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Chapter Text

“Wake up, Astarion.” 

Durge leans in to kiss Astarion’s alabaster cheek, his warm breath rustling the white curls above Astarion’s delicate pointed ears. He pauses, admiring the smooth lines of his partner’s relaxed face. 

Astarion is, always, perfect to look at. But while he rests, there’s no smirk, no wink. No mask. No burdens. It still feels like a privilege for Durge to see him like this, when he so rarely lets his guard down with anyone else. The only time Astarion lets himself truly relax is when he’s basking in the sun, or taking extra sleep after his nightly meditation, as he is now. 

He cringes when the reasons for Astarion’s prudence pass through his mind. 200 years of torture at the hands of his slavemaster Cazador Szarr, a monster who deserved a thousand more gruesome deaths than the one he got. Durge had watched, just a tenday ago, as Astarion destroyed his tormentor, severing his shackles by impaling Cazador on his own blade again and again and again.

It had been gruesome, and devastating, and inspiring. Astarion’s reclamation of his freedom had been the dominant reason why Durge had the courage to break his own shackles.

Durge thinks he could kneel here forever, admiring the stillness and peace of Astarion at rest.

But he has plans.

Today they take the fight to the Elder Brain, and Durge is not ready. He’s killed countless times: murder was his birthright - and the only thing he was any good at - until recently. But even with the power of the 3 Netherstones he’s collected, and the numerous allies at his disposal, he knows this is a fight that will push him to his limits. An Elder Brain is among the most powerful beings in the realms, and even an expert in killing would be hard pressed to defeat this foe. 

Either way: win or lose, everything will change today. And all he wants is a little more time.

Durge presses his lips to the corner of Astarion’s cold mouth, feeling the warmth pass between his scales and Astarion’s soft skin. He pulls back to draw a knuckle down Astarion’s cheek, careful of the claws curling up at the end of each finger, and watches as Astarion’s ruby eyes flutter open.

“Darling?” he says, sleepily, “What’s wrong?” 

Astarion leans up onto his elbows and looks past Durge to the room beyond, raising an eyebrow at Scratch and the owlbear cub curled next to each other near the hearth. Karlach’s snoring carries across the plush adornments of their suite. Durge follows Astarion’s gaze to the bed next to him at Gale’s prone form, releasing a soft laugh when he spies a book curled up in his arms.

Astarion eyes the warped aura of the silencing bubble surrounding himself and Durge before he rests back into his pillows, a lean porcelain arm draped behind his head, “Oh I see. One last cuddle before we save the world, love? A shame to lose a wink of beauty sleep on the day the sculptors and painters of this city will memorialise me, but I suppose I could be convinced.”

Durge chuckles. Astarion at rest may be unburdened, but this is truly him. Quicker with words than with his daggers, and the bite nearly as sharp. He loves it. He loves all of Astarion, he’s come to realise. 

You are unworthy. The thought occurs to Durge suddenly and shockingly. He brushes it away quickly: he has become practised at ignoring intrusive ideas.  “I’m sorry to wake you from your extra sleep. You look peaceful while you rest. You finished your trance already?” Astarion nods. Durge draws a knuckle down Astarion’s cheek again, and a breath hitches in his throat as Astarion leans into his touch. The stakes today are high, and fear of what he has to lose begins to grip his heart. Durge lets out a jagged breath, and says with a growl, “You are stunning, Astarion.”

Astarion takes Durge’s white, scaled hand from his face and into his cool palm, adjusting the warding bond ring upon the third finger so the stone faces outward. He fidgets his matching ring into place, and then laces their fingers together.

“I do love waking to these honeyed words, which are all very well deserved, I must say,” Astarion quips as he flirts his hair into place with his free hand, “But I can’t help but feel that something is bothering you. Something different than the last time you woke me from rest like this, I hope?”

His voice is playful, but laced with concern. Durge might now be free of Bhaal’s curse, but that night lives fresh in both their minds. The night he was taken by the mad bloodlust of his father-god, doomed to brutalise the only person he cared for in all the ways he most feared. But Astarion saved him that night, and swore to free Durge from his dark bonds. He may not realise it, but he’s saved Durge every day since. 

Unworthy.

Durge clears his throat, “Not an urge of which to speak, Astarion. No dark ones, anyway.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow. 

Durge chuckles again, “Well, no darker than usual, I suppose. I was just thinking about how I’d like to watch you kill Cazador again. My thoughts are positively saintlike, compared to you and your dark musings.” Astarion lays his free palm to chest, jaw agape as if aghast, a twinkle of mischief in his crimson eyes. “But I was hoping you would be willing to forgo just a little rest to join me for some privacy before our day ahead.”

Something in Astarion’s face falls, just for a moment. His eyes flicker to the silencing bubble. He’s so practised at masking his emotions that it’s only by virtue of studying his face so often that Durge catches the look at all. Astarion is … confused. Disappointed.

In a moment of realisation, it occurs to Durge that Astarion thinks he means to seduce him. And it’s been such a short time since he insisted that their partnership could be wholly fulfilling without sex until Astarion was ready. It’s only natural that he would be confused. Hurt.

Durge gently pulls away, separating his warm hand from Astarion’s cool one to provide a buffer between them, leaning back onto his heels and placing his palms out in supplication. “Nothing untoward, Astarion, please,” he insists, “I meant what I said, at Moonrise and in the graveyard. You are so much more to me than your touch, although I do love it. And I… Well, I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more yet, either. You will recall that I have my own concerns about intimacy.” 

Unworthy. 

Durge winces, but continues, “I want privacy to enjoy your company, nothing more.” Durge lowers the walls of his mind, reaching out to connect their tadpoles, so Astarion can feel the truth. 

There is a moment’s hesitation on Astarion’s face, but he reaches for Durge’s hand again just as he opens his mind, allowing their thoughts and fingers to intertwine. Durge shows Astarion the truth of his intent: that he lacks and wants for nothing beyond their company together. Durge is surprised to feel bashful at the closeness of the moment. From the smirk on his face, Astarion can sense that in the bond, too. 

Durge rolls his gleaming red eyes as he severs the connection, a smile creeping along his face to match Astarion’s.

“So innocent, darling,” Astarion drawls, but then says softly, “You are still so full of surprises, aren’t you?” He pats Durge’s hand as he sits up gracefully, the bedsheets falling to gather at his waist.

“Give me a moment to dress, love, and then you can sweep me away.”

It takes more than a moment for Astarion to dress himself, as usual. He is practised and precise about his appearance, not needing a mirror to ensure his clothes lay correctly, or that his hair is just so . He does take the opportunity to appraise his appearance through Durge’s eyes, preening just a little as Durge cracks a wide smile in response.

When he declares himself ready, Durge takes Astarion by the hand and pulls a small, brass key from his pocket. He uses it to unlock the door next to Astarion’s bed, opening it to reveal a narrow hall with a rickety staircase leading upward. 

As he leads Astarion up the stairs, Durge has to bend nearly to his waist to fit through the passageway. Very little in Faerun was made for the dragonborn, and he finds himself feeling as if he takes up too much space in this world of men and elves. 

It’s only fair, he thinks as he climbs the stairs, to feel this way. He has taken so much for the better part of the last two decades: choking the alleyways and sewers with mounds of gore and viscera, attempting to drown this city with rivers of its own blood, all in service of his despicable father-god Bhaal, the lord of Murder. 

That space he took, that he claimed, was his horrible bloody birthright, and for twenty years he reigned terror upon so many poor souls. It’s perfectly fitting that he should feel so wrong in the world, after he’s done so much wrong to it. 

The thought turns his stomach. He knows his mind is clear: he denied his father’s gifts, was disowned and disinherited, and lives on only by the grace of a different death-lord. Even though the haunting urge is gone, he knows the monster of his past will be a burden he will carry forever.

Unworthy.

The sky is still dark when they step out onto the flat rooftop, but Durge was prepared. There are dancing lights around a small collection of pillows and furs, and a bottle of wine with two goblets to the side. There’s a light scent of bergamot and rosemary in the air, wafting gently from a small incense bowl nearby.

Astarion turns gracefully toward Durge, his tone full of surprise, “What’s all this for?”

“Well,” Durge can feel his blood pounding, and he’s sure Astarion can hear it. The thought is agonising, to be so flayed, so weak, in front of the most important person in the world. He finds himself fidgeting with his ring, twisting it around and around on his finger, “It’s for you, of course,” he clears his throat, “For us, I mean to say.” He takes a small step toward Astarion. 

“I - I’m not -,” Durge swallows hard, “The atrocities I have committed deserved so many sleepless nights,” he says, his gravelly voice thick, “But tonight might have been my first. To be honest, Astarion, I - I find myself terrified for dawn to come. Not because we may doom the whole of the Sword Coast today, or even that all our companions might perish.” 

He takes another small step. “But I am petrified that this might be my last day with you. That these short months were all the time we had.” 

Astarion gapes at him, white curls and fangs gleaming in the dancing lights, and for once, it seems, is rendered speechless.

Durge continues, “And if this is our last day together, well,” he gestures lamely at the pillows and wine, “I would like to start it by watching one final sunrise with you,” he takes a shaking breath, jaw clenching with the effort of this vulnerability, “With the one person I care about. The only thing I care about. It would be a gift to start my final day like that.” 

Astarion’s crimson gaze flits from the pillows, to the dancing lights and the quiet city beyond. 

“You seem nervous, darling” he quips, “Are you concerned I won’t appreciate such a grand romantic gesture from one spawn to another?” Astarion’s voice lilts playfully, but there is an undercurrent Durge is unable to fully place. 

“No,” Durge answers honestly. “I expect you would appreciate most pleasures or perversions I could lavish on you.”

“I can think of nothing more perverse than a rooftop picnic at sunrise, you wicked thing,” Astarion prods in jest. Durge chuckles. 

Unworthy .

“But two thoughts occur to me now,” Durge says, “I never asked you how you want to receive affection from me. I realise that was thoughtless. I should have asked before I did any of this.” 

“Well, you can hardly be blamed for thoughtlessness, darling, you were lobotomized by your deplorable sister and have a parasite in your brain, so we won’t count that against you.” He pauses, expectant. “And the second thought?”

Unworthy.

Durge hesitates. “It isn’t a pleasant one, Astarion. I would share it, if you ask, but I would rather not ruin the moment.” 

Astarion nods his acquiescence and lets the matter drop in an uncommon display of patience. He takes a tentative step to the incense bowl and smells it. Turning to Durge, he says, “Bergamot and rosemary”?

“They reminded me of you. You told Shadowheart once that you disguise the whiff of undeath around you with herbs. I bought them off that dwarf alchemist after I offered to kill her wretched husband.”

Astarion smirks at that, “I quite like that dwarf, you know. As much as anyone can like a dwarf. She’s blunt. Mean. Fabulous. I offered to kill her husband for her once, too, in exchange for a discount.” He saunters over to the wine, curling his long white fingers around the neck of the bottle and bringing it to his nose. “A spiced red?”

“I told the barkeep that I would pickle his intestines if he gave me anything that resembled vinegar. I haven’t forgotten when the tieflings joined us at camp and your disdain for their ‘swill’, I think you called it. I do hope it’s sufficient, because I would hate to waste a good barkeep.”

Astarion’s smirk widens to a smile, but his face quickly turns down in contemplation. “You know me so well, don’t you? Better than I realised, I think. You’ve been - paying attention.” He says it with a flourish of his hand as he moves back toward Durge, who is spinning his ring around his finger, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

Astarion approaches slowly and takes Durge’s hand, twisting the ring so that the stone faces outward once more. His touch is light.

“You are seducing me?” He looks up into Durge’s gleaming eyes, crimson to crimson, searching for something there. 

“No”, Durge responds immediately, anxiously. He swallows hard, “I do not think of you just in terms of sex, Astarion. I want - I need - you to know that to be true. I am not trying to seduce you.”

He pauses, worrying his lip with a sharp tooth. He exhales and continues.

“I am trying to romance you. To the best of my ability, anyway. I admit a gesture like this is far outside my past expressions of adulation - I don’t suppose you would prefer a bloody sacrifice atop a stone altar in the future? That might be more familiar to me.”

Astarion lets out a harsh laugh at that, closes his hand fully around Durge’s.

Durge reaches out with his tadpole’s power, seeking permission to join their minds together. Astarion opens the channel, and in a moment can feel a wash of earnest affection from Durge. He sends his own astonishment and fondness down the bond between them.

“Consider me thoroughly romanced, my darling.” Astarion says roughly, his smirk broadening to a wide grin. He gestures to the pillows, “Shall we? What a shame it would be for all your hard work to go to waste.”

The sky has lightened to a dusky pink, and together they sit, Durge cross-legged next to the wine, and Astarion next to him, his feet tucked under a fur to the side. Their view from the rooftop overlooks the lower city, all the way out to the sea where the barest sliver of the sun is beginning to show. 

Durge raises a goblet to Astarion in question, and he nods in response. Durge pours a goblet of wine, takes a swig, and then removes a dagger from his belt. He quickly draws it against his upper forearm, a shallow slice near his inner elbow, just deep enough to break through the soft scales. Astarion gasps in protest, but Durge can see his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate. 

“Please, Astarion. You need to feed, and I would not have you drinking swill on our first date.” He gathers the empty goblet, and draws it under the wound to catch the blood. He fills it just over halfway before setting it down to pull a handkerchief and a small potion out of his pocket. He presses the cloth to the wound before unstoppering the potion. He drains it, and pulls the handkerchief away to show Astarion that the wound is healed. 

“This is a date?” Astarion asks as Durge passes him the goblet. His red eyes twinkle playfully. They grin at each other. 

With a flick of his wrist, Durge dispels the dancing lights. 

They sit in silence for a time, sipping from their goblets and watching the sea and sky become awash in pale shades of pink and orange. Birds begin to sing, and shutters in the lower city begin to open. Astarion leans into Durge’s broad shoulder, and Durge gently lays his arm around Astarion, his hand coming to rest on Astarion’s hip.

Astarion palms Durge’s other hand, adjusting his platinum ring once more into place, and begins to lazily trace along his finger pads. He circles every ridge and scale, as if trying to commit them to memory. Gently, he massages the tension from each finger, so often neglected after days of intense spellcasting. Durge hums low with pleasure, leaning his heavy cheekbone onto Astarion’s soft curls. 

“So affectionate this morning, Astarion.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, darling. It’s entirely self-serving. I need you in fighting shape if you are going to protect me today.”

They smirk at each other, and settle back into silence.

When the sun crests the horizon, Durge looks down to Astarion in the crook of his arm to find his ruby eyes closed, the sharp planes of his face turned to the warmth of the sun, awash in a golden glow. In a moment like this, Durge cannot imagine how he ever found anything else to be beautiful. He did not know the meaning of the word.

Durge’s breath hitches, and his pulse quickens. How many horrors had he committed with a perfectly even heartbeat? But now Bhaal’s dissident chosen spawn, made from divine flesh, can’t control the tightening around his heart. He can feel his blood rushing to his face, a soft blush rising beneath his pearly scales. 

It’s enough for Astarion to stir. “The sunrise must be something to behold, with your heart beating so fast.” A knowing smirk curls up the corners of his mouth, but his eyes stay closed as he turns into Durge’s neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I am loathe for you to do such intense labour as opening your eyes so early in the morning. Would you like to see it?” Durge asks, and presses a warm touch against Astarion’s mind through their tadpoles. Astarion smiles playfully, and with his eyes yet closed he opens the bond between them. 

His face softens as he sees himself through Durge’s eyes, bathed in the early morning light. His pearlescent, unblemished skin is glowing with the arrival of dawn, his white curls reflecting the gentle pastels painted in the clouds above. Durge sends his adoration, pride, and hope down the bond, enveloping Astarion in a radiant halo of emotion. 

When Astarion opens his eyes and smiles, he’s never looked more alive. 

Unworthy.

Durge clears his throat, gently severing the connection between them before the errant thought can pass down the bond. “Well, Astarion?” he hums softly, nuzzling his cheek into Astarion’s plush curls once more, “How did I fare in my first attempt at romance?”

“I think my precious little Bhaal-babe might be going soft on me,” he teases in answer.

Astarion turns so that they face each other, taking Durge’s snout into his hands, and runs his long fingers across the ridges and planes of Durge’s jaw. He kisses him, gently, at each corner of his mouth, and finally pulls their lips together for a lazy, languid kiss.

“You are perfect. Every time,” he insists. After a short pause, he says in a clipped tone, “You know, if you keep being nice to me, I’ll have to start being nice in return, and that sounds exhausting.” He scoffs, “And next time, I wouldn’t mind something a little more lively, darling. Fun. Dramatic, even.” 

Durge smiles broadly, pointed teeth on display. “Lucky for us, then. I hope you don’t mind an overwhelming bounty of affection in a single day, but I do have one more gesture planned,” he growls, leaning back onto his palms as he stretches his legs out before him. His eyes are almost wholly red as his pupils constrict in the light of the sun, and they gleam with brutal intent.

“What could you possibly have planned to add to this already perfect day, darling?”

“Today, just for you: I’m going to kill an Elder Brain.”

Chapter Text

They killed an Elder Brain. He killed an Elder Brain.

Durge is sure his companions are talking, marvelling at the silence in their minds. He sees their mouths move, watches them turn to embrace each other. But his blood is rushing in his ears, and standing on the docks in the moments after battle, he can do little else but savour the kill. 

This bliss is no remnant of his father-god’s influence: this is all for him. He, as a free person, has killed for himself. Not in service to an unspeakable calling, not to please his father or claim an inheritance, and not for evil. For himself. For love. It is intoxicating . 

He looks to Astarion in disbelief, searching his face for any sign of injury, but he knows he would have felt anything serious through the warding bond. And, he must admit, Shadowheart has done an excellent job of keeping them both alive today. His throat constricts as they study each other in the waning light of the setting sun: they are free. 

Unworthy.

He shakes the unwelcome thought from his mind as he steps toward Astarion. But he feels it in the warding bond even as he watches it happen. Astarion’s face begins to turn ashen, the burns from the sunlight setting in quickly. Durge feels the burning echoed on his own face, the magic of the bond ensuring they suffer together.

“No,” Durge exhales in shock. 

They knew it would happen. He doesn’t know why he thought they would be graced with any real time before the consequences. 

Astarion’s crimson eyes widen, and he turns to bolt for the shadows. 

Durge tears after him, not even sparing a goodbye to the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. 

Astarion lurches from shadow to shadow, ducking behind crates and kiosks, carving a path to the nearby buildings. 

Durge spies a boarded up door in a secluded alleyway - the sign posted next to it reads, “Storage” - and he breaks for it. As he runs, he calls out to Astarion, trusting that his partner’s sharp hearing will aid him enough for him to follow. 

He sends a bolt of frost at the barricade, hoping to weaken it, but he’s already fully committed. He levels his shoulder and slams into the boards, breaking through them and the door behind, falling hard into the splintered mess. 

Durge feels a rush of wind as light footsteps hurry past him, and he struggles to rise. He presses his palms into the ground to push himself up, and hisses at a pain in his left shoulder. He’s sure there was a more graceful way to do that, but time was critical. It still is.

He brings himself up to his knees, and then to his feet, panting heavily. He lifts the splintered door off the ground, hastily pressing it to the jamb while he mends the hinges with his magic. It’s not secure, by any means, but it’s enough to block the light.

