#yeah I got spoilered for some of the durge's past :')

[tavyliasin]

Urges Bared Before The Dawn - Abdirak x Gortash x gn!Durge One Shot

Enver Gortash has recently been meeting with Durge after many years apart, but they are struggling to find peace in their mind, to find any of the memories they shared beneath that. They're clearly still interested in him, but this isn't a problem that can be solved alone.

Durge recalls a priest of Loviatar, Abdirak, and how he helped them before - pain and punishment had brought about a sense of peace that they longed for, one that Enver knew in his heart should be possible by his hand alone. He agrees to pay the dark cleric for his services, and so the three find themselves in Gortash's chambers with an array of tools and a whole night to find a way through the shroud over Durge's memory. 6,341 Words

Click Here for AO3 Version Pairing: Gortash x Durge x Abdirak SPICE Rating: 5/5  Content Warnings and Tags: Power play, BDSM, Power Exchage, Blood, Wound Detail, Whipping, Chains, Bondage, Predicament Bondage, Sounding, Temperature Play (hot water, ice), Sensation Play, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Cockwarming (mild), Dom/sub, switching, biting

Spoilers Not a lot. Some reference to shared pasts and Gortash/Durge relationship dynamics Canon Compliance Loose at best. This is more interesting. Other Notes ...I made it sound nice in the summary, this is pure BDSM smut, mind those tags and don't be too surprised by the aftertaste of emotion~ And my Beta reader's assessment of that note there is that it's an accurate representation (though I may be downplaying the emotion a little)

(Youtube link click here) Song Pairing Killer Inside Of Me by Willyecho "Think you're a God Yeah but tonight Let's see if you bleed like one You call the shots, but that's all you got I'm gonna call your bluff 'Cause something happens when you fan the flames I'm like an animal inside a cage, but I'm gonna break out these chains You're gonna wish you never held me down I feel it rush through my veins Yeah, this adrenaline has kicked in now There's a killer inside of me"

Full One Shot below the cut! --- ---

Urges Bared Before The Dawn

Abdirak looked on with approval at the chains holding the pale Dragonborn. They were facing the wall, arms held above them, ankles spread apart, even their tail bound off to the side. To his side, Gortash huffed impatiently.

“Why are we hesitating? This is exactly what they requested. I am well aware of what they desire, isn’t that right my dear?” The self-proclaimed Archduke stepped forwards, running the sharp edge of a golden claw down Durge’s spine, smiling at the growl that rumbled forth through their throat.

“Yes,” they agreed, “yet also no .” 

“What do you mean no ? We have danced to this tune a hundred times or more by my memory, even if yours has decided to vacate that pretty little head - why change the steps now?” The metal bit deeper, staining pale scales red. 

Abdirak pulled the man back, a low warning. “You would do well to listen, should you care for the mind within that body. Pain without purpose…” He shook his head. “The agreement was for you to learn, and if you cannot do that you will bear your own penance tenfold.” 

“Fine, Priest. What would you have me do?” Gortash snarled, yet still stepping aside. 

“First, you watch.” He moved closer to the Dragonborn again, pressing a single pale finger against the cut that the gauntlet had left. 

Durge moaned, pressing their body against the cold stone of the wall.

“What is it you wish for, dear one? The whip? The cane? Perhaps the flat of a heated blade?” He added more pressure, deepening the cut and adding a bruise beneath. 

“I trust your judgement.” Their reply was coloured by another pleased sound echoing deep in their throat, savouring the pain until it was withdrawn.

“Very well.” Abdirak turned away picking over a table of tools to select what was best. “These should do nicely.” He handed one of the identical flails to Gortash, observing how the man took a moment to inspect the barbed tips of each strand.

“Is this not a predictable tool? I had heard your methods were more… imaginative .” Golden gauntlets raked through the flail as if caressing the hair of a lover, reverent of the potential despite his attitude. “An experienced hand can turn even the most basic of implements into an instrument of the finest art.” The whip flicked with a smooth and swift motion of his wrist, the ends of the tails snapping against the upper thigh of the bound participant, a slight whine escaping their lips. “Do not hold back, dear one, let the Maiden hear you sing to her with your pain.” 

“Let me hear you.” Gortash interjected, impatience clear in his voice. 

“You think yourself above a goddess?” He frowned, turning to observe the dark haired man whose eyes were fixed on the quivering knees of his lover. 

“And you think yourself an expert on the whims of deities?” The reply came with an indignant scoff, followed by three swift whips of the flog. 

The first drew a breathy gasp from Durge, but the other two wrought only silence from their lungs. Abdirak stayed the lord’s hand before a fourth strike could follow.

“Patience, Enver.” He warned, his grip tightening on the metal clad wrist enough for both to feel the edge of pain. “Perhaps you do have knowledge of the divine that I have yet to discover, but pain is clearly not your greatest skill. You must use finesse, draw it out properly. It is no race to be won, no prize to conquer in your haste.” 

—

The casual use of given names did not escape Gortash, nor did it fail to raise his ire, but even he could see how Durge was no longer trembling in anticipation. Instead, they had twisted their head to show him their frown, their displeasure - there were few insults that could’ve been greater. “As you wish.” He tore his hand from Abdirak’s grasp and folded his arms, glaring between the two.

