belonging to Astarion—but he clutched the edges of the basin’s table and gazed into the settling pool. Even with multiple fires and standing torches, the living shadows toiled against the light; his reflection was oily and smudged.

An occasional drip rippled the surface. The drops made him look sweaty—and he had sweat through his clothes last night, the urge so hot it burned him up like a fever. His hair was extra dishevelled rather than roguishly so. Most noticeable were the deep crevices under his eyes, like someone had pushed their thumbs into an overripe fruit. The lands hadn’t cursed him—it was the one he’d carried since stumbling out of a pod on the Nautiloid.

But, it was him. He didn’t look like a stranger to his eyes, and he couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. If he asked, would anyone hold up a mirror to him when the urge was in charge? Would he recognize himself? The other him probably thought it was the original, and this fledgling the imposter needing to be excised. 

It was a difficult thing, trying to winnow out the competing voices in his mind. When it was an intrusive thought, he could cut it down with a dagger, pare it out of sight. When it subsumed him, he lost consciousness. Some impulses straddled the line. He didn’t know how much or little it occupied, what the ratio of meat to fat was.

He fought a comb through his hair and dried his face before setting out for Astarion’s tent. Tension clenched the campgrounds. Before, they’d relied on each other to keep watch, their space a small piece of haven carved out of darkness. Nowhere was safe now, not really. Cihro—or his urge, if they counted as separate—threatened what they’d built. It wasn’t that the group couldn’t collectively take Cihro down, he was slippery but flimsy; it was the bloody result if Cihro caught someone alone and by surprise.

The sight of Astarion alive with his usual cat-like poise gave Cihro a lurch in his belly like he was bracing for another wave of bloodlust. Nothing came except a prickle along his palms. It made him want to pivot and run, but if he could resist the urge, he could resist fleeing a difficult conversation.

A stew of emotions soured his throat—bile from rejecting his deepest desire for slaughter and guilt for thinking his companions would end him, of misjudging their intentions. Of Astarion’s. He hoped another candid talk would cleanse his palette.

Astarion swayed as Cihro approached, teeth glinting in a smile. He and everyone had changed into their day armour while Cihro collected himself. He couldn’t help the swift stab of feeling like he was holding them back, but he didn’t want them to abandon him. He couldn’t have survived it. 

“Are you all right now, or is today a ‘I will wed you with a delicate veil of blood blooming over your white curls’ kind of day?” Astarion asked by way of greeting.

Normally Cihro shared his dark humour, but he didn’t have the energy to lift the edges of his mouth. Astarion’s smile dropped. 

“Too soon?” Astarion followed up. “You know I’m joking, darling. Your urge only seems the type to come running at me with a dagger straight-on when it’s desperate. I don’t see the same malice I did before.”

“I’m just worried when it’ll happen again,” Cihro said. Not if, but when. “What if it's every night from now on?”

“Then we tie you up every night. Unless you’d rather be restrained by Karlach to switch things up a bit—it’s an option, much as I enjoy seeing you with your wrists bound.”

That broke a smile and chuff out of Cihro. “Doesn’t seem like a great idea to be tackling the Shadow-Cursed Lands on no sleep.”

“You do look wretched,” Astarion agreed. “But it hasn’t been every night, now, has it? The only way to tell is when night falls, and we know to be ready.” His eyes flicked to the sky. “Whatever ‘night’ counts for in this fucking place.” 

Cihro nodded. He lightly grasped Astarion’s arm, directing him inside the tent for added privacy—not so much that Lae’zel or Shadowheart couldn’t come sprinting if Cihro lost it, but it was better than being out in the open. Astarion didn’t flinch away from his touch or twitch for his blades. Cihro didn’t know if he’d earned that.

“In the spirit of staying honest, up until last night, I thought you were using me,” Cihro confessed. “Like you enjoyed my company but you only cared superficially—like sleeping with me was a way to secure your safety.”

Astarion gave the barest tilt of his head, carefully expressionless. “You did seem—I don’t want to say impervious, that does me so little credit—but resistant to me waxing on about romance, that first night.”

“I might not pull the same tricks, but I see them for what they are. They never bothered me.”

“Why sleep with me, then, if you’re so clever?” Astarion didn’t ask harshly, but curiously. “Why lead me to believe I’d snagged you? The way I see it, you answered deception with deception.”

Cihro shrugged. “I liked you anyway. I was happy to either play the waiting game and see if it grew or just ride out whatever it was. You seemed more confident that way. I’m just—surprised, I guess. Relieved. I expected everyone to gut me instead of help.”

Astarion curled a hand to his abdomen, looking the barest shade uncomfortable. Like he, too, wasn’t quite ready to address whatever ‘this’ was. “Gut you? No, we’ve come too far and we need each other. I can’t blame you for thinking I was using you. I was, at first—difficult to say when that ended.”