Durge turns, leaning against the mended door, and blinks, “Astarion?” He calls softly. He can’t hear any footfalls or breaths, but it is in his vampire’s nature to blend into the shadows.   

Durge points to an iron sconce on the wall just inside the door and incants, “ Ignis ”. 

As the flames cast the room in light, Durge realises he’s broken them into a gardener’s shed. There are empty pots, rakes and pitchforks piled along the brick walls. From the smell, Durge assumes there’s an open box of fertiliser on one of the shelves. There is some dried blood on the centre of the floor, and in it someone has painted the symbol of Bhaal. Another murder site - just their luck.

He sees Astarion near the rear wall, his back turned toward Durge, and his head in his hands. Durge lets out a sigh of relief, and pushes himself off the door with a groan to approach.

“Astarion,” he breathes the name as if it’s a prayer, “Astarion, please. Are you alright?” Durge reaches out a hand toward Astarion’s shoulder, but a harsh voice greets him.

“Don’t touch me.” 

Unworthy.

“Okay.” Durge pulls his hand back, and retreats a step. He affirms softly, “Okay, Astarion. I won’t touch you. But you should take this,” Durge holds out a healing potion - the last one he has after the fight today - and continues, “And you should feed, when you are ready. It will help you heal faster, until we can get you to Shadowheart or Halsin tonight.” 

Astarion doesn’t answer. Durge sets the potion down near Astarion’s foot, sure it’s in his line of sight and says, “I’m going to secure the door and set up a small camp for us, okay? Will you please drink the potion?”

Durge busies himself. He presses his hand to the mended door, prestidigitating a warning message to the exterior. He glances back at Astarion, pleased to see he’s picked up the healing potion, although his back is still turned. He pulls a scroll from his pack and sets about incanting a magical lock on the door, to afford them an extra layer of privacy. He struggles with the somatics, wincing as he rotates his injured shoulder, but the magic holds. 

When he finishes that, he pulls his bedroll from his pack and lays it onto the floor. He takes Astarion’s from his pack as well, inhaling the faint whiff of perfume as he unrolls it next to his. He upends a large pot, placing it next to the wall, and sits against it, leaning heavily. 

His gaze shifts back to Astarion, and he spins his platinum ring around his finger. He considers saying something. Words of affirmation, validation, and sympathy all pass through his mind. But nothing he can think to say encompasses what he feels. 

Unworthy.

He sets his head back on the pot and exhales, taking a moment to catch up from the chaos of the day.

“You’re hurt.” 

Durge cracks open a slitted eye. Astarion is there, crouched before him. He is intact, the burns Durge expected to see have already healed. His angular face is speckled in blood, pale skin slick with sweat and a fine layer of ash from the burning Upper City. A layer of ichor and grime clings to his fine armour, and he reeks of the innards of dozens of slain enemies. 

He is resplendent. 

“I’m sorry, Astarion. I - I must have fallen asleep for a moment.” Durge coughs, wincing as he adjusts to sit up. “Are you alright?” His red eyes pass over Astarion’s face, searching for any further sign of hurt or harm. All he sees is fury .

“Fallen asleep? You complete bastard, you passed out! If you were hurt, why would you give me that potion?” Astarion spits out, “Look at the absolute state of you! What am I supposed to do?” He begins pacing. “It’s not as if I can go for a jaunt out in the sun to get you help. What were you thinking? ” 

Durge cracks a tired smile. “Sweet. You’re worried about me.”

“What?” Astarion exclaims, whipping around to look at him, “Oh of course you think this is funny, you fool. Do you have any idea how painful it is to see you like this? If my heart could still beat it would have stopped! Frankly, how dare you hurt me in this way.” Astarion wags a finger accusingly.

Durge croaks out a laugh, and then groans with the sharp pain in his shoulder, a bit of blood running down the corner of his mouth. “I love when you pout at me, Astarion, but please stop making me laugh. It does actually hurt.” 

Astarion’s face softens at that. He opens Durge’s pack, pulling out a bottle of water. He grabs a rag from a pile on the shelf, wets it, and begins to clean Durge’s face. 

“I can do that with my magic, Astarion. I have some simple spells left. Or we can just wait a couple of hours until we can safely make it back to the Elfsong. Personally, I love seeing you drenched in the aftermath of a fine blood rain.” 

“You will shut your pretty mouth and let me do this,” Astarion demands. 

“You think I’m pretty?” Durge replies.

They smirk at each other. 

He indulges Astarion for a while, allowing him his gentle, cleansing touch, but at some point, when Astarion turns to rinse the rag, Durge prestidigitations all the filth away from them both. 

Astarion rolls his eyes, “You couldn’t let me do one kind thing?”

“I didn’t want you to chip a nail,” Durge jests. Astarion levels a glare at him. 

“Astarion. You’ve been doing kind things all day. You watched the sunrise with me. You protected me all day while I was spellcasting. You made me stop to eat that horrible pickled cabbage sandwich Gale packed for me.” They both laugh, “Actually, now that I’m thinking of it, maybe you do owe me a nicety or two for that.”

“Well,” Astarion says as he shifts his weight casually, “when you put it that way, I do sound positively charitable.” 

Durge rises. He is stiff, and something is wrong in his shoulder, but he feels much steadier after a short rest. 

“I’m going to check outside, alright? To see if it’s dark enough for us to leave.” 

“Wait.” Astarion says. “Please.” 

Durge turns toward him, angling himself to keep his broad shoulders from blocking all the light from the wall sconce. 

“I want to apologise,” Astarion says, “For running away.” He seems to steel himself, “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I still don’t.”

Durge listens in silence, but brings his thumb up to turn the ring on his third finger. 

“I knew this was coming. I knew I would need to retreat to the shadows. It happened so quickly. And now,” he flourishes his hand, as if he could conjure the words out of thin air, “I don’t know what happens now.”

“What do you want to happen, Astarion?”

“What?” Astarion asks, incredulous. 

“What do you want?” Durge insists. “You are immortal. Strong. Brave. Beautiful. And today, you are free. Free of Cazador. Free of the parasite. You can have anything.” 

Astarion hesitates. “I - I think I want more days like today. More mornings like this morning. Today was …nice,” he admits. 

“Then our path is clear. We will find a way for you to watch the sun rise again.”

“What? Do you really think that’s possible?” 

Durge takes a step forward. “Yes.” 

They smile at each other.

Chapter Text

He casually waits near the back wall of the gardener’s shed while he watches Durge dispel the magic lock on the door and crack it open. It is frustrating to be so limited. 

He certainly does not mind having a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, all-powerful sorcerer to do the hard work for him ( especially not when that sorcerer cuts such an impressive figure ), but it seems wrong that opening a door would be so perilous that he needs a protector. 

Astarion knows that ending Cazador’s Black Mass instead of taking the powers of the Vampire Ascendant for his own was the correct choice. It certainly wasn’t the fun choice. Yes, he was very close to losing his hold on this version of himself ( which he has very much come to like ) in those moments before killing his captor. But right now, it is hard not to wish that he at least had the power to open a door for himself. 

He may be free from Cazador, but he is not free from the consequences of what Cazador did to him. It’s exhausting.

Astarion sighs heavily. He doesn’t need to breathe, but a heavy sigh makes him feel better. Is it so much to ask that he have one day where immortality isn’t so burdensome? Perhaps a little drama that wasn’t strictly of the life-or-death variety? He brushes a curl from his forehead, feathering it back into place near his temple. 

He watches as Durge turns toward him while clicking the door closed. “It’s nearly time,” he says in that delicious voice of his, “I’ll pack our things.”

“No!” Astarion is surprised to find his own voice filling the air, “I’ll do it.” ( Offering to pack the bedrolls? What is happening? Good gods, I must be getting sloppy.)

Durge must be thinking something similar, standing there with his mouth agape, simmering red eyes full of surprise. 

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re still injured. I can’t have you hurting yourself further, not when these Lower City streets are so dangerous at night. I need you to protect me. All manner of predators could be hunting for us as we make our way back to the tavern.” Astarion throws Durge a wicked grin, running his tongue over his gleaming fangs.

Durge laughs. It’s deep, it rumbles, and it is divine. Astarion loves it when he can make Durge laugh. He can almost feel it reverberating through the air, stirring through him enough that he could almost mistake the vibrations for his own heart beating again. It makes him feel alive.  

Astarion moves toward the bedrolls, but Durge flicks his wrist, and incants, “ Manus” , summoning a spectral hand which quickly rolls both bedrolls and stows them in Durge’s open pack. With another flick of his wrist, the magic dissipates into the air just as quickly as it arrived.

Astarion pouts. “If you never let me do anything, darling, I’ll completely forget how.” 

“Astarion,” Durge says reproachfully. 

Astarion loves hearing his name called from those scaled lips. Durge always says it like it holds some kind of inherent power. He doesn’t just speak Astarion’s name, he incants it. It feels cherished . It makes him feel cherished. But this time, there’s an edge to it. 

“You have been in unwilling service for two hundred years. I would not have you spend another moment in service to anyone. Especially not to me.” He sees a shadow pass over Durge’s face as he spits the words out. 

“Is that what you think this is?” Astarion says, taken aback, “That my kindness is an expression of - what - enthrallment, and not of fondness? I would expect you, of all people, to know what compulsive servitude looks like.”

Durge turns his face away, and Astarion can see him begin to turn his ring on his finger, his words striking home. Astarion continues, “What I do not want is to be in another one-sided relationship. Cazador took and took from me, leaving me a husk of what I was. I am just becoming someone that I like, and I will not lose myself in order to take from you, even at your demand. I deserve to be an equal. A partner. That is what I want.” 

As he says it, Astarion feels a sense of conviction settle in him. That is what he wants, and he’s finally put it into words. He wants to feel equal. To see, and be seen. He has felt that with Durge, every day for weeks, in fact. But there is something cracking between them right now, and Astarion can’t place it. 

They care for each other, even a blind Gondian could see that. There is attraction, too: they orbit around each other like dancing lights, drawn together endlessly. 

But there’s something else, something more sinister - he’s seen it flit on Durge’s face a few times.The unspoken thought from this morning. Doubt . 

Astarion is sure of it. What is there really on offer here, after all? 

There is a pain in his chest, a tightening in his throat. He steels himself, picks up Durge’s pack and settles it on his shoulders. 

He puts his finest smirk on. 

“When you figure out what it is that you really want, Bhaal-babe, do let me know. In the meantime, I have a party in my honour to get to.” He walks past Durge, close enough to scent his pounding blood, and rips open the door, painting the dirt floor in moonlight. 

He doesn’t turn around, and so he doesn’t see a shimmering tear fall gently down Durge’s pale white cheek. 

The streets of the Lower City at night are exactly as he remembers them. Dull. Grey. Shuttered windows. Murmured voices. It’s so banal. As he walks, Astarion already misses the bright colours of blossoms in the flower beds ( even if they are useless for poisons) , the sparkle on the water in the fountains. The flare of sunlight off Durge’s pearly scales, casting rainbows on the cobbles as they walk.

The memory stings.

The streets have changed to some degree, even since they walked them this morning. The fountain in the centre of the square has collapsed into pieces, water leaking across the cobbles. A tree has been felled, blocking an alleyway off the main thoroughfare. All across the street, blood stains have seeped into the stone. There is a death-stench in the air, rank and heavy.

It’s quiet. The city has spent itself, it seems. 

Durge is following him, but has joined the city in silence. Astarion can almost hear the thoughts banging around in that beautiful skull. He absolutely can hear the occasional sigh, the clink of tooth to scale as he worries that delicious lip between his teeth, and even the soft chiming of the platinum ring spinning around his thick, scaled finger. 

Astarion heaves out a sigh of his own. Gods, the absolute drama of him. 

He adjusts the pack on his shoulders. He’s carrying all the burdens today, it seems. 

As soon as the thought occurs to him, he knows it's only partly fair . He’s carrying the pack because Durge was so stubborn as to ensure Astarion was fully healed before healing himself. An objectively stupid thing to do. And, in so doing, forced Astarion to have to see him in such a state! A true shame.

But Durge carries the pack every day. Packs the bedrolls every day. Organises their supplies, and manages all their loot. He planned that positively saccharine sunrise picnic for them this morning, which is far more effort than Astarion ever bothered to put into any of his many conquests. He knows what they have is more than friendship, and more than seduction. 

But then what could it be?

He protected Astarion from the sun. Prioritised him. He stayed.  

Astarion rolls his eyes. He can feel his heart softening. Sloppy indeed.

He whips around to face Durge. “I am sorry , alright? I recognise that you are only trying to take care of me. Pardon me if that’s not something I’m prepared to handle.” Astarion can hear the blood pounding under Durge’s scales, scent the surprise and fear in him. Astarion splays a cold hand above Durge’s heart to feel it beating. It resonates through his palm and up into his arm, and for a moment he swears he can feel something like his heart stirring. “But I suppose I could be convinced to try,” he says flippantly. 

“Astarion,” Durge whispers. Astarion feels a weight lift from his shoulders as he hears his name. “ I am sorry. I never want my words to cause you harm.” His head hangs heavy, his voice gruff. 

“Nor mine to you.” He says in earnest. “But if we intend to set off on another adventure together, I must be able to help. As an equal.” Astarion shifts his shoulders as he quips, “Not all the time of course. These bedrolls are quite heavy.” Durge chuckles, and Astarion feels it through his palm. “If you insist on taking care of me - and I suppose I can indulge you in that - you must also allow me to take care of you, darling. I am quite skillful at most things, you know.” 

Durge clears his throat. “ Except for carrying the pack?” 

They smirk at each other. 

Something settles in Astarion. They may not have answered every unasked question, but he knows he wants to try. And isn’t it a little fun not to know? 

Durge steps into Astarion’s palm, closing the gap between them until their chests nearly touch. Astarion has to look up to meet his glowing red gaze and can feel the tension between them draw tight. The scent spiralling from him with every heartbeat has grown heavier. The fear is still there, but the surprise diminished, making way for something sharper. Astarion inhales deeply, their chests brushing for a moment. 

“May I touch you?” Durge asks him quietly. Astarion is startled by the question. He realises in a moment that he is certain he can say no, and Durge will think no less of him.

“Please. Yes.” he whispers. 

Durge lifts his uninjured arm, and with agonising tenderness draws a knuckle down Astarion’s cheek. He slowly traces the sharp line of Astarion’s jaw, closing his thumb and forefinger on his chin. Astarion feels completely bare, trapped between Durge’s heavy glowing gaze and featherlight touch. His grip is so gentle, and he moves Astarion’s lips to his. 

The warmth of Durge’s breath makes Astarion feel flushed. He knows his heart cannot beat, and his blood cannot rush, but the heat between them and the closeness of their bodies could almost convince him otherwise. He brushes his tongue along Durge’s bottom lip, revelling in the heady taste and texture. He finds himself needing to breathe just to bring more of Durge’s heat into his body, to bring his taste deeper along his tongue. 

Durge releases Astarion’s chin, allowing him to turn his head to deepen the kiss. Astarion feels Durge’s claws softly drag down his spine beneath the pack he wears, settling on his lower back to pull their embrace closer. 

Astarion is almost a head shorter than Durge, and feels completely enveloped by him. It makes him feel safe. Secure. He feels Durge start to separate their kiss, but he wants to feel like this for just a moment longer. He traces his hands up Durge’s chest to the back of his strong, scaled neck, pressing lightly to keep their lips together. 

As Durge chuckles into his lips, Astarion feels awash in arousal. He is so surprised by the feeling, and the suddenness of its onset, that he pauses the movement of his lips for just long enough that Durge breaks their kiss. 

They stare at each other, Durge panting heavily, Astarion’s arms still wrapped around Durge’s neck. 

Durge lowers the flat plane of his crested forehead to meet Astarion’s and they hold each other for a short time. Astarion can hear Durge’s heartbeat return to its normal pace, his scent losing the hints of fear and lust.

He passes a palm over Durge’s heart as he pushes them gently apart, and says, “We should consider arguing more.” 

“Are you sure you are ready for this? Halsin is going to fuss over you.” 

“Me? Darling, look at you! You are, and I say it with all possible love, a tragedy to behold. Luckily some charitable soul cleaned you up, otherwise I doubt they would scarcely let you into an establishment so fine as this, looking the way you do.”

Durge purses his lips and sends a flaming glance in Astarion’s direction, eyes rippling with humour. Astarion flicks his hair into place and beams at Durge, graced in return by an eye roll and a chuckle. His favourite things. 

Astarion says it all in jest, of course, but Durge is looking worse for wear. He’s heavily favouring his right arm, even leaning to the left slightly as if it takes the pressure off the injury. His clothes may look clean, but they are crumpled and torn, singed in some places. Thanks to Durge’s romantic inclinations, they started their day well before sunrise, and it must be nearly midnight now. 

Astarion fidgets his tongue over a fang as he considers all that Durge has given of himself today. Their fight against the Elder Brain drained him, and their dash from the sun further still. 

As they walk up the steps to the tavern’s entrance, Astarion watches as Durge takes a deep breath and he hears the soft tinkle of the platinum ring circling his finger. He’s exhausted. 

Seems like a good chance to dote on him: when he’s too tired to protest. 

“Come along, darling,” he says to Durge, extending his hand, “Let’s get the Hero of Baldur’s Gate to bed.”

Durge takes his hand, and gives him a grateful nod.

Astarion opens the door to the tavern, and leads him inside. The barroom is full, but reserved: people are speaking in hushed tones, licking their wounds after the desolation of the day. 

Much of the destruction seems limited to the Upper City, but the Lower City is not without its losses. Durge, in stunning and desperate displays of intimidation and diplomacy, was able to assemble an impressive slate of organisations to work together during the fight today. The Harpers, the Guild, the Flaming Fist, and so many others, all fighting side by side, and all thanks to Durge.

It’s astonishing. Most of those alliances were forged while Durge was fighting the compulsions set upon him by his merciless father.

Had he not succeeded in doing so, the losses today would have been much harsher. Catastrophic. 

Astarion feels a sense of determination. He wants to make Durge feel as safe and secure as he does when they’re together. 

He leads Durge through the taproom. As he does, he can hear Durges boots dragging against the worn wooden floors. When they reach the bottom of the stairs that lead to the rooms on the second floor, he turns to Durge and says, “Will you wait for me here? It will take but a moment.”  Durge nods tiredly and leans against the wall. 

Astarion lightly darts to the bar, where the barkeep is perpetually cleaning a mug. 

“Would you happen to have a small, private room available for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate?” He says it with a smile, leaning on the bar heavily. 

The barkeep raises an eyebrow, and gestures to Durge and back to Astarion. He gruffs, “Two of you together?”

“Why does that matter?” 

“Yesterday, he told me he’d pickle my intestines if my wine wasn’t up to his partner’s expectations. Then he paid me a disgusting amount of money for the key to the roof.” Astarion smirks at that. It was wholly unnecessary, as Astarion’s crooked touch could have cracked the lock in seconds. Durge must have been feeling generous. “Your other companions came back this afternoon and told me you all killed that giant flying brain. That true?” 

“Yes. All in a day’s work for our merry band of heroes.” Astarion inspects his cuticles as he speaks. 