The priest did not lash out with the flail again. Instead, he draped the strands over the base of Durge’s tail, drawing it slowly back so the length dragged across their scales. Their back arched, such as it could from how they were bound, body pressing against the wall with a hiss as the barbed ends caught on their pale flesh. 

Just when he was certain they would be bored by the lack of pain, he noticed Abdirak’s expression change. The flail connected with a deeper impact this time, striking the same spot that had felt a far gentler caress mere moments ago. Durge keened, their hips pressing against the wall, and when their lungs had filled once more the priest struck again on their upper back this time. 

Pricks of blood coloured white scales with the stain of violence, the thought alone leaving Enver grateful that his jacket left his chest exposed to the cool air of the room. The scant outfit that Abdirak wore was also making more sense as the heat within him rose. 

“Excellent, dear one! That’s it, let the pain flow through you!” Another pause and the whip bit into the back of Durge’s leg, a howl following it that drew a loud laugh from the wielder. 

“I see.” He mused, one hand rising to caress his chin in idle thought. “It is not simply the impact but the anticipation that is required.”

“So you can learn, despite the pride.” Abdirak doled out another two strikes, the rattle of the chains mixing with a longer moan from the one writhing within their bonds. “Then I may allow you to try again, see if you can bring forth their pain properly this time.” 

Enver paused, battling the urge to tell the priest where to take that impudent attitude. That particular fight was easily won by the need to hear that voice again, their voice. Did it matter who heard their pleasured pain? No. Not if he could be its cause. 

—

The cold of the wall and the stone floor beneath their bare feet was grounding. The intermittent screaming in their mind, a blend of the unwelcome voice and memories of torture seared into their very bones, was growing quieter. The way Gortash… Enver looked upon their naked body, bound like an animal, with that hunger glowering in his dark eyes… Durge felt his gaze like hot fire licking across their skin, searing lust held tight behind well practised poise. 

Abdirak, too, was eyeing them with some interest. His ice cold gaze was different, though. Like the first time they had met, he saw a different purpose to their game. His own pleasure was not coming from the arousal that stirred deep in the pit of their belly, but in the connection to Loviatar, and the comfort in knowing that pain had its purpose in soothing their deeper agonies. 

The breath was once again pulled from their lungs as Enver’s arm arced, unseen, to bring the barbed flail to bear on their flank. Hot and bright sensation burned into the spreading warmth of pleasure, adrenaline smothering the creeping doubts in the back of their mind. This was safe. The two behind them were both safe so long as they were bound, the voice driven back by the exquisite-

The next blow to their rear felt far more targeted as their moan almost carried the syllables of his name on their tongue. “Env- aaaah!” 

He was at their side in an instant, claws at their chin, his lips stealing a kiss hotter than the pain that lanced through them as Abdirak’s flail struck their exposed arms. “I am right here. Say it. Say it again.” 

He must have been signalling to the priest this time, as the strike hit a full second after he had prevented their reply with his lips on theirs. “Enver-” They moaned through the pain and into his kiss, tongue hot with the hint of smoke, the taste bitter and earthy like liquor and spice. It was…familiar. Intoxicating. Their tongue fought his, while his claws dug into their ribs and the whip came down on their lower back. 

—

Abdirak admired his own handiwork. The crimson blemishes were a perfect partner to the pale scales of the Dragonborn’s body. They were clearly aroused, their hips pressing towards the wall to seek even the slightest bit of friction for their satisfaction. Of course, the ambitious man by their side was obviously hoping for this result with how eagerly he devoured their tongue in a show of pure passion. No matter, Loviatar’s embrace had more strength in her grip than lust’s hedonism alone. Not that he was immune to that particular vice, either, the lower half of his robes barely hiding anything. Not that anyone’s eyes were on him, nor would he be bothered if they were. Pain and pleasure… The two were as inseparable as the Archduke and his Assassin. 

The flail was losing its effectiveness now, so it was time to change the game; it could not become stale after all. Loviatar demanded her offering as much as his own desire demanded satisfaction. Abdirak threw the key to Gortash’s feet, the slight scowl at the veiled insult pleasing him almost as much as the growing anticipation. 

“Turn them around. They must face us for what is to follow.” He turned away, sorting through his bag for the tools he wanted. “Ah, but this time leave their tail free.” 

He could hear the indignant huff from the human before the clink of chains marked that his orders were indeed being followed carefully. When he returned to the pair he carried three flasks and a narrow, hollow rod. 

Two bottles clinked on the stone as he set them down on the floor, keeping only the smaller of them in his hand with the rod. The latter he held before the Dragonborn, watching their eyes light with recognition. “Tell me, dear one, are you resistant to the cold?” 

“I am.” They nodded quietly. “And…I agree.” 

“Excellent.” Abdirak smiled approvingly, the cantrip forming easily in his mind.

“What is it, exactly, that you are planning to do with that?” Gortash was challenging him again, though this time with more curiosity than annoyance. 