“What I’m trying to say is—the feeling’s mutual. I don’t have any clear memories from before the ship, so the main thing stopping me from killing you was wanting you alive more than wanting you dead. Remembering our time together. Worry for you.”

“And the rope.” Astarion’s smile returned. It rarely looked genuine, but Cihro had learned to tell the difference. “I’m also worried about me, but I seem to be worried about you more. Having someone to care for helps, doesn’t it? You give me something to care for, and that’s worth the peril.”

Cihro gave a wobbly smile. “I don’t think you’re the hugging type, but I could really use one.”

A wrinkle creased the corner of Astarion’s nose like a fold in parchment. “Ugh, you would be right. But for you, I’ll make an exception—so long as you promise not to stab me in the back.” Astarion jabbed up a finger. “I do mean that, by the way.”

Cihro held up his hands. “No weapons on me.”

“That’ll have to do.”

Astarion surprised him by initiating, scooping him in by the waist like he was going in for a kiss, then wrapping his arms around him proper. At first Astarion held himself stiffly, hard and rigid instead of soft and pliable. As the moment lingered, he relaxed into it.

Cihro nestled into the embrace, resting his cheek against Astarion’s collar and tucking his nose in towards his neck. The irony of his mouth so close to his carotid wasn’t lost on him—it wasn’t true that he had no weapons, not while he had teeth. He didn’t need to be a vampire to know that.

But his mouth stayed closed and the only urge he had was to kiss Astarion’s neck in gratitude. For a moment, the baleful shadows and rotted land burned away, and it was just their shadows, the safe and familiar sort. It was Astarion and his perfume, his slow and steady breathing, required or not. It wasn’t exactly a physical comfort with their leathers and Astarion’s too-cool skin, but it was a warm, emotional balm. 

“Thanks,” Cihro breathed out.

“You needn’t thank me for a hug, darling.” Astarion tipped Cihro’s face by the chin to kiss the corner of his lips. “But it’s appreciated, all the same. It hasn’t been thankless work getting here.”

Cihro stepped out better prepped to tackle the day. He made his morning rounds with everyone else and almost wept with relief at their universal support. His cravings felt as incurable as the tadpoles in their heads, but that hadn’t yet stopped them from putting one foot in front of the next.

[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 ^^

[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.

[bhaaldursgays]

As Gortash's head hits the stone floor of his office he knows he is not getting up again. His head rings from the impact, but even with the noise filling up his head he can still hear his opponents voices.

A foot comes down on his chest. He doesn't see it clearly with how his vision is swimming, but he knows it. It has been there before, both similarly to how it is now and welcome.

"Kill him!" he hears. Karlach. The anger in her voice fills the room.

"Not yet," that all-to-familliar voice speaks. "I need to ask him one thing first."

Gortash blinks, his blurred vision focusing on the one over him. The one he had missed. His favourite assassin.

"Tell me, Gortash," they say, and it feels like all those years ago long before all of this started with how they spit rather than purr his name. "When I dissappeared, did you search for me? Or was I another thing you could cast aside, like Karlach was?"

He looks at them, up their leg, up their form, to their eyes burning into him. A memory of being in the same position, but then they smiled at him with both confidence and lust.

"No," he says, and he hates how his voice comes out. Weak. Powerless. "Karlach I gave, but you?"

He lifts his hand, slowly, as he had done all those years before. His fingers reach their leg, his fingers gently grazing the back of it before cupping the muscle of their calve.

Last time he had kissed them. He wonders if they will remember that in his last moments.

"You, I lost."

An eternity. A moment. His vision still dances, and the boot leaves his chest.

He watches as they walk away, the last thing he sees before Karlach's weapon comes down.

[bluerose5]

Don't mind me. I'm constantly thinking of an au where Mr. Astarion "You're only the first person who I truly care for" Ancunín actually shows more emotion at durge's death than what we get in-game. I can understand why the limitations, but that doesn't mean I have to accept them at such a crucial point of durge's story. I mean, it doesn't even have to be overly sappy, but I want that Dorian Pavus "I knew you would break my heart, you bloody bastard" type of energy. I want that cold chill of realization to be felt the second Astarion hears durge's heart stop. Give me that moment where he's on his knees, shaking durge's lifeless body, cradling them against him as he rocks them back and forth, shaking his head in denial as each sob grows more intense until it's just a constant scream of "noNoNO!!!" Because the gods never dared to help him before. Of course it would be a god that robs him of his love now.

Give me that point when the Emperor tries to command Astarion to take the Netherstones and leave, only for Astarion to tell it to shut the fuck up because he's not leaving without them.

Give me that broken whisper of, "We were supposed to be free. Together." as he is faced with the fact that they're not coming back.