The barman’s eyebrow disappears into his hair. He pulls a key from a hook behind the counter. 

“This is the largest single room I’ve got. The bath’s enchanted to stay warm. No charge. Stay as long as you like. It would take you 6 months of room and board to match what he paid me yesterday.” The barkeep looks to Durge again. “He must really love you.”

“Yes,” Astarion says softly, “He must.”

Chapter Text

Durge leans against the wall where Astarion leaves him and watches as he lightly steps toward the bar. 

Astarion is somehow commanding of every room, but never out of place. Durge wonders if he’s ever been anything other than the most handsome man in any room. 

He watches Astarion lean up against the bar, the toe of one boot flirting with the heel of the other, his head tilted to the side just so. He decides there has never been a more handsome man in any room, and Astarion must know it, too. 

Durge’s eyes wander across the tavern, absently watching as the patrons nurse their ales, heads heavy with the weight of the day. He feels that weight in himself. Tenday upon tenday of running, fighting, scheming, lying, killing. He takes a ragged breath. His shoulder throbs, and there’s a tension building in his neck and back from holding his arm in such a way as to keep the pain from spiking. His lean into the wall sinks a little deeper. 

“Come along, darling,” he hears Astarion’s voice call softly. Durge feels Astarion’s cool hand wrap itself in his and turns his gaze to see Astarion’s eyes wide, regarding him with concern.

Astarion tugs lightly on his hand, urging him to follow up the stairs. He does, focusing on lifting each foot above the next stair to keep from tripping. As he turns the corner of the landing, the toe of his boot catches on the corner baseboard and he stumbles, inhaling sharply as his sore shoulder knocks into the railing. Astarion’s grasp is firm and strong, and keeps him from collapsing.

“Come now, love. We’re close to your very well deserved rest. Stay with me.” 

Durge complies, and together they clear the rest of the staircase. Astarion leads them down the hall, but instead of turning them toward the common room they share with their party, he turns them to a door offset across the hall, opening it deftly with a key stowed in his breast pocket. 

Durge doesn’t question it. If it was anyone else he would. But it’s Astarion. He watches Astarion step through the door, shrugging out of their pack and placing it gently against the wall. 

Durge follows him into the room, which is lavishly appointed: a large bed dominates the centre of the rear wall, flanked on either side by bay windows that overlook the street below. The bed is draped in creamy linens; quilts and blankets of various textures and shades layered invitingly on the plush mattress. Heavy velvet curtains are artfully draped around the windows, tied back with silken ropes. Small lanterns flicker on each nightstand, and in the corner of the room is a large, circular cedar bath, curls of steam spiralling from the still water.

“Let’s get you into that bath.” Astarion says, as he gently reaches up to remove Durge’s cloak. His hands are quick, and his touch is light, unbuckling the clasps at each shoulder. He gently takes the cloak and hangs it on a hook by the door, and takes a step closer to untie Durge’s robe. 

Durge stands there quietly, watching Astarion at work. His fingers are so precise when they move with purpose: it is enchanting to watch. Durge has seen him disarm traps with less care and concern than he employs now. Durge exhales through his nose, and sees his breath ruffle Astarion’s soft hair. He nuzzles his forehead into those fragrant curls as Astarion works, closing his eyes.

As Astarion pulls at the laces of his tunic, Durge hears him say, “You have spent weeks keeping all of us together. Keeping everything together.” He feels the laces loosen, and the tunic fall open, baring his chest. “It’s time to rest and relax, darling.” 

He’s right, of course. It is over , now. But Durge has been desperately trying to keep so many fragile alliances together for months: he can’t seem to settle the need to be checking on everyone, assessing everything. He breathes deeply, and focuses on Astarion’s fingers moving against his chest. 

Astarion steps out from under Durge’s head, and Durge straightens himself. Astarion, with such gentleness, carefully lifts the fabric of Durge’s tunic off his injured shoulder, dexterously manoeuvring it to keep the sleeve from pulling on his arm. He removes the garment without causing so much as a twinge of pain. He then turns to fold it, setting it gently on a small table next to the bath. 

Durge inspects his shoulder when Astarion steps away. It hangs limply, bulging in a way that appears wrong , a deep purple bruise blossoming beneath his scales. He grimaces and looks away, watching as Astarion returns to him. 

He can see Astarion inspecting the wound, but knows it is beyond both of them. Neither of them know a thing about how to put bodies back together: the two of them have only ever excelled at taking them apart. 

Even as he thinks it, Astarion plants a gentle kiss on a flat white scale on his chest, near to the wound but beyond the range of the bruise. Durge inhales, savouring the tenderness. Right now, he does feel a little closer to being whole. He should give Astarion’s healing prowess more credit. 

Unworthy. 

Durge is too tired to pay the thought any mind. 

Astarion plants another kiss on the small diamond scale between his pectoral plates, just above his heart. He can feel Astarion’s cool hands tracing a path down his stomach, his fingers tracing the ridges along his abdominals. Durge’s breath hitches, and he raises his head to take a steadying breath. He is exhausted: his body on the brink of failure. He barely made it up the stairs. But Astarion’s touch is electrifying, and he can feel his heart beating harder in response to it. 

He hears Astarion let out a laugh, his lips and hands leaving a cold absence as he takes a step away from Durge. Durge lowers his head to see Astarion with his palms out in supplication, a smirk sculpting his beautiful face. Durge watches, mesmerised, as he sees Astarion’s tongue toying with the edge of a fang. Durge swallows hard.

“Nothing untoward, my dear,” Astarion says darkly, mimicking Durge’s words from that very morning with an indecent smile, “I swear.” Durge chuckles as he rolls his eyes. 

Astarion steps toward him again, taking his hand softly as he gestures to a bench at the foot of the bed. Astarion steadies Durge as he sits. He gasps softly as Astarion slowly draws himself down into a kneel on the floor in front of him, settling between his knees. Durge can feel his heart pounding, and as his mind races it finally occurs to him that Astarion asked for a private room. 

“Do you trust me?” Astarion says roughly. Durge looks into his gleaming red eyes, glowing with intent in the dim light of the lanterns. He nods once, inhaling sharply, and Astarion smiles as he settles back onto his heels, taking Durge’s foot onto a knee as he begins to undo the laces.

Durge tosses his head back and laughs. “You are unbelievable, Astarion, by the gods. I thought you meant to undo me here and now.”

“And if that is what I mean to do?” Astarion says in a sultry voice, dragging a long finger up the sole of Durge’s foot. Durge whips his head to look at Astarion, blood rushing in response to his touch. 

Astarion laughs as he removes Durge’s sock. “It is just too easy with you, love. I meant what I said: nothing untoward. No depraved carnal lust to satisfy. Just a little flirting.” Astarion moves to the other boot, quickly loosening the laces and removing it and the sock beneath. 

Durge growls, “You wield such power over me.” And it’s true. All the concerns and insecurities that have suffocated Durge’s longing and lust these last few tendays seem to have disappeared in these tired, tender moments. He’s not sure if they’re gone, or if he’s simply too weary to dwell on them. 

Astarion stands to set the boots by the door, and the socks on the folded robe. He walks back to Durge, gesturing for him to join him standing. He does, grimacing as a sharp lance of pain pierces his shoulder.

“You have power over me too, darling,” Astarion says softly as Durge rises to tower over him. He watches as Astarion’s gaze drags over his bare chest, tracing the lines of muscle along his stomach and broad chest. ”You remind me of what it feels like to be alive.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “Sometimes when your heart is pounding, I swear I can feel it in my soul.”

“If I could, Astarion, I would give every - “ Astarion presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. Durge is tempted to bring that finger between his lips, but he suppresses the urge.

“I know. But you have given enough, especially today, and I wouldn’t trade that delicious pulse for anything.” Astarion taps his finger against Durge’s lips, and then drops his hand to the laces of Durge’s breeches.

Durge hisses in surprise, but Astarion’s touch is light and careful as he pulls at the ties, causing the trousers to sag low on Durge’s hips. Astarion’s cool fingers flirt with his waistband for a moment, and Durge groans in frustration. He cannot imagine a more intense and unfair torture than being gently undressed by Astarion. 

“Put that glower away, dear,” Astarion says cooly, “You are in such a state that I think I could quite literally ride you to your death.” 

Durge chokes out a laugh as Astarion quickly removes his breeches and undergarments in a single smooth motion, gathering them both at his ankles so quickly Durge only realises he is completely nude when Astarion taps lightly on his foot to encourage him to step out of the garments. He does, and stands completely bare before Astarion, who gathers Durge’s clothing and folds it, setting them on top of the others.  

He hears Astarion inhale deeply, and Durge is sure he can scent every feeling swirling between them. Lust, affection, desire. He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. 

Astarion turns toward him once more, his gaze dragging over Durge’s nakedness, his expression inscrutable. 

Durge sends his thoughts toward Astarion, attempting to tap on the mindbridge between them to ask permission to be let in, but finds the path gone. Of course it is, he realises in a lurch: the tadpoles are gone. The parasites allowed them to touch minds - now that they’ve killed the Elder Brain, and in so doing, all of their tadpoles - the bridges between them are gone. 

Durge’s brow furrows. He is surprised to feel a sense of grief. 

Astarion asks, “What is it? Your face has gone wan.”

Durge says, “I just tried to connect our minds. I had forgotten that, in the course of nearly killing us and turning us into soulless monsters, the tadpoles had given us such a gift. I wanted to know what you were thinking.” 

Astarion smiles. He steps closer until their chests are nearly touching, and plants a hungry kiss to Durge’s lips. Durge returns it with a fury: they could have died a thousand times today, and he starts to think that being ridden to death might be the best way to go.

Astarion pulls away too quickly, and the heat between them could burn the rest of the city to ash.  

“I was thinking that you are a stunning creature. I find myself realising that we made it, and that we are going to have a lot of fun together. You make me want to live. To indulge in all the parts of life that I have been missing.” 

They smile at each other.

“Truly though,” Astarion says as he takes Durge’s hand, his eyes drifting to the mess of Durge’s shoulder, “You are really in no state for anything other than some light cuddling. Bath. Now.” 

Astarion helps Durge into the tub, and then leaves the room, promising to return quickly with a healer and some food. 

Durge sinks into the warm water and can feel the knots start to ease out of his neck, his hands. The heat permeates his tired muscles, drawing the desperate, exhausted tension from his body slowly, like poison drawn from a raw wound. He leans his head back against the rim of the bath, and breathes deeply. 

It is done. He is free of the imminent domination of the Elder Brain, and the murderous machinations of his father-god Bhaal. A tear rises in his eyes. His throat tightens. Astarion is free, too, of Cazador. 

Durge has found meaning in many things since awakening on the nautiloid. He has come to enjoy a nightcap of wine with Shadowheart, Gale and Wyll, found a peaceful solace in sparring with Lae’zel and Karlach. Even sitting around the fire with Halsin, Jaheira and Minsc, listening to them tell stories of their old adventuring days has become something of a pastime. 

He has committed great acts of goodness, and made allies in uncommon places. He hopes, by the grace given to him by others, to have undone some small measure of the evil he wrought upon the Sword Coast as Bhaal’s Chosen. 

But nothing has given him a sense of purpose like loving Astarion. He has found something he did not know was possible: to be known by another in totality, for every dark corner to be understood and accepted. 

A tear wends its way down his cheek, carving a cold path along his skin to join the water in the tub. 

Unworthy.

His injured shoulder releases a slow, throbbing ache in time with his heartbeat. Another tear falls, followed by another, and finally the storm within him breaks. He comes undone, sobbing greatly. 

He cries for a time, finally heaving out a shuddering sigh. There is an overwhelming sense of relief, of release, that follows. He thinks of the tenderness Astarion has shown him, and how grateful he is to have had this private moment. He takes a breath, holding it for a few moments, before letting it go softly. 

As if Durge had summoned him by thought, there is a light tapping at the door. 

“Yes?” Durge calls, wiping the remaining tears away with a knuckle.

“It’s me, darling,” Astarion’s voice lilts, “Are you decent enough for Shadowheart?”

“Enough?” He hears Shadowheart say with a shrill. 

Durge laughs, “Yes.”

The door clicks open, and Astarion steps through, arms laden with various unidentifiable items. Durge realises with a start that Astarion is still in his adventuring clothes and has yet to tend to himself at all. A twinge of concern knocks through him. 

Shadowheart steps into the room behind Astarion, “Oh, such palatial lodgings. I can see why you’ve abandoned us for this,” she says with her customary venom, “You must have paid a fortune for the room, Astarion.”

“Well, someone’s fortune, anyway,” Astarion says, tossing a wink at Durge as he sets a few items down at the table across the room from the tub. Durge hears the clink of bottles and what sounds like dishes. 

Shadowheart crosses from the door, snapping it closed in a smooth motion as she steps to the side of the tub. 

“Astarion says you’ve made a right mess of yourself. Let me see.” She demands. 

“It’s good to see you too, dear.” Durge says as he raises himself out of the tub enough for Shadowheart to inspect his shoulder, wincing as he does. 

“Well, you left me without your company, don’t expect me to be grateful. Gale is so morose tonight. It’s been hardly celebratory,” She sighs dramatically, shaking her head, “Blessed Mother, you’ve entirely dislocated your shoulder. You leave me for half a day and you start to fall into pieces.” 

Durge can’t find an argument for that. She is not wrong. 

“Be nice. ” Astarion hisses a warning at her.

“Coming from you? That’s rich.” Shadowheart rolls her eyes and flicks her white braid behind her. She takes the hand of Durge’s injured arm, and places her hand softly on his swollen shoulder, fingers prodding gently. 

“He is in pain and - ”

“You think I can’t tell that he’s in pain? Astute observation, doctor idiot  - “

“You call yourself a cleric , they must hand out that title to anyone. What are you going to do, shine a moonbeam on it - “

As they snipe at each other, Shadowheart, with surprising strength and quickness, pulls on Durge’s hand while pressing on his shoulder, and a loud popping noise echoes through the chamber.

“AHH by the GODS,” Durge yells, interrupting the banter between the two of them.

He groans at the sharp discomfort, but Shadowheart immediately lays her palms on the aching flesh and starts to speak her healing words. The wave of relief that follows turns Durge’s groans into those of pleasure. He sinks a little deeper into the bath.

“Better?” Shadowheart and Astarion ask in unison, Astarion smirking as they do. Shadowheart rolls her eyes again.

Before Durge can answer, a soft knock precedes the click of the door opening, and Gale peers his head in. “I couldn’t help but notice the distinct cries of distress, perhaps a second opinion is required?”

He steps into the room, spilling a bit of wine out of the goblet in his hand down the plush velvet front of his tunic. “Oh, Mystra save me, first I drop the Crown of Karsus in the river and now this? Curse these buttered fingers of mine! You would think that someone so skilled at somatics would be a little more dextrous, but you would be incorrect!” He wags his finger indignantly.

Astarion and Durge share a look, Durge biting his lip to keep from laughing. Astarion brings a stoppered bottle over to the tub, and pours a few small drops of oil into the water before turning back to the table. The smell of rosemary wafts on the steam as Durge inhales, the heat from the bath intensifying the herbal scent. Astarion returns with a bar of soap and a soft cloth, and dips the cloth in the water before lathering it on the soap. He begins to gently clean Durge’s scales, starting at his neck and shoulders. 

“Gale, I swear, if you bring up the Crown of Karsus one more time tonight, Selune help me -”

“Have we finally reached the point in the night where someone threatens Gale with bodily harm to get him to stop wallowing?” Halsin’s rumbling voice calls from the doorway. 

“Halsin! I’m surprised by you,” Gale says, “Aren’t druids supposed to be generous of spirit?” 

“Most would consider it unwise to poke a bear, dear friend, and your melancholy has been poking at me all night.”

An affirmative squeak comes from the packed doorway, and all look down to see Boo standing on the toe of Halsin’s worn leather boot. 

“Ah, so this is where the party begins, eh? Boo, my furry friend, you are always finding the best spots for revelry and devilry!” Minsc pokes his bald head through the gap between Gale and Halsin and says, “Minsc is now wishing he was as small as Boo, so that we may all fit in this room together.” 

As their companions continue to bicker, Durge watches Astarion work. He has never been bathed by another before - except in blood. 

Unworthy.  

He winces at the thought, and Astarion regards him curiously. Durge shakes his head once, deferring the question. Astarion moves on to scrubbing the five horns at the crown of his head.

“Ah, you fools,” Jaheira’s voice echoes from the hall, and there are groans of displeasure as she pushes through the doorway, “Can you not see with your eyes that these two lovers are trying to enjoy each other?”

Everyone whips around to see Durge with his head fully relaxed against the rim of the bath, Astarion wiping dust and grime off each of Durge’s crests with care.

Astarion says flippantly, “Oh no, please feel free to stick around, everyone. In a few more minutes you may be treated to a show of just how much we can enjoy each other.” His words drip with seduction, and he kisses the tip of one of Durge’s horns gently.

“Promises, promises.” Durge growls.

“No, that is quite enough for me.” Shadowheart says quickly as she rises from her spot on the bench, “Do try not to overexert yourself. I’m out of spells - and patience.” 

She shepherds the rest of their companions out of the door to their common room across the hall, latching it closed with a soft click. 

Durge and Astarion smirk at each other. 

Despite Durge’s protests, Astarion refuses to join him in the bath, instead opting to pamper him for a short time. 

“I have wanted to clean and file these nails for you for months , darling, let me have this.” 

And Durge does. Astarion massages his hands and fingers while cleaning and filing his claws. He seems lost in the work of it. Durge must drift off to sleep, because in no time at all it seems Astarion is waking him to exit the bath, gesturing for him to step into a plush grey towel.

Durge lifts himself up, pleased to feel that his shoulder can bear his weight with no pain. He steps out of the bath, watching as the cloud of dirt and grime in the water clears itself as soon as he exits. A handy enchantment. It seems to destroy the old water and create the new water simultaneously, and it stays warm while doing it. He makes a mental note to ask the barkeep about it. 

Astarion wraps him in the towel, his tender touch disappointingly chaste. 

“I brought some food for you,” Astarion says as gestures to the table where two plates sit, one upturned over the other to keep the food contained. “Please eat something before you rest.”

Durge sits on the stool next to the table and flips the upturned plate over. Beneath it is a gorgeous spread of fruits, meats and cheeses. He crosses his legs, leaning against the table, and pops a summer grape into his mouth. He hums with pleasure as the fruit bursts between his teeth, sending a wave of flavour along his tongue. 

He can see Astarion smirk at his reaction, and Durge watches as Astarion begins to undress.

“Dinner and a show? You are spoiling me today.” Durge quips as he pops a slice of a peach onto his tongue. The fruit is so tender it nearly melts in his mouth. 

Astarion flicks him a glance over his shoulder, and turns toward him, slowly tracing the embroidering on his padded vest until he gets to the line of buttons at the centre. 

Durge swallows hard. He pops another grape into his mouth, and as he does so, Astarion flirts a button apart. Durge cocks his head to the side. A game.

And so they play, Astarion untying a lace or removing an article of clothing for every bite of food Durge takes, until finally the plate is empty,  and Astarion has nothing but his undergarments left. 

“Well done, darling,” Astarion says huskily, “But I think that’s enough flirting for tonight.” He drops his undergarments to his ankles, sending them flying at Durge with the flick of his foot. Durge catches them as he laughs, Astarion quickly climbing into the tub.