Threads of the Weave answered the simple call of the spell, crystals of frost spreading up the length of the metal rod. “This will add to their pleasure.” He stated simply, glancing down to where the Dragonborn was fully erect and twitching with anticipation. “And, most likely, to your own.” 

The cork of the bottle was easily unstoppered by his teeth, the oil trickling down the iced surface that was already burning his own fingers with the cold. He knelt, almost reverently, in front of his willing prisoner, pouring a little more oil where it would soon be needed. 

“Enver. Kneel.” He indicated the space next to him, looking up at the scowl on the man’s features as he silently refused. “Or would you rather I be more intimate with your lover before you?” 

“Insolent-” Gortash began, quickly changing his mind before Abdirak’s fingers could touch a single inch of the Dragonborn’s skin. There was a slight groan as the proud Archduke sank to his knees. “They are mine . You are a guest , here by their whims alone.” 

“So you say.” Abdirak held the metal rod out, almost loath to have the aching cold leave his fingertips. He indicated the rigid and quivering tip of the Dragonborn, whose tail was tapping at the ground with nervous anticipation. “Slowly. A little at a time, but when you are done it must only leave this much exposed. Use more oil should you need it.” 

—

Gortash was not fond of taking orders, nor was he pleased with the growing ache in his knee. An old injury, one that did not trouble him much, but the stone floor was not a place of comfort. He considered if the smirking priest knew, and intended this discomfort as another offering to his vile goddess, but it mattered little. Durge wanted this, wanted him . That was not something to be ignored. He hesitated at first. One hand braced on their hip, claws barely digging into their skin, the initial inch barely slipping in as he felt their body quiver. It was their tail on his back, however, that encouraged him to push further despite the hiss of pain from above. 

Enver worked carefully, pressing in further before drawing back, adding a little more oil, soothing them with small circles drawn on their hip with his thumb. All the while the priest remained at his side, watching, muttering his approval, and denying any further touch until the hollow rod was fully placed as instructed. 

Abdirak looked up towards their captive, a slight smile once again playing at the corners of thin lips. “There. Do you feel it, dear one? The cold battling the heat of your body, the pressure within, the edge of pain tugging at your senses?” 

Above them, Durge audibly swallowed, throat dry and slightly hoarse. They nodded, and Enver felt their tail curl around his leg like an embrace, holding the area where the pain was worse… He wondered if they knew, if they remembered… Impossible. Probably. 

“Excellent.” The priest continued, without awaiting further response from either of them. “Tap it, if you so please - they will feel it.” 

Enver complied experimentally, not bothering with how easily Abdirak was ordering him around. All that mattered was how sweet the moan was as he tapped sharply on the end of the hollow rod. 

Abdirak finally stood, taking the two bottles he had set down earlier with him. To Gortash’s surprise, the priest offered a hand to help him up. “This one,” he took the bottle held out to him, its contents glowing slightly, glass cool to the touch. “This one they must drink, all of it, if you would be so kind.” 

“You heard him, my dear. It is quite safe.” Enver knew a potion of fire resistance when he held one, though its purpose was the part that he found more intriguing. He ran a clawed thumb along the edge of his lover’s lips, willing them to part as he unstoppered the bottle with his teeth. “Perhaps you would trust it more from a more fitting chalice for your station.” 

—

Durge would’ve drained the bottle without a second thought. They both knew that, but this… They did not wish to argue as Enver kissed the potion into their mouth bit by bit, moaning against his tongue as he tapped the rod that pressed deep inside against nerves that were screaming for stimulation. 

The cold would’ve burned to someone without their natural resistance, but instead, the icy magic in the metal provided a difference of sensation, the freezing fighting the searing heat of their lust and holding it back. Though not entirely…

The potion spread through their body, flooding their veins with distilled magic that mingled with the heady arousal that pulsed through every muscle, seeping into their bones, pushing aside any thought besides a need for more .

By the time the last of the potion trickled down their throat, they were breathless, twitching, pulling at the chains to reach his lips once more. But they were denied. He pulled away, his expression unreadable, his eyes drifting down to where they were left now untouched and harder than the wall behind them. 

The last of Abdirak’s flasks had steam drifting from the now open top, the priest holding a small flame beneath the bottom of the glass that charred with black soot from the fire licking around it. When the bottle tilted, the liquid that trickled across their chest was near boiling, and even through the resistance the potion provided they could still feel the burning sting. 

“More.” They breathed, feeling only the edge of pain, the keening need for greater sensation. “Please, Enver-” 

“Dear one, I shall pretend I did not hear you call another’s name again while I am the only one delivering your penance.” Abdirak’s hand tapped sharply on the tip of the rod, driving it in a short hard burst of sensation that was enhanced by the iced magic still woven through the metal. “But if you desire your lover’s attention, that can be arranged. Is that what you wish for, dear one? Do you want to see him bared before you, sharing your pain?” 

The thought of the tyrant bent and bowed flashed through Durge’s mind. A memory? A daydream? A fleeting imagination of desire? They neither knew nor cared, beyond what it might take to see him in such a position. “Yes, Abdirak. If…if that is what he also wants.” 

—

Abdirak turned towards Gortash, carefully concealing the hint of uncertainty clouding the back of his mind. Lords like him were often willing to debase themselves, but there was no guarantee his pride would allow his libido the satisfaction. He decided it would be safer to goad the man’s ego first, which would make bringing him to his knees far more satisfying. “Well, my Lord? What is your choice? You both know your signals, how to stop at any time.” 

He frowned as the man stepped towards his lover instead, golden claws caressing bare white scales. “You wish…to share the penance that you requested?” Dark eyes beneath a furrowed brow searched the Dragonborn for an answer. 

“I need the pain,” they stated plainly. Abdirak smiled. “And I need you .” They continued, his smile growing. “If we can share it, if you can feel what I feel…” 

“So be it.” Gortash conceded easily, sealing the agreement with a brief kiss, one that the Dragonborn chased with their teeth nipping at his lip, drawing blood. 

Abdirak watched silently as the man caught the trickle of crimson on his finger, pressing it into their mouth, almost goading them to bite his entire hand right off there and then…but they didn’t. The dark fire behind their eyes flickered and was silenced in the same heartbeat, violence subsiding in the simple touch of golden claws. 

“Undress yourself, Enver.” He left no room for argument in his tone, cold with an edge of intrigue as he set the steaming bottle aside, stalking across the room to his bags once more. The little lord had clearly experienced some issue in his knee - that could serve the Maiden well. Leather straps, a metal bar, a sharp edged golden collar that was an unintentionally perfect match for the man’s gauntlets. A point to consider… “Your gloves. Leave them on.” 

—

Following orders was not particularly in Gortash’s interests, but he would make an exception. The flicker of recognition in their eyes, the cracks in the glass of shattered memories coming together in new patterns… A little more and perhaps a stained glass window might show them a version of what was. What could be.  They were watching him intently as he removed his clothes, folding each piece neatly and placing it aside. The moment he finished, he felt Abdirak’s finger tracing the light silver line of a long healed scar on his shoulder. What followed was a quiet voice in his ear, whispering instructions that sent a shiver down his spine. The harness slipped around his chest easily, cool leather straps pulling taught firmly. It forced his shoulders back, just a slight edge of an ache digging at the inside of his joints. He reasoned that his bound lover likely felt a similar discomfort, their arms still chained high above them, legs still spread where their ankles were hitched to the wall. It was the cold of metal against his neck that stopped the breath in Enver’s throat for a moment. It was not constricting, but he could tell that moving too much would press the sharp little spikes into his chin and collarbone. 

As he had been instructed, he walked to the wall, standing so close he could feel the heat radiating from Durge’s body, smell the scent of sweat and the sweet tang of old blood that seemed to follow them everywhere. Abdirak tapped the back of his knees with a simple riding crop, bidding him to kneel before the assassin. His assassin.

The leather cuffs around his ankles were attached to a sturdy metal bar, keeping his legs spread apart as he knelt painfully on the hard stone of the floor. The angle was no help to the angry pulsing ache deep in his joint… He would be needing his cane tomorrow, but that mattered little. His face was so close to the twitching and rigid Dragonborn that he could hardly take his eyes off the end of the chilled metal tube protruding from their tip. 

“Pay attention, Enver.” The priest hooked a chain to the metal ring of the harness that sat between his taught shoulder blades, hoisting it to attach to the same point Durge’s wrists were secured to the wall. His chest now bore some of his bodyweight - easier on his knees, but not enough to eliminate the discomfort. To his surprise, Enver’s hands remained unbound. “You surprise me, Priest. I had expected to be left with no such freedom.”

“Freedom,” Abdirak leaned down, growling darkly in his ear, “is all a matter of perspective.” 

—

Durge could hear their pulse drumming through their head, adrenaline and painful arousal at the sight of the proud Archduke held beneath them with his legs spread. The harness enhanced the shape of his chest, dark curls of hair covering his body in stark contrast to their pearly scales. Perhaps that’s why they were drawn together, they reasoned. The differences. 

Their own body was all ridges and scales, hard edges and bright colours, not a single hair upon them. 

Enver’s body was made of soft curves, rich toned skin, the shock of dark hair crowning the man who dreamed of grandeur-

His dreams… He talked about those, sometimes.

Their attention snapped back at the feeling of the Archduke’s golden claws seeking their hips, the tip of the metal pricking into their skin with a familiar sting. Dark eyes gazed up into theirs as they felt the gauntlets raking down the sides of their thighs. “Look at me. You asked for this, my dear, do not waste it.”

“Now,” Abdirak’s voice cut between them, cool and clear. “Shall we continue?” They could see the heated bottle in his hand, once again steaming from the flame held beneath. 

The temperature would’ve been close to scalding had it hit Enver directly, even on their own flesh with the effects of the potion still resisting the damage it could do, it felt damn near blistering. The path the liquid coursed cooled as it trickled lower, flowing off the hard edges of their body to splash onto the bare chest of the man below. He drew in a sharp breath as they watched his eyes momentarily widen with the burn. 