Durge stands, stacking the empty plates on top of one another on the table, and then drops his towel. He watches Astarion eye him greedily, and then pout when Durge pulls on his sleeping trousers, lacing them low on his hips. 

Durge rolls his eyes, gathering Astarion’s soiled garments off the floor and neatly stacking them with his own on the short table by the tub. They can worry about laundry tomorrow.

While Astarion washes himself, Durge pads over to the bay windows, untying the silken ropes that hold back the heavy curtains and drawing them into place. He pays careful attention to ensure there are no gaps, and after adjusting them multiple times, stands back to admire his work. 

He hears Astarion say from the tub, “You must not want an audience for whatever depravity comes next.”

Durge chuckles, “As much as I look forward to learning what that could possibly mean coming from you, what I don’t want is to wake tomorrow to find that my beautiful, beloved vampire spawn has turned to cinders in the morning light.” 

He turns and steps to the bath, where Astarion has just leaned back to wet his hair.

“Let me, Astarion.” Durge says as Astarion reaches for a bottle of liquid soap. Astarion nods and closes his eyes. Durge squirts the soap into his hands, lathering it gently before running his fingers into Astarion’s sopping curls.

He massages Astarion’s scalp gently, working the soap as evenly as he can through his cloudy hair. Astarion groans as Durge uses his claws to lightly scratch, tracing circles all the way down to his neck, and Durge finds himself delighted by the sound. Durge repeats the motion with an even lighter touch, drawing a delicate whimper from Astarion as he does. He plays with the motion, noticing which touches bring out a sigh, and which ones grace him with Astarion’s throaty groan. He takes special note of those. 

Just when Durge is deciding he could do this for the rest of the night, Astarion reaches up and taps his hand in request to stop. Durge does, and Astarion dips his head beneath the still water to rinse out the soap.

Durge gathers a towel from a nearby shelf, gesturing for Astarion to exit. Astarion does, and Durge finds himself hypnotised by the rivulets of water rolling down Astarion’s long, alabaster legs. He follows their path up Astarion’s sculpted thigh to where his heavy member hangs.

Suddenly, Durge’s mouth is dry. He clears his throat, and steps forward with the towel, wrapping it around Astarion’s waist, patting him dry gently. He hands the corners of the towel to Astarion and grabs another from the shelf for his hair, knowing he likes to towel it well before he goes to bed.

Astarion dries himself off with practised motions, while Durge moves to turn down the bed linens. He busies himself with the pillows, moving the decorative ones onto the bench at the foot of the bed. He hears the soft rustling of Astarion dressing himself. 

He hears Astarion ask quietly, “What happens now, darling?”

Durge turns to look at him, and indeed finds him dressed in his familiar ruffled shirt and comfortable trousers. He smiles, recalling the first night he saw Astarion in these clothes, when he told Astarion he would feel better with him watching over the camp. 

“What is that look for?” Astarion asks him.

Durge steps toward him and takes his hand, “Do you still feel like you could take or leave my chin?” 

Astarion laughs and pats his hand. 

“I will admit I’ve grown quite fond of it, now. Despite my admissions to the contrary at the time, even in the beginning I thought you were the prettiest mark I’d ever seen.”

Durge lets out a harsh laugh. “I am sorry to say my first thought of you was that you would make a very pretty corpse.” He grimaces as Astarion cackles. 

Durge continues, “I realise now how much I have come to care for you since that time. And as much fun as it would be to be ridden to death, tonight, all I want is to fall asleep holding the man I love.” Astarion’s eyes snap to his, full of wonder. 

“I love you, Astarion. I hope you will let me tell you every day.”

Astarion regards him for a moment, and lets their hands fall apart. He paces to the right side of the bed, and gestures for Durge to join him as he climbs beneath the sheets.

Durge follows, settling himself into the plush pillows, and sighs softly when Astarion settles himself into the crook of his arm. One of Astarion’s hands curls gently above Durge’s heart, and Durge can feel the cool tip of Astarion’s nose against his neck. Durge inhales the slightly damp fragrance from Astarion’s pillowy curls, and brings his other arm to circle around Astarion, enveloping him in an embrace.

As Durge begins to drift into slumber, he hears Astarion’s voice softly say, “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

“Darling. It’s time to wake.” 

Durge cracks an eye open, the lid feeling impossibly heavy. It’s dark in the room: someone has shuttered the lanterns. 

He rolls onto his back, surprised at how stiff his body feels. He turns his head to the voice. 

“Astarion? Wha’s’ it? Wha’s wrong?” Durge’s mouth is cottony, his tongue thick. How long has he been asleep?

“On an ordinary day, it would delight me to watch you shake yourself from what seems to be an inescapable slumber, but I need you to wake up.” Astarion’s voice is clipped with urgency, and suddenly, the room is bathed in light. Durge buries his face in the plush blanket, groaning. 

“I saved the world yesterday, and this is my wake up call? No kissing or being ridden to death or professions of love?” Durge whines into the blanket, sounding as pitiful as he feels. 

“Well, darling ,” Astarion says in a biting tone, “You saved the world two days ago, so I’m afraid you slept through the hero's treatment. You will be glad to know that I gently kissed Shadowheart awake yesterday, though I haven’t yet checked to see if Gale survived the riding.”

Durge peeks a glowing red eye from beneath the blanket, glowering. 

“Are you awake yet, or shall I tell you about Halsin’s words of undying faith and commitment?” 

“You are in a mood, Astarion.” 

“Well, my partner, from whom I am in desperate need of help, seems content to lay about for yet another day, so yes , I would say I am in. a. mood.” He punctuates each word with a tap on Durge’s forehead. 

Durge sits up, trying to blink the bleary feeling out of his eyes. Astarion hands him a cup of strong black tea, which he eagerly takes. He sips it, delighted to find that it has been sweetened with honey. He hums. 

“If we are satisfactorily bribed?” Astarion asks, an eyebrow raised. 

“Proceed.” Durge says with a wave of his hand, blowing his icy breath to cool the beverage faster. 

“I need your help - ”

“I gathered that.” Durge chuckles into his mug, inhaling the fragrant, sweet fumes. He raises the drink to his lips. 

“ - hiding a body.” Astarion finishes. 

Durge chokes on his tea. 

They stand over the body, hidden just inside a door in one of the back alleys behind the Elfsong Tavern. Astarion taps his foot impatiently on the cobbles beyond the threshold. 

“I thought you’d be better at this, honestly. Isn’t this,” Astarion gestures vaguely at the body, ”kind of your thing? ”

“Well, most of my murders were committed within a very convenient distance to a bottomless chasm. It makes disposal very simple, you see. Additionally, you may recall, there was a period of time where I used viscera in all of my decorating.”

“I think we are past the point where that’s a viable idea.” 

“Oh indeed. I’m merely attempting to justify my ineptitude. I much prefer velvet these days.” 

Durge drags the body further into the building, away from prying eyes. He looks up at Astarion. “Are you not going to help?”

“Well, darling , you may recall that I am now reduced to a simple vampire spawn: I cannot enter a domicile without an invitation. That is why I need your help .” Astarion hisses. 

“Touchy.” Durge whispers to himself, but he hears Astarion hiss again. 

Durge stands. He considers for a moment, spinning the platinum ring on his third finger once around as he does. It is safer for Astarion that they dispose of this body quickly, quietly, and with as little evidence as possible. He isn’t sure what happened here, but he is certain there must be a good reason. 

The storm powers that rage within Durge haven’t abated since he denied his father-god: he’s not sure if they came from his divine creation, or if he is just cursed to have power tempest within him forever. At this moment, he is glad for it. 

Durge calls his power to his hands, spreading his fingers with precision as he draws the magic from the well inside of him, channelling a stream of fire from each fingertip to burn the corpse. The inferno rages, burning hot and quick, sending a wave of heat bursting through the room.

When the body is completely immolated, and Durge cuts the magic off - naught but a pile of ash and a few scorch marks on the floor remain. He sends a gust of wind to disperse the cinders, and prestidigitates away the marks from the floor. 

He turns to Astarion, seeking appraisal. He’s greeted by a look of absolute astonishment. 

He bows cheekily, and Astarion rolls his eyes. 

Durge steps over the threshold into the alley and closes the door behind him. Astarion quickly relocks the door with his tools. 

Durge regards the moon and stars, “It’s a nice evening. I could do with a stretch of my legs. Shall we walk?”

He offers his hand to Astarion, grinning when he takes it, and together they stroll the darkened alleyways of Baldur’s Gate. 

“How much have the streets changed in the last two hundred years?” 

They walk hand in hand, admiring the city in the moonlight. The streets are quiet enough to hear the lapping of the waves against the docks in the harbour below. 

Astarion considers the question. “Not as much as you would think, really. The general structure is much the same, although the city has expanded. The docks and Lower City have been here as long as memory serves, but I can recall some of the Upper City palaces when they were new.” 

Astarion sighs. “But Cazador didn’t let me out into the city much in the early years of my captivity. I spent most of my time in the kennels, acclimating to my new life .” He says it with bitterness. 

Durge gives his hand a light squeeze of encouragement. Astarion returns it. 

“I would love to watch you kill him again.” Durge says with passion, “That day was truly one of the best days of my life. Gods, you looked beautiful taking back your freedom. So hot .”

Astarion regards him aghast, “Can you go even one day without being an absolute freak?”

Durge shrugs, “I slept all day yesterday.” Astarion chortles.

They circle the nearby park for a while, Durge taking a small meal of cheese and dried meat from an abandoned picnic basket. 

“Are you really going to eat that, darling, when we can get you some real food at the inn?”

This is all I deserve. Detritus and discarded scraps. 

Unworthy. 

Durge winces. “It’s fine. We’ve scrounged meals from worse on the road.” 

They sit on the rim of a fountain while Durge picks at the food. He pops a piece of cheese in his mouth and hums as a burst of sharp flavour cascades along his tongue. 

“Describe it to me.” 

Durge looks over to Astarion, who has turned to face him, and sees Astarion’s gleaming red gaze lingering on his mouth. 

“Hmm. The cheese is sharp: it bites back a little.” Durge places another piece on his tongue, chewing slowly. “It bursts with flavour right away, but it doesn’t linger. There’s no additional depth to the taste, it really is just salt and fat. Delicious. I love cheese.”

Astarion scoots a little closer and runs a finger over Durge’s bottom lip as he says, “It looks so decadent when you eat, and all the little humming you do? Divine.” He quickly stands and takes Durge’s hand. “We must get you some decent food, I want to know what everything tastes like.” 

Durge chuckles, and stands, brushing the crumbs from his trousers with his free hand. 

“What is your favourite thing to eat?” Astarion asks as they wend their way to the main thoroughfare through the Lower City. 

“I daresay I haven’t tasted it yet.” Durge says with a devilish grin, patting the cheek of Astarion’s ass as he says it. Durge’s pulse quickens as he steps quickly to avoid the slap he expects Astarion to level on him. 

Astarion’s jaw drops as Durge darts past him playfully. “How delightfully crass!” He lets out a surprised laugh, “ I like it. ” He flicks his hair, glowing silver in the moonlight, “I bet I am delicious.” 

“Hmmm,” Durge hums, “There’s really only one way to find out.” 

Astarion dances in front of him, whipping around in a graceful turn, pressing his palm into Durge’s chest to stop his movement. “Promises, promises,” he purrs before pressing their lips together. 

The heat between them blazes instantly. Durge has never felt anything like this before: like a match to a flame, he catches fire like so much dry kindling at Astarion’s touch. 

When the murder-rage of Bhaal would overcome him, it was as if he became a passenger in his own body: his sense of self, his soul, shoved aside to make room for the putrid bile of Bhaal’s being. When Bhaal’s essence would leave him after the foul deeds were carried out, an ever-growing pit would be left behind, aching to be filled. It became harder to resist the Urge the larger that gnawing void became.

Now: he has never felt more present, more connected, to himself. It is as if the fire between him and Astarion is cleansing all the many years of doubt, anger and loneliness that have weighed so heavily upon him. He can almost feel the frayed edges of his soul burning clean. 

He wraps one arm around the small of Astarion’s back, and brings the other into his downy hair. He gently scratches Astarion’s scalp, drawing out one of those desperate throaty groans he loves so much. Astarion’s arms wrap around his neck, and he lifts himself up on his toes to deepen their kiss. 

Durge relinquishes the hand in Astarion’s scalp to wrap it under Astarion’s ass, lifting him up so their faces are level. He runs the point of his tongue over Astarion’s lips as he does so, groaning at his earthy, ashen taste. Astarion gasps softly, and wraps his legs around Durge’s hips, parting his lips to allow their tongues to intertwine. 

Durge feels a rumbling purr start in his chest as their bodies press together, and feels a throb in his cock so strong he shudders a gasp, breaking their kiss to catch his breath. 

They look at each other, both panting heavily. Durge can sense no apprehension, no regret or concern within either of them. He cracks a grin. Astarion returns it, and kisses him gently on the snout. He lays their foreheads together. 

With an aching slowness, Astarion unwraps his legs from Durge’s hips, and Durge gently lowers him to the ground, both of them groaning as their cocks slide against each other. Astarion lets out a throaty sigh when his feet touch the ground. 

“What, are you done already? I’ve not finished.” A voice calls from a nearby building. 

Their heads snap in the direction of the sound. A silhouetted figure leans out of a window two stories above the alleyway. Astarion and Durge speak over each other, indignant voices spilling over.

“My gods, how long have you been there? Rude.”

“ Disgusting , you’ve been watching for free?” 

Durge and Astarion share a glance and a smirk. 

The voice calls down, “Well, don’t act surprised, you’re sucking on each other’s faces like a couple leeches in the middle of a public alleyway, why wouldn’t I watch?” 

Durge shudders, but Astarion shrugs. 

They look at each other. 

“Back to the tavern?”

“I think so.” 

Durge offers his hand to Astarion once more, and together they depart the alleyway, a voice drifting behind them as they walk, “You want some company?” 

Chapter Text

“We didn’t get to see their face, they might have been comely! I can’t believe we’re turning down sex partners without even judging them by their appearance first. How often do you think we’ll be propositioned like that?” Astarion drawls at Durge, nudging him with an elbow as they make their way back to the tavern, “For all we know, that was Drizzt Do’Urden himself.” 

“You think the legendary Drizzt Do’Urden was masturbating out a dingy Lower City window while watching us kiss in the middle of the night?” Durge chuckles. Astarion can almost feel himself blushing at the rumble. “Would it have mattered if they were comely?”

“Well it certainly couldn’t have hurt,” Astarion says, flicking his hair with his free hand. 

“Forgive me if I am unprepared to share you just yet. I haven’t had a proper taste.” Durge tosses a flaming glance at him, and Astarion teases his tongue against a fang. “Would you expect a starving man to share a meal?” 

Astarion cocks an eyebrow in surprise and cracks a wide grin. He’s becoming an incorrigible flirt. “Oh that is a very good line, darling.” He feels something stirring in himself, like the twist of a knife, but sweeter and softer. Is this what it feels like to be wooed?

Astarion isn’t sure what to make of this tension between them: this is new.  

He has bedded hundreds of people. Including Durge, as a matter of fact. But then it was part of a game: one he had played so many times at Cazador’s behest, and it had become so normal. Flirt with them, bed them, lure them to their doom. A simple, effective formula. 

It had always been safer, cleaner for Astarion to stay distant. It was a skill he had to learn, but in nearly two hundred years of practice, he has mastered it. 

Now, he finds himself wanting to unlearn it. 

There is something colourful blossoming between the two of them, like blood blooming on a white silken shirt. For the first time, Astarion is finding his own joy in this game, and not just playing for the pleasure of others. The rules have changed .

It’s delicious.

“Hmmm, we certainly can’t have you starving.” 

They climb the steps to the tavern, and Astarion darts ahead to open the door for Durge with a bow. He’s graced with a chuckle. Gods, I want to taste that sound. 

Astarion says, “Why don’t you pick a table, darling. I’ll get something for you to eat.” 

Durge hums, and turns to a booth in a darkened corner, while Astarion flits to the bar.

“Hello, old friend,” he says to the barkeep while tapping his hands on the bartop, “Might I trouble you for some food and drink for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate?”  

“Are you always going to introduce yourself that way?”

“I don’t see a reason not to.”

The barkeep harrumps, “What are you drinking?” 

“A glass of your crispest white and another of your darkest red, if you don’t mind. And if you could send over any food you think might pair nicely with the white, we’ll take whatever you have.” 

Astarion begins to count out the necessary coins from his coinpurse, and as he does the barkeep quietly asks, “Did Myra make it home safely?” 

Astarion regards him. Their party has been staying here for nearly two months to prepare for the attack on the Elder Brain, and Astarion has learned a great deal about this man in that time. His name is Alan, he is a shrewd businessman, and he does not tolerate mistreatment of his employees. By most accounts he is an honest man, and those who say otherwise have usually found themselves tossed out on the street and unwelcome to return. 

“I cannot speak for certain on her condition,” Astarion says, pushing a stack of coins across the bar, “But I can say that there will be one fewer monster who tries to follow her home.”

Astarion had watched from a darkened corner of the room when the serving girl from earlier this evening - Myra, apparently - tried to gracefully deflect the unwanted attentions of this particularly persistent patron. 

He watched her say no multiple times. And that absolute bastard followed her out anyway.  He died weakly, pitifully, and too quickly. Astarion could barely finish the job before the fool stumbled over that cursed threshold that prevented him from following. Luckily a thrown dagger can enter a household (and heart) unwelcomed quite easily . 

Good riddance. 

Alan nods grimly, “He has been a problem for the last week. Came in every night. Seemed to have his eye set on Myra.” He puts two tallglasses on the counter, and turns to pull two bottles from the top shelf behind the bar. He uncorks the first, filling the glass with a clear white wine and continues, “He never acted out enough here for Skoona to get involved.”

Alan takes the other bottle, uncorks it, and pours a heavy glass of deep red wine. He pushes it, the glass of white, and half the stack of coins back across the bar. “Thank you - for whatever you did.” 

“We’ll eat and drink you out of business at this rate,” Astarion promises as he pockets the coins. 

“Hero’s discount.” Alan says gruffly, returning to the work of dusting mugs and glasses. Astarion smirks, and bows his head in thanks as he takes the two full glasses from the bar. Oh, I could get used to this. A hero’s treatment? He shakes his curls into place. It’s about time. 

He turns, and finds Durge’s gaze waiting for him. A shiver runs through him at the flaming look. There is something luscious about being watched like this: as if Durge is dying of thirst and Astarion is the only drink in sight. An aching emptiness pulls in Astarion’s fangs. One sympathises. 

He quickly manoeuvres himself between the tables and chairs to the booth where Durge is waiting: the tension between them growing tighter with every step, like a crossbow string being pulled into place. 

When Astarion finally sits opposite Durge in the darkened corner booth, he can hear Durge’s heart pounding hard, and hardly has to inhale before catching the sharp scent of desire spiralling off him . There’s a similar feeling in Astarion: he wants . It’s as if their bodies know that they are bound together in some way.

He slides the white wine across the table to Durge, while stretching one leg across the gap between them to tuck the toe of his boot under Durge’s thigh. He hears that decadent hum rumble in Durge’s chest, and feels a clawed finger start to trace circles along his calf. 