“Do not hold back.” The priest scolded the pair, moments before a longer pour of heated water flowed across their bodies drawing out a low moan in chorus. “Good, dear one, good - show him how beautifully your pain can sing out together, be sure that Loviatar can hear your devotion!” Over the course of countless long minutes, the searing burns grew hotter, drawing the volume of their voices louder as Abdirak’s joyful laughter echoed from the stone walls. Durge’s mind grew ragged at the edges, a soft and peaceful haze settling into the intensity of the pain and the pleasure of seeing the Archduke suffering in tandem with them. Below, they were almost shivering, the hollow tube within less empty than it had been despite the bitter cold of the metal.

—

Abdirak leaned down again to address the kneeling lord, orchestrating the crescendo of the symphony he was conducting in Loviatar’s honour. “You see how they are desperate for you? Taste them, Enver. Do not let one drop spill to the floor.” He removed the collar, freeing the man to move. Next, he pressed the tip of the riding crop against the slight swelling forming at the man’s knee, relishing the pained howl it drew from his lips as he gripped Gortash’s hair and pressed his head forward to the leaking Dragonborn. 

They were gazing down, eyes almost clouding over, he could sense the soft layer of bliss wrapping around them with the lingering edge of pain. The priest stood up straight once more calling forth the Weave under the watchful eye of his goddess to shroud Durge’s vision with darkness.   His crop struck true on Gortash’s bare calf, the swift rising of a reddened welt further proof to the offering of pain as he moaned around his lover, the ice cold of the rod no doubt burning his tongue as he lost his careful composure to the impact. Durge also cried out, exactly as planned. Enver’s metal claws had dug deeply into their side. The rich crimson trickle coursing down their shaking thigh was alluring, a paint upon the canvas. Each fresh mark of the crop focused the shared pain. Gortash feeling the direct impact, still trying to please his lover even as time and time again his gauntlets pierced their flesh, transferring the pain. And of course, his tongue burning on the icy metal would be pressing it deeper into Durge, teasing forth the deeper ecstasy of stimulation.

He envied them, now. Bound together, kept purposefully on the brink of satisfying their lust but never tipping over the edge, the sweet caress of agony wrapping around them with Loviatar’s loving embrace. The push and pull of the strikes, the beautiful colour of bruising rising below dark skin, the strain and rattle of chains and bindings…

—

Gortash was quickly reaching his limit. The taste of his lover’s lust finally upon his tongue, scalded as it was by the cold of the metal, was raising his desire to a fever pitch. He wanted them. Needed them. Durge’s pulse was thrumming on his lips every time he pressed heated kisses along their length - they were about ready to tear the chains from the walls. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. 

He felt their tail wrap around his back, his arms embracing their hips as Abdirak’s crop was stayed from further impact. Their voice broke the silence, gasping and thick with lust. 

“Enough, priest. I cannot… Pain’s purpose is served, but I must have him. Return my sight, release my chains, and leave me with him.” Their tail was gradually tightening its grip, protective perhaps…or was it becoming possessive? His heart pounded at the possibility. 

“As you wish, dear one. Your penance was…exquisite. The Maiden is very satisfied by your offering, as am I.” The spell around the Dragonborn’s vision was broken, and their chains released with ease. “I shall return for my belongings tomorrow.” 

“Your payment will be sent in due course.” Gortash added, reclaiming a little of his power in the situation. Although that prospect seemed absurd as he remained naked on his knees, the harness holding half of his weight. 

The footsteps receded, followed by the click of the door opening and closing. He looked up, now, seeing Durge rubbing the feeling back into their wrists. Their body was marked with red streaks. The marks of his golden gauntlets had pierced the marble of their flesh, chiselling it back into the sculpture of magnificent violence that he longed to bow before…exactly like he was doing right now. 

Thin draconic lips pulled into a smirk, the fire in their eyes proving their devotion, their desire. And all of it aimed at him at last. Aimed like the weapon they truly were.

Durge reached up and pulled hard on the chain connected to Enver’s harness, hauling him off the ground. His ankles were still bound to the spreader bar, but his hands were free, and that was the only thing that gave him even a second of stability against their body as he was pulled until he was on tiptoes.

“There you are.” Enver muttered, almost reverently, still below the level of their eyes. 

“Here I am, Tyrant.” They ran their hands from his shoulders to his wrists, his skin prickling beneath their touch before they brought his hands up to their throat, placing his gauntlets like a gilded collar. “You thought you could hold me, chain me, tame me while I was weakened by my need?” 

“The only chains that could ever hold you , my dear, were the ones that you asked for.” Recognition flickered and left. It wasn’t all there, that was too much to hope…but their body remembered. He didn’t need to look down to know that the hollow rod was not empty, that they were twitching as their pulse increased under his fingertips, that they were not going to stop until they were satisfied. 

—

The sharp metal edges and calloused fingertips stayed right where Durge held them, Enver’s chest almost touching theirs where the harness was holding him up from behind his shoulders. Dark eyes never lost their pride, even as he allowed them to fix the chains that had bound them to his wrists this time. 

Durge didn’t remember everything he wanted them to, they knew that much, but the Dragonborn could feel a peace and clarity persisting through the ritual of exchanging power with him. The storm that raged within them quietened to a few dark clouds and a cold wind whispering between them, and whispers were far easier to ignore. 

They followed where his eyes drifted, to the rod still pressed deep within them, the magic barely fading away to finally allow the metal to heat. They carefully took hold of the end, allowing themselves a few moments more pleasure and deep stimulation before withdrawing it at an achingly slow pace. The end dripped slightly, a mixture of oil and denied orgasm. Perfect.

They brought it up to Enver’s lips, holding it level until they parted, his tongue obediently coming forth from between them to catch his prize as they trickled it into his mouth. They leaned forward over his shoulder, their lips grazing the edge of his ear as they purred their approval. “Good. Very good… That’s what you want to hear from me, isn’t it, Enver? How good you are?” 

The only response was a quiet swallow, indicating the rod was now empty. They tossed it aside. 

“You were insolent with the priest.” Their teeth grazed his neck as they whispered dark and low against his heated skin. One clawed hand drifted down, pleased - and not at all surprised - to find him fully erect and leaking beneath the first hint of their touch. They tightened their grip with a growl. “But you will not be insolent with me, will you.” 

Not a question, a statement. One that Enver did not dispute.

“Good boy.” Another twitch. They smirked, letting go of him once more and trailing their hands around his body, following them with their tail, leaving the whisper of an embrace around him. He looked so inviting, held against the wall, spread and tense as every muscle worked overtime to keep him where they had put him. 

He remained silent, as Durge padded across the room to fetch some more oil. It was easy work to pour it across their fingers, teasing Enver open as his breathing became more ragged, preparing him for all they wanted to give him. All they wanted to take . 

—

The strain was almost too much for Gortash to bear, but bear it he did. Pride might come before the fall but he had no intention of doing either. The heat of the hands prying him open with fervent desire held a slight warmth of care to them too - claws meant for rending flesh apart moved with care, pulling forth not blood but deep and intoxicating pleasure.

Their voice whispered praise close to his ear once more, breath hot, tongue following the words to taste the sweat trickling down his neck. A shiver crept down his spine as their hands withdrew, leaving him empty…but not for long. 

Durge teased him with every moment, pressing their tip to his quivering hole but refusing to enter, instead sliding their still-oiled hands around to his hips. They paused for a moment, squeezing hard enough to leave small bruises beneath their fingertips, then moving down the side of his thighs. In the next moment, Enver Gortash moaned loud enough for the city to hear. But he did not care. Durge had hooked their foot beneath the bar holding his ankles, simultaneously lifting his thighs and dropping him back in one swift motion that filled him instantly. “That sound,” they growled as they held him flush against their body. “It is…pleasing.” 

—

The echo from the walls was familiar and had stirred a different voice within their restless mind. One that further stoked their pleasure to feel themselves deep within his body, savouring how his muscles added pressure even as they kept him still. They brought their tail around to caress his chest, relishing how his heartbeat thrummed through his back and against their ribs. “I missed you, my dear.” Enver managed to murmur through ragged-edged breaths, words holding poise his voice no longer possessed. The contradiction was pleasing to their ears. 

“I would miss this too, had I known what there was to miss.” They began to move him, relishing the feel of each moment of friction, building the sensation with a slow but gradually building rhythm. “You…were made for me, Enver.” 

“I was not.” He breathed his reply between low moans speaking plainly, literally, lending further weight to the words that followed. “But I am yours.” “Do you want more, Tyrant? If you belong to me, should I use you how I see fit?” Durge didn’t need to hear his answer. They felt it, his body quivering as they sank inside him with a harsher thrust, testing if he was truly ready. “Good. Boy.” 

They braced one hand against the wall, their tail wrapping around his waist to hold him firmly, their other hand snaking around to grip him with a matching rhythm as they began to slam hard into his warm and inviting body. 

The Dragonborn’s own breaths began to quicken to gasps, overwhelmed by the pure sensation. He was tight around them, clenching down on every inch and adding further friction. He was soft against them, their sharp edges leaving bruises on the curves of his tender flesh. He was hard in their grip, throbbing and pulsing under their fingertips. He was pliant beneath their lips, his head moving to the side as their kiss tasted his vulnerable neck. He was proud, strong, willing, undignified, moaning, melting into them… 

He was Lord Enver Gortash, Archduke of Baldur’s Gate, self proclaimed saviour of the city, chosen of a God…and he was theirs. 

—

The Dragonborn’s growl was possessive, just short of feral, a bare hint of a warning before their teeth bit down hard on his shoulder. The pain blossomed through Enver, body and mind heating like the blood that trickled forth, lapped up by Durge’s hungry and fervent tongue. Moments later the orgasm he had been desperate for ripped through him like a hurricane, spilling over onto the floor, some even reaching the wall with the sheer force of the climax. Nothing compared to this, to his Assassin burying his favourite weapon deep inside him, growling against his bleeding skin again as their own end approached. There was no slowing, no mercy. Their grip was brutal, their rhythm punishing, and the overstimulation of feeling them expand within him as they toppled over the edge of bliss nearly brought him to a second peak himself. They continued, filling him, drawing out every last pulsing moment that left him quivering in their embrace and straining against the chains that still held his arms firmly above. By the time they were done, Enver could barely feel his own body. His heart beat so hard against his chest he was almost certain it would burst, spilling his blood across their pure white scales…what bliss that might be, to find an end in their arms, knowing the only person worthy of taking his life could hold his heart in their hands in more ways than one. But for now, their hands were not stained with his blood, not holding his life as it ebbed away, but instead caressing him. Long fingers curled into thick dark hair, the tips of their claws caressing his scalp. A quick cast of mage hand released the chains binding him with a few deft motions, leaving him held only in his lover’s arms.