Yes, Astarion has bedded hundreds, but he can’t remember a time he’s been bedded. He finds himself wondering what that might be like: what it might be like for that thick clawed finger to explore every part of him. He exhales. 

“There will be some food coming for you shortly, love.” 

“Thank you. It means a great deal that you…take care of me.” The hand on his leg ceases its movement, and a soft tinkling sound drifts from Durge’s side of the table. He’s spinning that ring again. Astarion notices a shadow pass over Durge’s face. He has seen this look before - multiple times in the last tenday. He thought it was uncertainty. Doubt about this love between them, and their future together. But Astarion can scent the want on him, and has felt this bond grow as they freed themselves of Bhaal, the illithid tadpoles and Cazador. 

He finds himself trusting that they do truly love each other. He can feel it. Novel. 

Astarion supposes he can extend that trust just a little farther: at least until Durge is ready to talk about it. I suppose I could be convinced to try. 

Instead, he asks, “You never answered my question before: what is your favourite thing to eat? In truth, this time.”

Durge chuckles, “I reserve the right to change my answer in the future, because I have found myself craving bergamot, rosemary and brandy lately.” 

If Astarion’s heart could skip a beat, he is sure that it would at that. 

“But this summer I have found myself particularly fond of peaches. Cheese, of course.” Astarion nods, as Durge continues, “I have - I am considering taking a break from eating meat.”

Astarion takes a sip of his wine, tucking his toes a little further under Durge’s thigh, but stays silent. He finds himself wanting to know how these pieces fit together, like a tumbler fitting into place in a lock. 

“When I was Bhaal’s servant, I consumed flesh of all kinds. People , Astarion. I am ashamed ,” He hangs his head. “I find myself wanting to separate myself from all the things I did when I was his Chosen .” He spits the word out, his hand tightening on Astarion’s calf.  

Astarion leans forward, reaching his hands across the table to take Durge’s hand in his. He brings Durge’s hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle. 

“I can understand wanting to separate yourself from that.” Astarion says with sympathy as he passes over each knuckle slowly, “I have had similar feelings about what I was compelled to do by Cazador . Only very recently have I been able to separate what I want from all those feelings he left behind for me.”

The heat from those thick, scaled fingers melts into Astarion’s lips, warming them. It feels lifegiving to be warmed by these small moments of intimacy.

“I love you.” Astarion breathes into Durge’s knuckles, and he hears a small gasp from Durge as he says it. He presses a final kiss into the back of Durge’s hand, and rests back into the cushions of the booth. He continues, “Please don’t forget that we are more than they made us. They have taken enough from our past. We cannot let them have our future.” 

Astarion watches Durge take in a breath and hold it, letting it go slowly.

Before he can respond, a server comes and lays down plates of food. Astarion sees they’ve brought fishcakes, a melted cheese sandwich, and some kind of pastry with a creamy white centre. 

“Anything else I can get you, saers?” The server sweetly asks. 

Astarion cocks his eyebrows in amusement as he takes a sip of wine. Durge shakes his head and thanks the server, passing her a silver coin by way of dismissal. She curtsies low and leaves. 

“Tuck in, saer . We’ve had a long night, you must be hungry,” Astarion says cheekily as he unwraps his leg from under him and tucks that foot, too, under Durge’s thigh.  

“It would have been an even longer night if that had been Drizzt Do’Urden,” Durge chuckles as he bites into the sandwich, humming with pleasure. He sips his wine and his hum becomes a groan. 

“It may still be a long night yet.” Astarion breathes, toying with his lip as he watches Durge eat. 

Astarion watches hungrily as Durge licks those decadent fingers, finishing the last bit of creme from the pastry. Gods, to be that creme. 

Durge chuckles, turning his head to look around the room, but notices the sky has begun to pinken at the windows. He stands quickly, wiping his face with a cloth napkin, brushing the crumbs from his lap. Gods, to be those crumbs. 

“Come, Astarion. We need to get you to our room before you and that lecherous stare become ashes in the morning light.” 

“Lecherous? You wound me. At worst it’s salacious .” Astarion pouts, but he takes Durge’s hand and follows him through the dining room and up the stairs. 

They enter their room, the light from the night table lamps flickering invitingly on the plush bed linens. Astarion watches Durge turn to face him, and he presses his back against the door to close it. Durge draws a knuckle down Astarion’s cheek, and he can’t help but turn into the warmth. 

Durge steps forward, towering over him. Astarion has to tip his head up to keep their gazes locked. Durge leans over Astarion, inhaling his perfume deeply. Bergamot, rosemary and brandy. Astarion finds himself in need of a shuddering breath to quell the tightening in his chest. 

In that deep, gravelly voice, Durge asks, “Shall we see our friends for a while before we turn in?” His warm breath is like a soft caress on Astarion’s neck. “Jaheira, at least, will be up with the dawn.” 

Astarion feels those delicious fingers trace up the back of his neck, those lovely claws settling into his hair, gently scratching against his scalp. 

He has not allowed another person to touch his hair of his own free will in so long. Maybe a hundred years or more. Every time someone would try, he found it so easy to deflect them: most people are quick to succumb to receiving their own pleasure. And Astarion is very good at giving it. His hair is the one part of his body he has had some measure of control over in nearly two hundred years. 

But now, finally: he wants to feel everything. And this? This is divine . It feels so good Astarion hears himself groan. 

Durge brings their lips close as if he could swallow the sound. They breathe each other in for a moment, their fiery gazes burning as they revel in the shared heat.  

“We probably should visit them, darling,” Astarion sighs into Durge’s lips, “They’ll be lost without us.” 

With a coy, simmering glance, Durge whispers against Astarion’s lips, “Perhaps Shadowheart would like another wake up kiss.” 

Astarion inhales sharply in surprise, catching strong notes of lust pouring off Durge: but it’s tempered by something else, bitter but smooth. Jealousy?

He feels the claws in his scalp scratch again, drawing out another throaty moan. Astarion is plunged in arousal, drunk on the sharp touch and soft words. He draws his hands up to trace Durge’s broad chest, aching for more contact between them.

Astarion feels Durge’s other hand pass down the front of his vest, claws clicking against the ornamental binds holding it together. He feels a finger hook into one of his belt loops, and Durge pulls on it gently, slowly pressing their bodies together as he says, “Perhaps Halsin needs more words of affection and admiration.”

Astarion tries to kiss Durge, to taste all the promises he’s making with his touches and scents. But Durge turns his face away, slitted eyes blazing. Their chests are pressing firmly together now, and the frenzied beat of Durge’s heart pounds through him, body and soul. He can feel himself hardening, his body answering the siren song of that luscious pulse. 

He feels a gentle tug on his scalp, encouraging him to turn his head to the side. With a shudder at the intimacy of it, he bares the porcelain column of his throat, growling as he does.

Durge’s hot breath along traces his collarbone, dragging slowly past the marks Cazador left on him. Durge brings their mouths close, eyes heavy with lust, and Astarion darts in for the relief of the kiss he’s been denied. Durge is ready: he tightens the grip in Astarion’s curls just enough to keep their lips from touching, and then resumes his kisses along Astarion’s jaw. 

Astarion feels Durge run that hot, pointed tongue down his neck and over his scars as his hand leaves Astarion’s hair, tracing a claw lightly down the opposite side of his neck as he plants kisses along Astarion’s jaw and chin. The scales on his snout scratch gently against Astarion’s sensitive flesh, stealing the breath from his lungs. 

Gods. 

He must have said it out loud, because Durge chuckles into his neck. Astarion gasps at the feel of it rumble through him, his cock straining against his trousers. 

Astarion is coiled tight as a spring, ready to snap when he feels Durge whisper against his ear, “And we must find out if Gale survived the riding.” 

Astarion decides that he is done with this flirting . He wants this kiss, and he’s going to have it. 

Using all of his considerable nimbleness, he unhooks the finger Durge has laced in his belt loop, taking the hand in his while he darts out from under Durge’s embrace. The momentum of the spin puts Durge off balance, allowing Astarion to grab his other hand and flip their positions. 

Astarion steps on Durge’s feet lightly, securing him in place, while pressing each of Durge’s hands firmly into the door. He sees Durge’s flaming red eyes go wide with surprise, but he closes them with a groan as Astarion presses their hips together, letting Durge feel the full length of his arousal. Astarion feels a deep, rumbling purr start in Durge’s chest. 

Confident that Durge is properly pinned to the door, Astarion releases his hands and brings his own up to Durge’s face, one cupping his jaw and the other grabbing one of the horns at Durge’s crest. 

He pulls their lips together, and nearly comes undone at the taste. He draws his tongue along Durge’s lips, and Durge parts them, allowing their tongues to intertwine. 

He feels Durge’s arms wrap under his legs, and he’s lifted up off the ground. As Durge carries him away from the door, their kisses become softer, sweeter. Astarion slowly pours kisses all over Durge’s face, dragging his hands down the soft pebbled skin of his neck to flirt with the collar of his robe. 

Durge sits on the bench at the end of the bed, settling Astarion into a straddle over him. Astarion rolls his hips, drawing out a hiss of pleasure from Durge as their cocks grind together. They are both hard , and Astarion moves to kiss Durge on the neck, inhaling deeply. Durge’s scent is thick with cherry-red desire; the bitter envy is gone. There is a note of something else, something floral or herbal and so soft it’s hard to make out. Whatever it is, it’s intoxicating. 

“Astarion.” Durge whispers into his neck, and Astarion feels a throb in his cock. Fuck, that voice can have all of me. Astarion kisses his way back to Durge’s lips before he pulls back to regard the expression on that well-sculpted face. 

“Yes?” Astarion breathes onto those indulgent lips. 

“What do you want?” Durge asks softly, trailing his hands slowly up and down Astarion’s back, “I don’t want to do anything for which you - or we -  aren’t ready. But the closer I am to you, the closer I want to be.” He leans in and kisses Astarion so tenderly, so lovingly , that Astarion feels a tightness in his throat. Choking on emotion instead of a cock, what is happening to me?

“Tell me what you want,” Durge pleads.

Astarion exhales as he lays his forehead to the flat plane of Durge’s head, and they breathe each other in for a moment. Durge continues to rub Astarion’s back, and it makes him feel so safe . Astarion has no doubt, even though he can feel the proof of both their arousals, that he could stop this, and Durge would fully accept it. 

But he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to live. He wants to savour everything he can for as long as he can, and he wants to do it with the person he loves . 

“I want to live.” Astarion rolls his hips again, drinking in the surprised moan from Durge as he grinds their cocks together. “I want you,” He kisses Durge with a fury. “I want all of the depraved hedonistic debauchery we can do together.” 

Durge chuckles into his lips and Astarion nearly bursts. 

He feels claws softly drag down his back until Durge cups his ass. “Wait,” Astarion breathes into Durge’s lips. He freezes immediately. 

“What do you want?” Astarion asks, settling his palms on Durge’s chest. “I am very content to enjoy you just like this, and nothing more, if that is what you need.”

Durge studies him for a moment, then stands, lifting Astarion again, in one smooth motion. Their gaze unbreaking, he slowly walks them around the bench and so, so gently lays Astarion down on their bed. There’s a tightness in Astarion’s chest, and he finds it blissfully difficult to breathe. 

“Yes. I want you, Astarion.” Durge says as slowly moves himself over Astarion, placing a knee between Astarion’s legs so their hips are just offset. As he settles himself lower, Astarion lets out a soft moan as he feels Durge’s erection settle into the crook of his groin. He hears a similar throaty groan from Durge. 

Durge moves his snout to the cradle of Astarion’s neck, and Astarion hears him whisper, “I have never wanted anything as much as I want you.” A gentle kiss on the neck, “To touch you.” A flick of the tongue across his scars. “To taste you.”  A soft exhale tickles the lobe of his ear, “But I can’t help but worry that I - '' Astarion hears him let out a shuddering exhale, “- that I am not - “

A soft rap at the door and the click of the knob is all the warning they get before Gale peers his head into the room. “Ah, I thought I heard the two of you return - ”

“Gale, my dear old friend, if you know what’s good for you - ” Astarion snarls with venom from under Durge’s weight. I will kill him. I’ll do it. 

“ - though it does seem that I may be interrupting - ” Gale says, as if it weren’t demandingly obvious. 

“- you will turn around on the heel of those fabulous boots and walk out that door right now.” Astarion hisses. Mystra might even thank me for relieving her from his prattle.

“ - but I’m afraid we’ve received a letter of some import. From the patriars.” 

Durge leans down to peck Astarion on the lips, a disappointingly chaste end to their rudely interrupted dalliance. As he rises, Durge grinds his hips one final time with a smirk and rolls off Astarion, leaving him aching and cold. He sighs heavily. It makes him feel a little better. 

“Oh the patriars!” He says flippantly, sitting up and levelling a crimson glare upon Gale. “A letter from those fine fat bastards must be more important than the reclamation of the freedom of my physical body and all the pleasures that entails.” Astarion hears Durge chuckle at that, “And to think, Gale! I was ready to decorate our floor with your viscera. What a tragedy to unseam from nave to chop such a diligent messenger of the city’s great and good patriars.” He flips his hair into place and rolls off the bed. 

“I’ll - I’ll just be going.” Gale says. 

“Oh no no no .” Astarion insists, “We’ll all be going. If you’re going to keep me from the feast of pleasure I was planning to give and receive , just an absolute buffet of orgasms   -” 

“Astarion!” Durge laughs. 

“ Indecent.” Gale mutters. 

“ - then it had better be for a damn good reason.” 

‘A party? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Darling, did you hear? A party! ”

Astarion perches himself on the arm of Durge’s chair in the common room. Gale has just read them the invitation they received from the patriars to join them in the Upper City for a victory party. He kisses the top of Durge’s head, kicking his feet with excitement. 

Durge chuckles and draws an arm around Astarion’s waist, pulling him into his lap. “I love how excited you are about this.” He nuzzles Astarion’s neck with his snout. 

“Now is not the time, darling, I have to plan what we’re going to wear.” Astarion moves his head out of the way and swats Durge’s hand. 

“Moonmaiden save me, the two of you are hopeless. This is almost as bad as when Isobel and Aylin were here.” Shadowheart lounges on the couch nearest the fire, foot dangling over the edge. 

“Shadowheart, how are you going to do your hair?” Astarion asks, unfazed, “Do you want me to plait it for you? It won’t be the nicest hair at the party - “

“That honour will of course be going to Boo.” Minsc says 

“ - but it should do.” Astarion says with a glare. Minsc is cleaning his nails with a butter knife. Absolute savagery. 

“If you must.” Shadowheart drawls, but Astarion can see that hidden smirk. She loves it. 

“You love it.” He snipes at her, and she rolls her eyes. 

Durge pats Astarion on the hip to encourage him to move, and whispers, “I need to go speak to Withers. I’ll be back.”

Astarion pays him no mind. A party!

“What of Wyll and Karlach? Will they be joining us from Avernus for the occasion?” 

“We are not sure,” Jaheira says from her spot by the fire. She’s sewing a frayed pocket of Minsc’s trousers. 

“I don’t suppose Lae’zel will deign to join us.” Shadowheart says. It’s not a question. 

“Bitter much?” Astarion prods. 

“I am afraid I cannot join in the revelry either, my friends.” Halsin says as he stands, “I must be getting back to Reithwyn Town and Moonrise Towers. I have been away too long: Oliver and Thaniel will need my help.”

“You can’t stay for one more night?” Astarion flirts, “Who knows what manner of celebrity might be at this party? We ran into Drizzt Do’Urden just last night.” 

“It wasn’t Drizzt Do’Urden!” Durge’s voice carries across the room. 

“We’ll never know for sure!” Astarion calls back. 

“I’m afraid not, Astarion. I’ve delayed too long already. But I do hope we meet again soon. We’ll celebrate properly, then.” Halsin nods to them, and moves to begin packing his things. 

“Minsc? Jaheira?” 

“No! No.” Jaheira calls, waving her sewing needle wildly. “I am too old for late night elbow rubbing. Ha! I have known these patriars and the patriars before them, and they are all the same. This will be no party, it will be chaos.”

“I know , my dear, that’s why it’s fun!”

“Minsc will only be going if Boo is going. Boo?” A series of indignant squeaks floats out of Minsc’s chest pocket, “Boo says that a night of pomp and grandeur is not his kind of party.” 

“When did you all become so boring?” Astarion groans. He turns to Gale, “Gale. Gale, darling. Please rescue me from the pestilence of this apathy.”

“Will you promise to stop threatening to unseam me?” Gale says, thumbing through the pages of some ponderous tome. 

“No, never. But I will help you choose what to wear.” Astarion offers graciously. 

“My clothes are fine.”

“They absolutely are not, and if you speak such foolishness again I’ll assume you’ve gone mad and have to unseam you,” Astarion says with a wink, “Your boots are quite nice though.”  

“My love,” Astarion hears from behind him in that rumbling voice, “As much as I love to watch you at work, I must steal Gale away for a moment. Gale?” 

“Of course, my friend.” They depart to an adjoining room. Astarion turns back to Shadowheart. 

“Shadowheart! What are you going to wear?” 

Shadowheart sighs, “Anything that will get me a lay.” 

“Yes. Exactly. We should match.” 

Chapter Text

It takes Astarion some time to settle down from the excitement. Durge watches him all the while. He flits around the room, picking out clothes for Shadowheart and Gale, layering colours and textures artfully: he has an impressive eye for shapes and tones, and seems to enjoy the work of transforming many separate things into one cohesive whole. He’s talented . Skillful. 

Durge feels a sense of pride watching Astarion work. They are free to enjoy these moments together. 

Unworthy. 

The thought stings, like salt water in an open wound. Durge turns the ring around his third finger. 

He watches absently while Gale and Shadowheart indulge Astarion’s whims. He has them try different accessories, and even goes so far as to select fragrances for each of them. Gale blushes when Astarion flatters him - “You look good enough to eat, darling, although not to my particular taste” - and Shadowheart falls asleep as Astarion plaits her hair. 

Any other time, he would be mesmerised as Astarion’s long, pale fingers weave through Shadowheart’s silken hair, slowly working toward some intricate design he has planned. Instead, Durge is drawn away from the present, haunted by his earlier conversation with Withers. 

“I fear some amount of Bhaal’s influence still holds sway within me. I find myself overcome at times by unwelcome thoughts.” 

“Thou hast been disinherited by Bhaal. He has taken that which was once a part of him. The thoughts of which you speak are thine, and thine alone.” 

“What - what am I to do about them?” 

“The gift of thine life was freely given. It, too, is thine, and thine alone. But it is a gift thou may share with whomever thou choosest, burden and blessing alike.”

“I don’t suppose you can explain what that means?”

“No.”

Somehow, it is far worse to know these thoughts of worthlessness are just his. It clearly wasn’t the tadpole: the thoughts are more persistent since they defeated the Elder Brain. He expected them to be some vestigial remnant of Bhaal's influence, and it was easier to overcome them as a result.

His resistance against Bhaal had begun to feel natural, after a time - his true nature rebelling against the uncontrollable, unspeakable evils he was made to do. But if this new darkness is just him , how can he fight it?

Worthless. Nothing. Weak.

“Darling? Are you alright? You looked to be a million realms away.”