—

“Enver.” They murmured, hearing nothing but their voice in their mind, soft with the afterglow of bliss.

“My dear.” He replied, leaning his head back on their shoulder and bringing his hand to their cheek with a tender caress.

They hesitated, unsure if they should ask the question playing on the tip of their tongue… They swallowed their uncertainty, along with the faint taste of his blood that lingered on their lips. The absurdity of being so shy now whilst still buried deep in his body was not lost on them. “May I stay? Until morning. That’s all.”

“As you wish. We both have work to do, after all.” Enver paused, kissing their bloodstained lips, a small shudder of pleasure palpable in his otherwise limp body. “But that can wait. Until the sun rises, you may have whatever you desire.” 

A grin crept across their face, mind filling not with murderous urges but entirely more pleasurable ones. “I was going to suggest that we sleep, but hearing those words…” They suddenly pushed forwards, trapping his body against the wall, the hand that was caressing his hair took a firm grip at his roots before roughly shoving his cheek hard against cold stone. “Brace yourself, Enver. There’s a long time between now and dawn.”

--- ---

ENDING NOTES So fun fact I still haven't played as Durge, I'm still absorbing lore and vibes through fandom and fan works~ I haven't even read much fic beyond those by a couple of friends, but I'm having a lot of fun writing with them anyway. Their dynamic is fascinating, so much to play with, so many little headcanons you can weave in to the story~ Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my first full length Durgetash piece with added Abdirak~ I was going to keep our dear priest around to fuck too, but the vibe leaned heavily into just having the two of them for that. We can assume Abdirak went to have a delightful evening with a certain Shadar-Kai instead, they deserve more time together anyway.

[doublegoblin]

Man, Astarion got the short end of the stick as far as good endings go.

So I was on a walk and talking with the partner about BG3 (because good gamer very fun) with an emphasis on how the (arguably) poster boy of the game really kinda got screwed over.

This is going to involve some VERY HEAVY spoilers for the game so I will be putting the rest under the cut petals~

So I won't go too in depth because time on earth is limited and I'd rather not write an entire dissertation so I'll try and keep this brief and to the point. Also this is only going over the "good" endings for the Origin characters.

So huzzah you defeated the Nether Brain! Good job Tav or Whoever! We are all bathing in the setting sunlight! Oh no! Astarion no longer has his tadpole and is burning in the sun! Aaaaand he's ran off.

Wait what?

Yeah here's my issue with this ending. Everyone else, while maybe a tragic ending (see Karlach), gets one that is full of some hope at least! You have Shart overcoming her brainwashing and learning to live for herself. Lae'zel going off to fight a fascistic lich-queen, Wyll out of his contract (without DYING) and finally being able to tell his dad the truth, Gale no longer worried about the bomb in his chest and fufilling his (shitty fucked up) misson to Mythra, Karlach is in Avernus again yes but she isn't alone (either with you or Wyll) and is taking charge of her own life, Halsin saved the shadow-cursed lands and reunites with his best friend, Jaheira reunited with Minsc who is no longer a statue! Hells even Durge gets something nice in becoming their own person!

And poor Astarion, like I know you can't cure vampirism (I could go on how there should have been a counterpart to the ascended ending for him where maybe not cure but help), runs away and becomes alone again (unless you romance him but c'mon man that won't be everyone's play-through) losing all the connections and found family he has made. Like this guy was juuuuust on the cusp of having something he hadn't had in over 200 years, friends and some positive influences in his life and it is snatched away.

Like I thought I did something WRONG when that scene started playing! And like, yes, he is wasn't the greatest of guys when you meet up but can you blame him? Like this man has had to endure 200 years of no true freewill of his own, his body literally being puppeteered by the whims of his Pimp. He became a monster to survive. Does this make up for his past deeds though? Hells fucking no. But, like, he was on the road to not redemption but rehabilitation.

Idk like I said I want to keep this short but damn, he is the ONE character to not have an ending with even a crumb of hope.

ALSO WE CAN JUST STAY IN BALDUR'S GATE AND HIT HIM UP, WE KNOW WHERE HE LIVED! Also like, you've made good with the Guild, you can have that favor and figure out where the guy is...just so he doesn't have to lose the few people who he may care about.

Okay okay now I'm good. Trust me though, THIS is short compared to the thoughts I was having and very loudly proclaiming on our walk. I know a lot of the nuance is being lost by keeping this short but yeah. Bleh, they did my stupid sexy vampire dirty and he earned a smidge of hope imo.

[libartz]

I think I worked out Zebulon’s BG3 version backstory. Tl:dr; appears in the underdark out of nowhere, raised by gnomes, is among the gnome paladins, then becomes an assassin among the drow, then the temple.