Durge turns to see Astarion’s crimson eyes regarding him with concern. 

“Yes,” Durge lies, bile rising in his throat as he says it, “I’m fine. Just lost in thought.” 

“We should get some rest. All this work is cutting into my beauty sleep,” Astarion sighs as he stretches dramatically. Durge is grateful for Astarion’s drama: it pulls him out of his own head. 

He takes in a breath, and holds it for a moment before letting it go. It must be late into the morning, if not midday by now. He nods. 

“Yes. Bath, and then bed.” 

Durge convinces Astarion to join him in the bath. Admittedly, it takes very little effort - all he has to do is shake the liquid soap bottle and offer to wash Astarion’s hair. It seems like before he can blink, Astarion has undressed and is in the tub with a wide grin on his face, fangs gleaming in the light from the lanterns, hair sopping wet. 

Even with all the weight of the horrors Durge has wrought weighing him down, sitting like a stone in the pit of his stomach, he can’t help but chuckle. 

Durge takes his time working the soap through Astarion’s downy curls, savouring every groan as he massages Astarion’s scalp. As he works, he can feel Astarion relaxing against his chest. Everything about the moment is intimate, but not sexual, and there is something so relieving about it. To know they can both feel content, just like this. 

There’s a pang of something like heartache in Durge’s chest. He deserves better than a monster. 

Durge dips Astarion’s hair beneath the water, rinsing it thoroughly, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead when he finishes. Astarion takes each of Durge’s hands and wraps them around himself before relaxing into the crook of Durge’s arm. They lay there, enveloped in each other, absorbing the heat and steam from the bath, for some time. 

Durge whispers quietly, “Who are we going to be at the party tonight, Astarion?”

“Hmm?” Astarion questions sleepily, “What do you mean?” 

“Are you going to be Astarion, the mysteriously pale and alluring city magistrate?” Durge kisses Astarion’s temple softly. “Am I to be your friend, or your favourite travelling companion?”

Astarion turns in Durge’s lap, sitting to face him. He places his hands gently on Durge’s neck, tracing small circles on the soft, crimson scales there. 

“I think, for the first time in almost two hundred years, I would like to go to a party as myself. As Astarion, hero of Baldur’s Gate.” He shakes his damp curls dramatically as he says it. Durge chuckles, and draws a knuckle down Astarion’s pale, wet shoulder. In the soft glow of the nightstand lanterns, his features are thrown into sharp relief, every angle and curve amplified. He is beautiful.

“You should go as yourself, Astarion. You are - “ Durge can’t find the right words. He starts to draw his knuckle down Astarion’s cheek, but the sight of his own hand, all sharp edges and deadly claws, just mars Astarion’s perfection. His hand sinks below the water. 

“You deserve to be yourself.” Durge says with finality. 

“ We deserve to be ourselves ,” Astarion corrects, fishing Durge’s hand out of the water and kissing his knuckles before turning his face into Durge’s hand in a request for touch. 

Durge can’t deny him anything, even if he himself doesn’t deserve it. He cups Astarion’s face, slowly drawing the pad of his thumb along Astarion’s chiselled cheekbone. 

Astarion continues, “And you, of course, will come as my partner. Together we will go as the saviours of the city, and two spawn who are quite in love.” 

Durge nods, but feels unsettled. No one could look at him and see anything other than a Bhaalspawn . Astarion should have someone on his arm who is equally talented and charming: someone like Halsin, or Shadowheart. 

He takes in a breath, and holds it for a moment. He trusts Astarion. That means he has to trust Astarion to know what he wants, and, for better or worse, that appears to be him. 

“I do love you,” Durge exhales softly, “You know that, right?”

“Of course, darling,” Astarion smirks at him, standing to make his way out of the tub. In an instant, Durge’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him, beads of water cascading down his slender, lean muscles, “How could you not?”

Astarion leaves the tub, wrapping himself in two towels - one for his body, one for his hair. He grabs a third towel and waves it playfully, gesturing for Durge to exit. 

Durge rolls his eyes, but stands and steps out of the tub. Astarion wraps the towel around him, pressing a kiss to his bare chest as he says, “And how could I not love you?”

Durge wakes to a soft kiss on his throat, the cold tip of a nose nuzzling into his jaw. It tickles just enough for him to chuckle, and he swears he can feel Astarion smiling into his neck. He cracks an eye open. Astarion is seated next to him, and over his shoulder on the nightstand Durge spots a mug with steam spiralling from it. 

“Oooh, tea? For me?” Durge sits up, reaching for the mug. Astarion snatches it away, deep red eyes flashing playfully. Durge pouts. 

“Good evening, darling,” Astarion says sweetly, planting a gentle kiss on Durge’s snout, “How was your sleep?” 

“Lingering,” Durge yawns, and as quickly as he can, tries to snatch the mug away from Astarion. He’s not remotely close. He pouts a little further.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Astarion lilts, “Greedy today, are we?”

Durge hums his affirmation. Astarion rolls his eyes and passes Durge the cup as he says, “I was going to make you work a little harder for this, love, but you’ve got an irresistible desperation about you tonight. I like it.” 

Durge takes the tea and sips it. It’s been sweetened with honey, just the way he likes, but there’s another flavour carried by the bold black tea, something light and almost floral. Peach? He looks at Astarion in astonishment. 

“Is it good? I asked the kitchen to add a little juice, but I couldn’t be sure if the taste would come through. Is it too strong?” 

“Astarion,” Durge says through a lump of emotion in his throat, “It’s perfect. You are too kind.” 

“Try not to spread that around, love, I only do nice things for you,” Astarion says flippantly, “If everyone finds out they’ll expect me to start - I don’t know -  taking in orphans or paying alms to the poor.” He flicks his hair into place. 

“What a tragedy that would be.” 

“I know. ” 

Durge chuckles, leaning against the headboard as he sips his tea. It’s achingly delicious. He savours the whole cup, willing it to stay full and warm. 

Astarion stands. Durge hadn’t noticed that he’s dressed in a very short red robe instead of his usual ruffled shirt and trousers, the hem just barely grazing the bottom of his perfectly sculpted ass. Durge’s pulse quickens. 

He can tell Astarion hears it, because he coquettishly spins, shifting his weight to one hip so the robe parts suggestively around a thigh. “Oh this old thing? I just threw it on to get ready.” He pads to the wardrobe they share and starts detailing the matching outfits they’ll be wearing to the party. 

Astarion has a slim-fitting doublet of white and silver picked out for himself, the embroidery fabulously intricate. There are red accents beaded throughout, as if the doublet was drawn through the finest mist of crystalline blood. On anyone else, the effect would be garish, but Durge is certain that on Astarion it will be nothing short of sublime. 

From the wardrobe Astarion pulls a black ensemble for Durge. It’s beautiful. In all the places Astarion’s outfit is extravagant, Durge’s is reserved. They’ll complement each other perfectly. 

There is a black sleeveless jerkin with the same embroidery as Astarion’s, but also done in black, so it adds texture without drawing away from the inky depths of the fabric. The trousers are slim cut, but look comfortable, a lighter fabric than Astarion has picked for himself. 

And the shoes . The shoes are embroidered with silver and red, every bit as intricate and splendid as Astarion’s doublet. Stunning.  

“You have such a talent.” Durge slides out from under the covers, pacing around the bed to kiss Astarion’s forehead before he drops a heavy arm around Astarion’s shoulders, nuzzling his cheekbone into Astarion’s hair, “I am so impressed by you, Astarion.” 

Durge can swear he feels Astarion shiver just a little at his name. Durge smirks as he asks, “Are there any accessories you want me to wear?” 

“Just this.” Astarion says, taking Durge’s hands in his. His touch is cool, but it still lights a fire in Durge’s core when Astarion turns the platinum ring into place. 

“Is it time?” Durge asks, bringing Astarion’s ring finger up to kiss the matching warding bond ring he wears. 

“Yes. We have just enough time to get ready, fetch Gale and Shadowheart, and arrive at the party fashionably late.” Astarion stands on his toes to peck Durge on a cheek, and Durge feels a blush rise under his scales. They separate and begin to dress. 

“I have a proposal to make tonight a little more -,” Astarion twirls his hand for dramatic effect, “- interesting, darling.” 

“Interesting? I was looking forward to a quiet, trite evening with high society’s finest,” Durge jests as he laces his fine breeches, “I expect to be welcomed with open arms, I imagine they always have Bhaalspawn at their fancy to-dos in the Upper City.” 

“Ha!” Astarion laughs, “You are more right than you might think. At the very least these parties are full of thinly veiled dark urges: everyone is always out to get something. Including us.” Astarion tosses him a playful glance as he pulls on his silk undershirt. 

“Oh? What are we after?” 

“I thought we could make a wager. Whoever pulls the most valuable item off any mark at the party gets a reward of their choosing.” 

Durge considers this for a moment as he starts to lace up the jerkin, “You must already have your reward in mind to offer me anything of my choosing. Dangerous of you. I have a long record of self-indulgent depravity, you know.”

“Promises, promises,” Astarion purrs, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he shrugs into his doublet. Gods, the temptation . Astarion continues, “But I’ve seen the depths of your depravity darling, and I’m quite sure I can handle another rooftop picnic if necessary. ” 

"What are the boundaries for choosing my reward, when I win?” Durge asks, sitting on the bench at the end of the bed as he pulls black silk socks on his feet. 

“I won’t impose any boundaries on you,” Astarion says, walking over to sit next to Durge on the bench, “I trust your judgement.” Durge watches as Astarion rolls his red silk socks up over his ankles. For a moment, he imagines peeling that sock back off that pale foot, dragging his claws softly against that perfect, porcelain skin. He clears his throat. 

Astarion slips his slender feet into a pair of white, heeled leather boots and begins to lace them up. His long fingers work quickly with precise movement, and Durge is entranced.

The sexual tension between them has been ratcheting up for days: if Gale hadn’t interrupted them this morning, they might have dismantled the boundaries they’ve had in place for months. Durge finds himself conflicted. 

On one hand, the attraction between them is undeniable - an intoxicating blend of loving partnership and carnal lust - and this morning felt right , as instinctual and natural as the tempest of magic storming in Durge’s soul. Even though they’ve been together before, he knows Astarion was performing, not participating, and Durge was desperate for any sense of belonging - he slept with Lae’zel in the beginning, too. Everything is different between them, now, and the thought of exploring that is exciting .

But on the other hand is the weight of all the violating crimes that have been committed against Astarion, and all the sins Durge has committed against others. He might not remember every terrible deed, but he is certain that he haunts the nightmares of any of his victims who are still living. Prior to his death, Scleritas Fel revealed some disturbing details about Durge’s sexual proclivities when he was the scion of Bhaal, and he struggles to separate that horrible vision of himself from his own lived truth. 

His worst fear is that he will lose control and become as much a monster as Cazador in Astarion’s eyes. The possibility is crippling. But it’s no less than I would deserve.

Durge winces at the thought, and he feels a cool hand rest on his knee. 

“I want you to know that you don’t owe me this. We don’t have to play any games, or do anything at all, if you wouldn’t enjoy it,” Astarion says in earnest. 

“No,” Durge insists, as he pats Astarion’s hand, “Please. Forgive me a moment of weakness. I want to play every game there is, with you as my partner. Come.” He stands, slipping his feet into the embroidered shoes, offering his hand in a gesture for Astarion to stand with him. 

He does, and at Durge’s insistence Astarion turns in a slow circle, showing off the product of his talent. Durge licks his lips. 

“You are breathtaking, Astarion,” He swallows hard, taking a step closer and pressing a kiss to Astarion’s cheek, “You’ve outdone yourself this time.” He takes a deep breath, savouring Astarion’s herbal perfume as he draws a knuckle over the embroidery on his chest, scales clinking softly against the crimson beads. “What a shame it will be, when I win , to tear these fabulous clothes to shreds so I can touch every inch of you.” 

Astarion hums as he raises his chin in request for a kiss. Durge obliges, enjoying the new angle Astarion’s heeled boots offer: he doesn’t have to lower his head quite so far to bring their lips together. The kiss is slow and deep, and it slithers hot through Durge, burning his doubt away. 

Durge breaks them apart, pressing a gentle peck against Astarion’s forehead. Astarion sighs. 

“We should be going,” Astarion says, straightening Durge’s jerkin at his waist before drawing his cool hands up Durge’s bare arms. A shudder runs through him at the light touch. 

Durge cocks his head to the side in question, “What of your reward for our wager?” 

“Well, darling, my reward is quite simple,” Astarion says flippantly as he takes a step back, feathering his hair into place with a flick of his wrist, “ When I win, I want you to give me something we both deserve.” His tone turns insistent, almost biting, as he speaks. 

“What is that?” Durge asks, a sour pit sinking in his gut.

“The truth.” Astarion says with conviction. “I want you to tell me what has been bothering you; whatever it is that has you hesitating. Because if there is something standing in the way of our happiness, we need to talk about it. Yes?” 

Durge turns the warding bond ring around his finger. He takes in a breath and holds it. This is it. He’ll realise just how absolutely fucked I am, and he’ll leave. I am unworthy, and this will prove it. Durge exhales, head hanging heavy, his heart gripped by grief. 

“Yes.”   

Chapter Text

Durge spirals as they walk to the party. He’s going to leave. He deserves to leave. He should leave. He spins the platinum warding bond ring around his finger, again and again. 

Shadowheart and Astarion lead the four of them through the dark streets, chattering about their hopes for the party. Shadowheart details to Astarion what she’s looking for in a sex partner so he can help her find suitable candidates. 

“Someone tall. Male, I think.”

“Are we open to githyanki?” Astarion asks innocently. Shadowheart levels a venomous glare on him. When he appears suitably chastised, she continues. 

“Not tonight. But what about a dragonborn ? Would you recommend it?” Shadowheart whispers conspiratorially, nudging Astarion in the ribs while tossing a glance over her shoulder to Durge. 

“Oh darling. There’s nothing like it,” Astarion purrs, “The scales? The tongue? Divine. And don’t even get me started on the - “

“Astarion!” Durge and Gale cry out together: Gale in admonishment, Durge in laughter. He is swept up in Astarion’s performance, the spectacle of it diffusing the dark tension within him in some small measure. He chuckles again when Astarion turns to them, aghast. 

“Gale? What do you think of me? It’s not as if I was going to say anything inappropriate!” Astarion appears hurt, but Durge spots the telltale twinkle of mischief in his crimson eyes. 

“I - “ Gale sighs, “Of course, you’re right. I’ve misjudged you in the past, and I don’t mean to do so again. Please continue.” 

Durge has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Poor Gale has been played for a rube, and it’s almost hard to watch. But like everything else Astarion does, Durge finds himself bewitched. 

“Thank you,” Astarion says graciously. He turns back to Shadowheart, patting her hand as she threads it through his offered elbow, “So I was saying, as it relates to the dragonborn: their scales and tongues may be divine, but darling , don’t even get me started on their cocks.” 

Durge’s laughter, and Gale’s shocked gasp, bounce off the cobbles. Astarion drops back to take Durge’s hand as Shadowheart moves to comfort Gale. 

“It’s unseemly!” Gale insists.

“Oh Gale, that’s enough. You’re the one always going on about Mystra’s pleasure domes, and you do that in the broad light of day,” Shadowheart counters.

“As I’ve said! They are a perfectly legitimate architectural feature!”

They continue to banter, Shadowheart in defence of Astarion - “ He’s in love!” - as they walk over the bridge that separates the Lower City from the Upper City. Astarion encourages Durge to trail back, letting the others walk ahead until they are out of earshot. 

“Darling,” Astarion squeezes Durge’s hand, “Please don’t let my silly game stop us from having fun tonight. You’re tense as a bowstring.” 

“It’s that obvious?”

“I can hear you spinning your ring. I’m surprised you haven’t worn your finger down to the bone. And I would prefer all your delicious fingers remain intact: I have plans for them later.”

Durge chuckles and rolls his eyes. He sees Astarion’s face brighten at that, and it makes him grin. Astarion has a way of bringing him back from the brink, every time. 

As they walk, Astarion insists, “What can I do?”

“Nothing, Astarion. It is right that you should know my thoughts and feelings. You are owed them - ” Astarion opens his mouth to protest, but Durge quickly continues, “ - despite your objections. But more than that I - I want you to know them. To know me. I just - I don’t know how.” Durge struggles with the words, feeling more like a failure with every passing moment, “I am - afraid.” He finally admits, pathetically. 

Astarion gives Durge’s hand a gentle squeeze as he considers this. Durge watches Astarion’s face as he thinks, his pale hair and skin aglow in the moonlight. Durge can’t get a sense of what’s going on in that head of his, and it makes him lament the tadpole’s absence. He reaches his thumb up on his free hand, and turns the ring around his finger once.

“This is all new to me, too.” Astarion finally says in a quiet voice, “I have no idea what we’re doing, or how to do it.” 

Astarion brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses each of Durge’s knuckles before he continues, “You have given me something to love, and that is worth any peril,” Astarion says it all with a sense of finality. His tone quickly changes to a quip, “So unless the dark secret you are keeping from me is that you intend to take up the cloth and go celibate,” Durge chokes out a laugh as Astarion smirks, “I will love you through it.”

For once, the hateful voice in Durge’s mind is quiet.

The choking pressure around Durge’s heart releases a little, enough for him to take a breath. When he exhales, he can feel more of the sour tension leaving him. Durge tugs on Astarion’s hand gently, encouraging him to stop walking, and pulls their bodies together in an embrace. 

“Thank you, Astarion,” Durge whispers into his downy curls. He pulls away, kissing Astarion’s forehead as they part. When they continue their walk down the thoroughfare he says in jest, “Shall I tell you about my unfortunate vows of chastity now, or after the party?”

“Oh after, darling. Let me go on believing I have a chance to be tasted tonight.” They grin at each other. 

Astarion continues, “As a matter of fact: I want to change my reward for the wager, seeing as you already agreed to give me what I wanted in the first place.”

Durge rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He has too much power over me. “Fair enough,” he says, “What would you like in its place?”  

“ When I win tonight, my sweet, I want to see if bergamot and lavender can usurp peaches as your favourite summer flavour.” 

A short time later, they arrive in the Manorborn district of the Upper City, where the city's wealthiest families have separated themselves from the fog and filth of the Lower City. The streets are immaculate, and the buildings magnificent. Each manor is distinctive, in most cases bearing large sigils and banners emblazoned with familial crests.

Something about it sets Durge’s teeth on edge. Everything here exudes ownership. Possession. Authority. Cazador held - and tortured - Astarion in a palace just like these for nearly 200 years, and no one ever held him to account, not until Astarion killed him. For a moment, Durge wonders how many other crimes are being committed and ignored in this part of the city. 

Who am I to judge? Durge knows that horrors can be committed anywhere. It’s people, not places, that indulge in atrocities. He sighs heavily, and he feels Astarion’s cool hand squeeze his in response. He needs to pull himself together. Astarion deserves the best night. He squeezes Astarion’s hand twice in reassurance.

He lets out a tense breath and asks, “What are you most excited for tonight, Astarion?”

“Assuming you mean aside from winning our wager,” Astarion teases playfully, “I’m all agog for the music . I hope they have decent performers: I hear these Upper City families can be prudish with their entertainment.” 

The street outside Ravenshade Manor, the location indicated on their invitation, is lively. Braziers are lit with illusory flames of many colours leading up the precisely hewn marble steps of the manor. Between each brazier are carved ice statues of gemstones that throw the magical light in magnificent fashion across the manor and surrounding streets. The echoes of lively music float toward them with the overlapping chatter of many voices.

“But it looks like we might be lucky tonight,” Astarion chirps, raising his eyebrows to Durge in excitement as a wide smile sculpts his face. Durge pulls Astarion in to taste that smile, and the fire of their kiss burns the last of the frayed edges of his nerves away. 

As they part, Durge catches Shadowheart’s eye just outside the open manor doors. She waves, and Astarion drops Durge’s hand as he excitedly waves back, grinning wildly. Seeing those pearly fangs glint in the moonlight sends Durge’s heart pounding. 

“You’re finally here,” Shadowheart interrupts with a sigh, “Gale abandoned me immediately to talk to some other silver haired woman. Another wizard from what I could gather.” She flicks her head as if to toss her braid over her shoulder, but of course her hair is tied up in an elegant series of layered plaits and the action only serves to shake one loose. 

“Darling! Cease your violent whinging !” Astarion rebukes. “You’ll undo all my hard work!” He tucks the plait back into place and secures its pin. He inspects the rest of her ensemble, straightening the neckline of the backless extravaganza he’s picked for her so the red fabric frames her collarbones perfectly. She rolls her eyes and bats his hands away.

“Stop fussing, it makes your forehead wrinkles stand out,” Shadowheart snipes. Astarion gasps and looks to Durge in horror. He shakes his head, refuting Shadowheart’s claim, but has to fake a cough to hide his laugh as Astarion turns back to Shadowheart with a scowl that wrinkles his forehead. 

“Don’t be cruel, darling, it’s unbecoming.” Astarion snarls.

“I wouldn’t need to be cruel if you would stop - ”

“Why don’t the two of you scout out the entertainment, and I’ll get us each a glass of wine?” Durge interrupts. He doesn’t want Shadowheart’s sour mood to infect Astarion’s evening, and he knows her well enough to know that if she keeps brooding the night will be wholly lost. 

“Excellent idea, my love,” Astarion says gratefully, taking Shadowheart’s hand and threading it through his elbow as he pulls her through the manor doors. Durge follows them a few paces behind, marvelling at the grandeur of the palace. The floors are all black marble, veined with white, and throughout the main hall there are grand, geometric columns of the same marble rising to the high ceilings. On either side of the spacious entryway there are bar carts laden with drinks, where servers pour ale and wine into crystal mugs and goblets. 

As he moves to the nearest bar, Durge sees Astarion lead Shadowheart through a door on the far side of the entrance hall that opens to an even larger banquet room beyond. From what he can see, the room is packed with well dressed socialites. 

He orders two glasses of summer white and one of red. While he waits, he has to admire Astarion’s talent at dressing him - he looks perfectly appropriate, blending in with the crowd easily. He was worried that he would feel like some kind of pariah, an obvious imposter, but Astarion’s talent has rendered that fear inert. 

Astarion is protecting him, in his way. Durge is warmed by the thought.

He picks up their wine, nodding to the bartender, and begins picking his way after Astarion and Shadowheart. They are not difficult to spot, with their matching white hair. As Durge approaches them through the crowd, he sees Shadowheart throw her arms around Astarion’s neck. 

Durge slows his approach to keep from interrupting them. He’s watched their friendship develop into something special in the last few months, and knows it’s important to Astarion, even if he doesn’t say as much. Shadowheart might be the only other person who believes in him the way Durge does.

Astarion sees him over Shadowheart’s shoulder and holds up a finger. Durge nods and hangs back, leaning up against one of the black marble pillars flanking the room. Astarion holds Shadowheart out at arms length, rubbing her shoulders gently, and Durge sees him pull a handkerchief from a pocket and hand it to her. 

They exchange some words, and Astarion catches Durge’s eye and nods, tossing him a grateful wink as he does. Durge approaches slowly, giving Shadowheart a last moment to gather herself. 

“What’s the plan, dear ones?” Durge says, planting a friendly kiss on the top of Shadowheart’s head. She’ll share when she’s ready, but he wants to comfort her in some small way. 

Shadowheart takes her glass and drains it, sucking a bracing breath through her teeth. She takes Durge’s glass and drains it too, grimacing. 

“Let’s go dance.” 

After what feels like hours, Durge hands Astarion off to Shadowheart to catch his breath, because Astarion seems like he could keep dancing until the sun rises. They’ll have to take it in turns. Durge is starting to wonder if Astarion’s fury on the dance floor is intended to deflect him from finding a mark to win their bet.

He heads out to the entrance hall to an empty high top table, and leans heavily against it. He nods gratefully when a server passes him a glass of water with a knowing smile. 

“Ah, you must be the hero of Baldur’s Gate.” A rich voice appears next to him. Durge turns to see a handsome human man with dark hair and a well trimmed beard step up to the bar cart next to the table that’s currently holding Durge off the floor. He extends a hand in greeting, which Durge takes politely. He notices an elaborate timepiece strapped around the man’s thick wrist. 

“Greyson Hullhollyn, Harbourmaster. I heard from Gauntlet Fountainhead that we have you to thank for ridding our city of the Bhaalist scourge that killed Duke Stelmane. She - Belynne - was a close family friend. You did us all a favour.” 

Durge tries to hide his cringe, and says as a manner of deflection, “Yes, well. There’s always more work to be done.” He knows for a fact that there are still plenty of Bhaalists residing in the Undercity just below these palaces. He was the leader of the cult for nearly twenty years, after all. 

“Indeed,” Hullhollyn says as he leans against the table opposite Durge, “For servants of the city, our work is never ending. Although we do indulge ourselves the occasional night off.” He gestures vaguely to the party as explanation. Durge regards him. He already seems an earnest and honest man, as far as he can tell. Handsome, too. His dark hair is peppered with grey at the temples, and his eyes are a dark blue, like a thundercloud over the ocean. 

“Your timepiece is beautiful. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one quite like it.” Durge remarks. 

“Ah this? A gift from my wife, who insists that I always arrive late to our engagements. Let me show you.” Greyson steps in to show Durge the watch, tucking himself against Durge’s open shoulder where his arm rests on the table. It brings their bodies very close as he lifts his wrist to show Durge the complications on the watch, which include a measure of the tides in addition to the time.

It’s strangely intimate. There are surely a dozen other ways to show off a timepiece. Before Durge has a chance to consider further, Greyson steps away and faces him.

Durge clears his throat. “You’ll have to tell me who made it for you. I also have a partner who manages to run habitually late. He would call it fashionable.” 

“Are you going to introduce me to your dashing friend, Greyson, dear?” A female voice lilts from behind him. A red-haired woman in a sleek silver ballgown steps to his side, intertwining their fingers as she places a peck on his cheek. As she leans in, Durge spies an obscenely large diamond settled just above her cleavage, hanging from a delicate chain. He clears his throat and looks away when he sees Greyson eyeing him, eyebrow cocked. Durge spots something in his glance that he can’t quite identify. 

Thankfully, the woman extends her hand to Durge, which he takes, wondering for a moment if his evening will just consist of touching every stranger in this place by way of greeting. There was a time not long ago where this salutation would encourage thoughts of dismemberment - as a matter of fact he very nearly took Gale’s hand off when they first met. But now, Durge is grateful to only be mildly annoyed by the custom. 

“Melinda Hullhollyn, Secretary of the Merchant’s Guild,” she says. There is an expectant pause as she keeps grasping Durge’s hand. It occurs to him after an awkward length of time that she expects him to introduce himself accordingly.

“Ah, my apologies. I’m new to this kind of social engagement. Please, call me Durge,” he says as he lets go of her hand. 

“What a pleasure! A fascinating name - do you get it from your family, or - ?” The question is open. 

“Oh,” Durge says as he fidgets with his water glass, “It would take probably sixty hours or so to tell that story properly. Suffice it to say you might know me from my recent work on the city’s behalf.” 

“And what’s that?” She asks as she snakes her arm around the harbourmaster’s waist. 

Before Durge can answer, he hears a sultry voice behind him say, “Well, this is the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, of course. He landed the killing blow on that horrible Elder Brain.” Durge looks down to see Astarion wrapping his own arm around Durge’s waist, tucking himself under Durge’s bare arm in a half embrace. He feels a sense of relief that Astarion has appeared, as if he was holding a breath and can now release it. 

He plants a kiss into Astarion’s downy locks before he says, “This is Melinda Hullhollyn, Secretary of the Merchant’s Guild, and her partner, Harbourmaster Greyson Hullhollyn. Saer, ma’am, this is Astarion, the true hero of Baldur’s Gate. He and I, and our companions, defeated the Elder Brain together .” 

“Charmed.” Astarion says graciously. 

“How delightful. Who knew we’d be so lucky as to meet two of the heroes of the city, and both so handsome to boot?” Melinda purrs at her husband, and something passes between them. Greyson turns an appraising gaze upon Durge and Astarion, and Durge feels it burning hot, but he isn’t sure why. He looks to Astarion, but sees his eyes intent on the couple, watching whatever is happening between them with interest. 

“Indeed.” Greyson hums, a smirk lighting up his face. He turns to Melinda, grabbing her by the chin and kisses her passionately, pressing their bodies together most indecently. Durge looks to Astarion in surprise, but Astarion only shrugs, a playful look in his crimson eyes.

The harbourmaster sighs as he parts from the kiss, “I’ll get us some beverages, shall I?” He steps over to the bar cart and busies himself with ordering.   

Melinda turns to them and says a bit breathlessly, “Please forgive my husband. He’s a man of passion, and on a night like tonight, so soon after the city almost fell into chaos, who wouldn’t want to share a little passion?” She brushes a hand along the bare arm Durge has resting on the table as she says coyly, “I don’t suppose the two of you are interested in sharing ?” 

Durge is stunned into silence as everything clicks into place. Oh. OH.

“Sharing?” Astarion says, “We saved the world mere days ago, darling. I daresay I haven’t had time for a proper taste myself.” His voice is all velvet and dark promises, and he kisses Durge’s bare shoulder as he purrs, “You wouldn’t expect a starving man to share a meal, would you?” 

Melinda’s red eyebrows arch in surprise, and before she can reply, Astarion bows and says, “Please excuse us.”

He pulls on Durge’s hand, dragging him back in the direction of the dance floor. 

As they leave, Durge hears her mutter under her breath, “Gods, that is a good line.”

Astarion is ruthless on the dance floor.

Most of the other guests appear to be in some rotation between dancing, drinking, eating and socialising, but not Astarion: the great and good members of the city hold no interest for him, apparently. He spins and sways with abandon, and it’s all Durge can do to keep up. 

Durge finds himself dizzy as Astarion dances around him, circling with his nimbleness. He passes light touches over Durge’s chest and back as he goes, teasing him relentlessly before he spins away.

It’s not unlike watching him during battle, Durge realises, and that gives him an idea.

Durge calls upon the storm of magic in his blood, and it answers eagerly. He mutters a quick incantation - “ velox” - and with a sudden flare of magical energy, his feet can move quickly enough that he can match Astarion step for step. 

Astarion tosses his head back in laughter and with Durge’s steps hastened, they spin together gracefully in time with the music. 

When the effect of the spell wears off, Durge has to take a break to catch his breath. He feels a little lethargic, but he’s surprised that most of the soreness is limited to his cheeks. He’s been smiling all night. 

He watched Astarion come alive on the dance floor, which is an unexpected joy. He’s certain he’ll win their wager, with Melinda Hullhollyn’s diamond sitting heavily in his pocket (although getting her to part with it for the night cost a high price ). And after Astarion’s reassurance during their walk, his mind has been quiet. He’s happy . Even though it hurts, he can’t seem to stop grinning like a mad fool.

“Ah, my friend. I’m glad I found you. I was hoping to get the chance to say goodbye.” Gale sidles up to the high top table where Durge is leaning.

“Gale! Where have you been all night?” Durge asks. 

“I admit I found myself in the rather precarious position of playing lanceboard with Laeral Silverhand.” He says the name impressively, and Durge nods despite not having a clue who that could be. Gale is encouraged enough by this to continue, “Fascinating conversation. It’s been some time indeed since I had the opportunity to indulge in intellectualism. She has some daring theories on dead magic zones that would be very interesting to explore. Very interesting indeed.” 

“That sounds like a lot of work.” Durge says playfully, tossing a wink at Gale. He respects that Gale has had to work hard to master his magic - but it seems like such a waste of effort when you can just be born into it. 

“Well I suppose it would, to someone whose talent is less deliberate .” Gale huffs. “There’s a precision that comes with wizardry practice that I daresay would be difficult for any other caster to match.” 

Astarion darts past them, Shadowheart in tow, planting a quick kiss on Durge’s cheek before spinning away as he says, “I have some introductions to make, I’ll be right back, darling.” 

Durge watches him depart, the grin that spreads over his face sending a shooting ache through his cheeks again. 

“Be careful with him, my friend.” Gale says heavily, “I know he seems changed, but he is still a creature of chaos. He may yet drain you dry.” 

“A man can dream.” Durge sighs, tossing Gale a teasing glance.  Gale pats him on the shoulder, shaking his head, and departs. 

“Come, my love!” Astarion calls to Durge, Shadowheart nowhere to be found, “Just one more dance.”

Chapter Text

“We stayed too late. We’re not going to make it back to the tavern in time.” Durge growls out with a curse, eyes trained on the lightening horizon. He’s worrying that irresistible lip, and Astarion is half tempted to take that lip between his own teeth and give it some proper treatment.

Durge was perfect tonight. Charming, playful, hopelessly naive. And the dancing? That trick with his magic speeding up his feet was absolutely inspired. Gods , Astarion is aching for more. It might have been worth burning up in the sunlight just to keep dancing with him a while longer. 

Every gathering Astarion attended for nearly 200 years was in service to Cazador: either sorties where Cazador would flaunt his power, or parties where Astarion would search for prey on his behalf. The occasions were generally less than celebratory as a result. Bitter, usually. Lonely, at their end. Just another thing to try to forget. 

For just a moment, he wonders how many nights like tonight were robbed from him. Nights where he could freely dance with a partner he chose . Nights where he could just be himself, as a person, and not as a creature or a pawn in a twisted game. Nights where he could have loved, and been loved in return with enthusiasm.  

It would probably be emotionally overwhelming if he wasn’t so distracted by that fucking lip.

But dawn is upon them. Astarion won’t be able to taste any of Durge’s cold fire if he becomes a pile of cinders. He sighs heavily. 

Durge, the rumble of his voice laced with stress, says, “I think we need to go through the sewers. There’s an entrance just down this alley, if memory serves. We can take the tunnels under the city through the Emperor’s old hideout beneath the tavern.” 

Astarion scoffs, “Are you suggesting that we defile this ,” he gestures at their fabulous ensembles, “with the rank of the Undercity?” He grimaces, “I think I’d rather die.”

“Astarion.” Durge admonishes him. Astarion bites the inside of his cheek as a shudder runs through him. He’s never loved his name more than when Durge says it. 

“Well! I worked so hard, darling, a nd you know how I hate to work hard , and now it will be ruined with muck and grime? Not even blood? Ugh.” He sighs heavily once more before huffing, “Fine.” He waves his hand flippantly before Durge can say anything about it. 

Durge offers Astarion his hand, which he reaches for with a pout. Durge chuckles at that, a broad smile cracking over his face, but it’s interrupted by a wince. 

“What’s that about, darling?” Astarion says with concern as he takes Durge’s warm hand, lacing their fingers together. That wince has been a shadow over his happiness for days. Astarion rubs his thumb over the scales on the inside of Durge’s wrist, savouring the texture, and the hint of the pulse he can feel. 

Durge lifts his free hand to his cheek, “My face hurts. I’ve been smiling all night.” 

“Really?” Astarion says, surprised, as he follows Durge into the shadowed alleyway. He had assumed it was a dark-secret-that-he-hopes-isn’t-celibacy kind of wince, “That’s very twee.”

“Yes, really. I have a lot to smile about. Dancing with you was a joy,” Durge drops Astarion’s hand to lift up the grate that leads down to the sewers. He gestures for Astarion to go on as he continues, “We make such a smart match that twice this tenday we’ve been propositioned by potential sex partners. And I’m quite sure I’ll enjoy my prize for winning our wager. It’s a perfect day.”

“Oh, my sweet, innocent love,” Astarion laughs as he lowers himself down the short ladder to the walkway below, “I am quite sure that you lost .”

“Astarion, you danced all night, you wouldn’t have had time to make a proper pull of anything truly valuable.” Durge steps down the ladder, resetting the grate cover above them. He mutters a quick incantation and a light appears in his palm, casting the damp tunnel in an eerie blue glow. 

“Less of the doubt, please, I am a professional . I think you’ll be quite impressed.” Astarion says cheekily, thumbing the treasure he has in his pocket. The pull was so easy Astarion almost felt bad: it will be incredibly embarrassing when his mark realises this item is gone. 

Durge hums noncommittally as he leads them down the tunnel, stepping carefully to avoid the worst of the sewer muck. 

“You seem very self assured,” Astarion purrs, “ We could settle this right now and find out who gets their reward.” When they made their wager, Astarion asked for Durge to share the source of the darkness hanging over them: something has been bothering him for days, and he has yet to share it. But he agreed to do so, and as such the wager was adjusted. 

If Durge wins, he gets to touch Astarion everywhere. And if Astarion wins, he’ll get to be tasted everywhere. The negotiations really did work out in Astarion’s favour, but what’s most exhilarating is that this is his choice. He wants this. A quiver of anticipation runs through him. 

Astarion continues, “Although, darling, it does feel like I’ll be winning either way.”

“I hope that feeling helps you manage the pain of definitely losing,” Durge says as he steps out of the tunnel and into a large room. It looks like an abandoned cistern, with walkways latticed over a large reservoir of foul liquid. There’s a noxious cloud hanging heavy over the pool, coils of green steam spiralling off the surface, clogging the air just beneath the walkways. 

Durge picks the footbridge that looks the most stable and begins to cross the pool, but Astarion steps ahead of him, placing a hand on that broad chest .

“We should just settle this now,” Astarion flirts with a grin, “All you have to do is tell me if that’s a priceless rod of gold in your pocket, or if you’re just happy to see me.”

Astarion’s fingers tease the black embroidery that spreads out along Durge’s chest, tracing its path over the soft black fabric of the jerkin. His gaze trails hungrily over that luscious crimson throat and that strong, sharp jaw to see Durge’s flaming eyes full of amusement. 

“You want to do this now? In this reeking pit? When there’s a warm bath and silk sheets waiting for us?” He cocks his head to the side in his way, and the gesture is so inviting Astarion can’t help but steal a kiss. 

When their lips collide, the aching in Astarion’s chest grows to the edge of pain. This is burning. The sun couldn’t immolate Astarion like this, from the inside out and with so many promises. Touch, and taste. He could burst apart at the thought. 

“Yes,” Astarion breathes, breaking the kiss, “I can’t wait. I know it’s positively demented, but I just have to show you that I won. ” He shifts his feet in excitement. The look on his face might shock me back to life. He can feel himself grinning wildly.