(some dark urge spoilers)

As a kid, Zebulon mysteriously turns up on the outskirts of a deep gnome town (with some duergar but it’s majority gnome). They’re terrified at first, worried his parents will come looking, but they never do. After much debate and the intervention of the local paladins, they keep him and raise him as one of their own.

He feels out of place (because he is) but overall he has a good time. He ends up needing a specially built house because he just keeps growing and the town is built for short people. And he gets too into the killing parts of paladin quests and the others admonish him and try to teach him how to rein it in.

Because he’s the dark urge of course it doesn’t end well.

Then he wanders off in a haze, and ends up among other drow.

He finds a sort of acceptance among the Lolth types because they don’t mind the murderousness as much. Because he has literally no background he starts as a lackey, but quickly becomes a sought-after mercenary/assassin.

Zeb doesn’t mind this, because he has more control over who he’s killing. He reasons if he kills for other people, then he’s really just the weapon. But he still doesn’t like killing indiscriminately. Basically every day he’s going around like ‘hey anyone got a contract? someone for me to kill? I’ll take maiming at this point please I’m desperate’

Eventually it gets too much for even them. He has everyone after him because he’s killed several people from each faction and they all want revenge/to remove this rogue element that’s cutting a bloody swath through several evil plans.

So he ends up at the temple of Bhaal. And he and Gortash have a weird thing.

And then he gets rekt by Orin and ends up on the nautiloid.

The only issue is how he re-became a Paladin after all that. Maybe Orin put his old oathbook and some paladin armour on him to taunt him. or because she knows he still feels guilty. Either to 'remind him he used to be weak', And waking up with no memories on the nautiloid, he rededicates himself to it not knowing what else to do. And then the rest is history.

PS: The book is tattered and bloodstained but still legible. It has little notes and addendums from his former squad members

Tavified and Dark Urged Zebulon

Made him a devotion paladin because it fits with his original Elder Scrolls backstory, but he's also from the Underdark so I'm not entirely sure how he found a Lawful knightly order in what appears to be Chaotic land. Anyway he’s gonna date Wyll and be angsty about it which is on-brand for him, and will again (attempt to) be much nicer than he appears

[demigoddessqueens]

This is less of a request and more of wanting to share this with you.

Note: My knowledge of Vox Machina is show only and, unfortunately, have yet to have the chance to play BG3 (I plan to someday!) but I have done some research along with whatever clips I’ve come across of it. I do apologize for that along with how long this ask is.

Also: spoilers of Dark Urge information from Baldur’s Gate 3.

After seeing Vox Machina with Orin!Reader post, it got me thinking: What would Vox Machina with a Dark Urge!Reader be like?

Rather Reader embraces or resists the urge, I feel as though this could be a sad story for the group to go through. Especially if Reader chooses to resist the urge to do unimaginable cruelties; and the reason I see this being a sad story is because Reader is an amnesiac who is trying to learn more about their past all while being plagued with urges to be unimaginably cruel and violent as possible. Reader who is traveling with good people, people who are the opposite of their dark urges.

If one were to think about it: having amnesia is [I guess could be seen as] having a ‘second’ life because however Reader ends up traveling with the group, Vox Machina would be a good influence for Reader to live by because they have no recollection of how they were like in the past. As time goes on, as Reader learns more about their past, the influence Vox Machina gave them will conflict with those recovered memories or learned knowledge of their past because the person Reader is now is different from how they were before. Reader experienced what it was like to be compassionate and gentle with those around them as opposed to being cruel and violent like they were in their past. Basically they have experienced two different versions of themselves.

Which make their desire to resist the urge grow more because they don’t want to become the person they were before. Especially after forming a bond with Vox Machina because they don’t want to harm or kill the ones that have been helping and taking care of them while they have amnesia. They saw that there is good in them and that they don’t have to be the ruthless person they were before.

It’ll all depends how Vox Machina reacts once Reader learns their heritage of what they are (and if they decide to tell the group about it) because here’s the thing:

- Reader isn’t just some regular Bhaalspawn, but was created directly from Bhaal’s flesh and is his Chosen.

- Was a leader of the Cult of Bhaal who have done unspeakable things in the past, even if they don’t remember it.

This gives Vox Machina a moral dilemma to deal with once the knowledge of what Reader is: should they end the possible threat of Bhaal’s child out of fear, or (because Vox Machina saw how different Reader is now from their past self and has been trying to resist the urge) risk the chance to save the Reader they’ve got to know over their adventure with them? Reader has been resisting the urge (even if there may have been an accident or two when the urge becomes too much or unchecked, but have showed remorse of what they’ve done afterwards) with the help from Vox Machina from time to time.

Yeah that’s kinda how I got into Vox Machina first, and now I’m listening to all three of the Campaigns at the same time so everything all overlapping keeps it interesting 😁

But you’re so valid with the Dark Urge anon!! It fits the found family perfectly and with tons of angst too because you have each character’s individual arc for C1 PLUS helping someone crated with ill intent become the better version of themselves

Like the platonic angst would hit hard because here’s Durge who’s battling themselves, the spawn of Bhaal, AND then you have the crew going up against Vecna which may or may not also compromise Durge too??

It’s a perfect combo for everything!