Astarion feels Durge plant a kiss on his forehead, his warm breath rustling Astarion’s curls as a chuckle rumbles through him. Astarion watches with excited anticipation as Durge takes a step back and pulls from his pocket a necklace, the delicate chain juxtaposing the absurd diamond hanging from it.

“Oh darling! That diamond is obscene!” Astarion says, stepping a bit closer to appraise it in the glow of the light from Durge’s palm, “How much do you think that’s worth?” 

He hears Durge suck in a breath, “Oh, I’d say about twenty-five thousand gold or so.” He puffs his chest with pride, and it makes Astarion smile. 

“How did you get it from her?” He asks, drawing out the game just a little longer. He already knows Durge paid for it, which should count as a loss by default. But he played the game, and that’s enough for Astarion not to dwell on any potentially broken rules. He’s certain he won either way.

“You can’t expect me to give up all my secrets, Astarion.” Durge chuckles, dodging the question. He raises his chin and cocks his head to the side in question. “Now what about you? Did I win?”

“I will admit that the necklace is most impressive, but what I pulled, I think you’ll agree, was priceless.” Astarion teases, fingering the prize in his pocket. 

Before he can draw it out, a soft sing-song voice lilts from behind Durge, “Well, well, well. Two meaty lordlings come down into the depths to play? Your corpses will make beautiful adornments to the temple of our Lord.” 

Four figures have surrounded them, trapping them on the walkway above the stinking, caustic pit. Astarion can hear Durge’s heart pounding, and he quickly scents the air. 

The overwhelming note is the bile-yellow from the acrid fumes below, but he catches a bitter anger spiced with fear spiralling off Durge, and the faintest hint of elation coming from the nearest of their assailants. Excellent. Sewer-dwelling zealots: ideal for turning inside out. This is a perfect day. 

As Astarion is calculating the best path to the nearest available unseaming , he hears Durge growl, “Your Lord ?” 

One of the figures steps into the light, and Astarion rolls his eyes. Of course. She’s clad in black and red, a skull surrounded by droplets of blood painted on her light armour. Between her thumb and forefinger, she’s teasing the tip of a crooked dagger, appraising them hungrily. Bhaalists. Astarion has no manner of luck at all. Of all the cults they could collide with, this is the only one they can’t manipulate for their benefit . What a waste. 

 “Oh, oh, oh.” She sings in her unnatural tone, “Today is blessed indeed. Your meat isn’t just beautiful: it’s divine .” She gestures with her dagger to Durge’s heart, “I remember you. I could never forget you. This creature is the dissident spawn of our Murder Lord himself. The one who refused his gifts. ” 

Astarion hears Durge’s breath hitch. Murmurs and whispers rise up from the other cultists, “The Chosen one.” 

“Bhaal’s own flesh .” 

“Denier.” 

“ Denier.” The woman echoes emphatically, pointing her dagger at the cultist who said it, and then back in the direction of Durge, “Yes. The Denier.”  She chews the word like she’s savouring the feel of it in her mouth. It’s all very dramatic. She takes a step toward Durge onto the walkway, and the cultist behind Astarion does the same. 

The woman approaching Durge seems transfixed, “Imagine how our Lord will reward us if we break this one’s bones upon his altar. Imagine the glory he would shower upon us if we bathed in this one’s blood.” 

She brings the tip of the dagger to her mouth and teases the tip of her tongue against it. The blade must be dull, more likely to tear than cut . “Imagine the taste : the Murder Lord’s son. The only Bhaalspawn to be made from his very own flesh.” 

A hiss of fury passes through Astarion’s lips at her words. The thought of any more harm coming to pass Durge’s way because of Bhaal or his minions fills Astarion with rage. Before he can rip out the woman’s throat, Durge steps in front of him protectively. 

Astarion spins around so he and Durge are back to back, facing down the cultists on either end of the footbridge. As he moves, he twirls two daggers out of the hidden sheaths in his heeled boots and gestures pointedly with their gleaming tips at the cultist approaching from his side of the walkway. 

“Now, now, let’s not do anything hilarious.” Astarion says as he settles himself into his fighting stance.

As if their minds are one, Durge explodes into movement, and in a smooth motion he dispels the light in his palm while widening his stance. Astarion’s hair stands on edge as the air around him ionises, and feels the crackle of energy as Durge summons the storm within to call a strike of lightning to crash down upon one of the cultists on an adjacent walkway. 

The cultist is vaporised, arcs of lightning flickering from the corpse as the magic dissipates. Astarion hears Durge’s feet shift, a tell-tale sign that he’s drawing into the well of his magic again, quickening a second spell to cast. 

Astarion has heard him cast this spell dozens of times; at the beginning of every fight since the Shadowlands, at least. But Durge hasn’t used this spell since the fight with the Elder Brain: he hasn’t needed to. It’s a protection spell, and they haven’t been in any real danger. 

“ Amplexus ” he incants, but there’s no burst of magic, no shimmering lights surrounding them. The spell fails. 

And of course it does. Because Durge isn’t wearing the platinum warding bond ring that allows him to cast this specific spell. The ring that Astarion has in his pocket. Which he stole tonight. From Durge.

In fairness, the rules were ‘any mark at the party’, and Astarion did say his prize was ‘priceless’. And the reveal would have been very amusing if they weren’t about to be murdered and, presumably, eaten. Not the sort of tasting he was hoping for today. 

Astarion hears the rumble of a low growl start in Durge’s chest, and scents a red-hot rage beating in time with his pulse. 

Oops.

Before Durge has a chance to chastise Astarion, the woman purrs as she appraises the electrified remains of the charred corpse on the adjacent walkway, “You honour our Lord with your skill.”

“Leave, now , or I’ll honour him thrice more.” Durge spits out as he draws a flame into each palm. Astarion’s jaw drops at the intensity of the demand: it’s so arousing. He’s suddenly thirsty. Oh. My. Gods. Is it possible to swoon over a threat of murder?  

“No.” The woman lilts in her eerie way, “Not until I’m picking that divine flesh of yours from between my teeth.” 

“I’m afraid the only one who will be tasting his divine flesh tonight is me , thank you.” Astarion calls around Durge’s shoulder. Durge growls a warning at him. Testy. 

The woman lunges at Durge with her dagger. Not one for playful banter, apparently. Trusting that Durge can hold her off for a few seconds, Astarion similarly ( but with far more flair) steps to the cultist at his end of the footbridge, setting him off balance with a flourish of one blade while he stabs him in the chest with the other. All it takes is a light shove to send him careening into the noxious fumes below. I’ve missed this.

Astarion moves to the end of the footbridge, casting a glance back at Durge. His clawed fingers are grasping the woman’s neck, and he can see arcs of lightning leap from her into the ground below. Durge is snarling in her face as he shocks her with his power, but she just laughs . 

The only other remaining cultist moves to flank them, firing a hand crossbow at Astarion as he goes. He’s a poor shot, but without any armour the blow glances Astarion’s thigh, ripping the leg of his trousers. Astarion hisses in pain, both from the wound and the waste of these perfectly fitted pants. He knows Durge will clean and mend them with his magic, but it’s the principle of the thing, really .

Durge must have heard him, because all of a sudden another burst of lighting is quickened, centred on the cultist who shot Astarion. In a moment, the man is nothing but burnt flesh and charred bones. 

Durge is using his power too quickly. If they encounter any other diversions on their way back from the tavern, he'll be hard pressed to keep his magic flowing. Astarion needs to end this fight now. 

Astarion dashes across the nearest parallel footbridge, leaping over the burnt corpses left behind in the wake of Durge’s power.  He sprints with all of his considerable vampiric speed, shortening the gap between him and his prey in the blink of an eye. He’s just barely able to flank the woman and drive his dagger into her lung before she can level her weapon on Durge.

Her crooked knife falls from her hand, clattering to the iron walkway below. 

“Perhaps I was wrong,” She wheezes through the gargle of blood that spills from her mouth, “Perhaps you have not yet forsaken The Murder Lor–,”

Before she can finish, Durge brutally crushes her windpipe, watching intently as the light flickers from her eyes with a grimace. When he seems sure she’s dead, he lets her body fall to the floor, his hand covered in her blood.

The entire ordeal is over in less than a minute. 

Astarion watches as Durge flicks his wrist, prestidigitating the blood off his hand. He’s shaking. The scent of rage is still pounding through him, but it’s cooled, softening the edges, making the note more subtle than it was during the fight. 

Astarion takes it as an improvement. He steps up to Durge, removing the ring from his pocket. As Astarion takes Durges warm, clawed hand, he notices the slightest twitch of hesitation, as if he means to pull himself away. 

Astarion hears Durge swallow hard, but he lets the touch continue. Astarion brings each knuckle to his lips, kissing the pearlescent scales there gently. As he pulls away, he puts the ring back on Durge’s third finger, planting one final kiss to the back of his hand by way of apology. 

“If I had known we would be ambushed on our way home, I never would have taken it,” Astarion says earnestly, bringing his head up to look at Durge, “Well, not never. I did think it would be funny. But I would have timed it better, at the very least. I’m sorry the reveal didn’t go as I hoped.”

A shadow passes over Durge’s face. He nods once. 

“Are you okay?” Astarion asks. Something is off , but he can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Perhaps this fight took more of a toll on Durge than Astarion can fully understand. For a moment, he sympathises with Durge's occasional lament over the tadpoles: he wants to know what’s going on inside that handsome skull, and doesn’t know how else to ask. 

He wishes for a moment that he could just pick his way into Durge’s mind as if it were a locked chest and pluck the treasures out of it. 

Durge gives him another curt nod in answer. He opens his mouth and takes in a breath, pausing as if to say something. He closes his mouth and exhales. His gaze falls to the floor, head hanging heavy as he regards the lifeless remains of the people they’ve killed. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Astarion insists, tugging gently on Durge’s hand. Maybe, when they get away from this place, Durge will be better able to pull himself out of this darkness. 

But if not, Astarion will follow him into it. 

They make it to the hideout beneath the tavern with no further diversions. Durge manages to brood so well as they walk Astarion starts to think he could give Shadowheart some competition. He keeps silent, only heaving the occasional sigh, and Astarion is at a loss about what to do.

They’ve been here before; the Emperor led them down here once. Conniving prick. It’s a fond memory for Astarion. He and Durge picked this place clean while the Emperor reminisced about how important he was at the time he reigned here. He told them about every single item in this place as they picked it up, from his sword, to his armour, and even his fork. Durge listened to him ramble, all the while placing the items in his pack. 

Then Durge walked right outside and sold all of it to Dammon while the Emperor watched from his pocket of the Astral Plane. Durge didn’t even haggle over the price. It was so petty . Astarion chuckled about that for days. He never imagined they’d come back here for any reason. 

The space is a little ostentatious, even for Astarion’s taste. A grand table dominates the centre of the room, circled by high backed marble chairs. Very self-important.  Astarion pulls one of the chairs out from the table, gesturing for Durge to take the seat. 

“Sit down, darling. Let’s find a way to stop that bleeding, it’s very distracting.” Astarion quips. Durge gives him nothing, not even a sharp exhale. We are very sullen today . He picks through a few drawers and shelves until he finds a clean cloth, then brings it over and gently presses it against the wound on Durge’s cheek. 

Usually, he can diffuse the worst of Durge’s wallowing with humour. If all else fails, a kiss typically works to pull him out of it, but this doesn’t feel like a standard wallow. 

Their gazes finally meet, and Astarion can almost see the thoughts churning around behind Durge’s flaming eyes. 

“Astarion,” Durge whispers. His tone is pained. Astarion draws his hand back gently, reducing the pressure on Durge’s wound. He can scent the desperate, dark blue of regret, and jet black sorrow .

That’s unusual . They’ve killed many people together, and Durge is rarely regretful, even after rejecting the title of Bhaal’s Chosen. Hells, just the other day he immolated a corpse for Astarion and never asked a question about it. A sinking feeling settles in Astarion's gut. Something is very wrong. 

“Astarion.” Durge insists as he turns his face away from Astarion’s hand, “I can’t do this.” He takes the cloth from Astarion while taking in a shuddering breath as if to steel himself. Astarion notices wet trails of tears carving paths over the scales on his cheeks, mingling with the blood from his wound and dropping in pink rivulets from his sharp jaw. He’s truly devastated. 

Durge continues, “This thing between us: we need to end it. I - I can't be with you.” 

Shit.

Chapter Text

“I - Did I do something wrong?” Astarion chokes out, his voice thick. Durge can’t bring himself to look at Astarion’s face, even though he deserves to see the pain he’s causing. He shakes his head in denial, and Astarion continues, his voice becoming haughty, “Why? Why now? What’s changed?”

Unworthy. 

Durge winces. A lance of pain from the jagged cut on his cheek shoots through him. There’s something very grounding about the pain, and he takes a breath. 

It’s better this way. It will rend his heart apart, tear it into a thousand irreparable pieces, but it’s a price he’ll eagerly pay. Astarion will heal, in time. He’ll find someone who can give him what he needs, someone who can love him the way he deserves. 

Someone who isn’t so fucking BROKEN. UNWORTHY. WORTHLESS. 

For all his talents and skills, Durge doesn’t know how Astarion hasn’t realised it yet.

The thoughts pound in Durge’s skull, wracking through him like a thunderclap. There’s a tightness in his chest that’s difficult to breathe through.

Now that Durge knows he’s not just undeserving of Astarion, but also a danger to him, his resolve has solidified. He’s been responsible for so many deaths, but Astarion’s is the only one for which he could never forgive himself. He’d rather live alone as a pariah, unloved and unwanted, than put Astarion in any more danger than he already has. 

Not that there’d be much to live for, after this. It may have been better for them all if Withers had left his husk to rot in Bhaal’s temple. 

“Is this because of the ring?” Astarion asks, quietly. Durge shakes his head again. He can’t allow Astarion to blame himself for this. He needs to know that all this pain is entirely because of Durge’s failings. 

Astarion persists, “The Bhaalists?”.

Durge swallows hard. Tears are spilling out of his eyes, pouring hot down his cheeks, then dropping cold into his open palms resting on his knees. He clears his throat, trying to work through the lump of emotion that he can’t seem to shake, “Astarion. Please. It’s better this way.”

“Better?” Astarion scoffs, “For whom exactly ? Because an hour ago you told me your -” Astarion scoffs again, gesturing at Durge, “- your beautiful face hurts from smiling. And I might be guilty of embellishment from time to time, but it’s no stretch to say that tonight was one of the best nights of my life, darling .”

Astarion pauses for a moment, then perches on the arm of the chair next to Durge. 

Durge has to fight the instinct to look at him. It’s as if their souls are bound, and his body knows it: he’s endlessly drawn into Astarion’s piercing red gaze. He shakes his head and presses the heel of his hands into his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure building behind them.

“Is this because of something I’ve done?” Astarion asks softly.

“No, Astarion.” Durge pleads. This is because of everything I’ve done. He grinds his jaw with the effort of keeping all the vitriol he feels inside. He clenches his fists, his claws digging into his palms, the sharp bite drawing his focus. 

“Are you upset with me?” Astarion probes. 

“Astarion, please.” Durge sighs. I’m upset with myself. The anger and self-loathing throbs hot through his veins with every beat of his heart. The tightness in his chest becomes agonising . 

“Is this because we have yet to figure out our sex life? When I said I wanted you, I meant it. If - “

“Astarion. That’s enough,” Durge interrupts, biting the words out, his tone more forceful than he intends. His fury with himself is getting the better of him. He insists, “You are perfect .” 

“I agree, darling,” Astarion says flippantly, flicking his hair into place with his long, pale fingers, “And as such, I don’t understand why you want to end this.” 

“ This isn’t about WHAT I WANT !” Durge roars, slamming a fist against the stone table. Without meaning to, his magic answers the call of his roiling emotion, and a large crack sunders the table down the middle, splitting the heavy stone with a thunderous boom. 

Astarion darts out of the way as the slabs shift and crumble to the floor. 

Durge rages at himself, “Ending this is what needs to happen! I could live with myself, barely , when my only torment was wondering if you would finally realise how worthless I am and leave.” He stands up with such force that the stone chair he’s sitting in scrapes across the floor, teetering on its heavy base. He starts to pace back and forth, and feels the storm churning in his gut.

“After today? No .” He shakes his head emphatically, “ No. I’m a danger to you, Astarion.” He finally meets Astarion’s gaze and finds it wide with concern, his red eyes soft in the gloom. 

“I’m not afraid of you.” Astarion says tenderly, approaching Durge with considerable gentleness, “Not of your power, and not of your darkness.” It’s more than Durge can take.

UNWORTHY.

Finally, the words are pouring out of him like a torrent, the gale force of the emotion tearing down all the walls he’s built around this part of himself. The cracks in him widen as if torn apart by quaking earth, and a few arcs of lightning spill into the stone floor as he paces. 

“Maybe you should be afraid of me,” Durge growls as he turns away from Astarion, bile rising in his throat as he sees the hurt in Astarion’s eyes, “Because to hundreds of people, the gods only know how many in truth, I am a villain. I am a wretch. I - I am unworthy of you. ” 

The force of the confession ricochets through him, and he feels on the verge of collapse. He sits back down into a stone chair, drained. He feels the storm receding, like a shift in the tides.

“Astarion, for any of my victims who still have their lives, I am their Cazador . For those I killed, surely I was worse.” He clears his throat, choking the words out through the lump of emotion there, “I won’t condemn you to a life with another monster.” He hangs his head, massaging the soft scales below his outermost crest bones, trying to relieve the throbbing pressure that has built up behind his eyes. 

He watches as Astarion walks toward him, and notices that there’s a cut on his thigh. The leg of his trousers is split open, and there’s a bit of blood soaked into the white fabric. From what he can tell, the wound is shallow, but he knows the real injury for Astarion is the ruined pants. 

When Astarion steps close, placing himself casually between Durge’s knees, Durge reaches out and gently places a hand on Astarion’s thigh, just above the rip. The touch is more instinct than anything, the same kind of instinct as channelling a spell. It feels natural, and normal. Calling on the magic he has left, he prestidigitates the blood away from the fabric, and mends the tear in the pants. 

Durge feels Astarion’s cool hands settle on his face, wiping the tears that are still dripping from his cheekbones. Astarion cups his jaw, and lifts his head so their eyes meet. 

“This is what’s been bothering you?” Astarion asks, stroking a thumb over his uninjured cheek. The intimacy is nearly painful, and despite the darkest part of his mind roaring at him to push Astarion away, he leans into the cold touch, pressing his cheek into Astarion’s hand. 

“Yes. My mind turns to darkness so easily. I feel so unworthy of every good thing that is coming to pass, but especially you.” Durge whispers. The cool of Astarion’s touch seems to be pulling the pounding heat from his head, and he sighs heavily at the comfort.  

“Do you have more you need to say, or can I tell you how I feel?” Astarion asks. 

Durge shakes his head. He has nothing left. 

“You are not a monster.” Astarion says emphatically, holding Durge’s head to keep him from shifting his gaze away, “You saved me from Cazador, and from myself. Do you blame me for what I had to do when I was in Cazador’s thrall?”

“Of course not,” Durge murmurs. 

“Then why do you hold yourself to account for what you did as Bhaal’s victim? Bhaal is the villain, not you, darling,” Astarion declares with finality. Durge could almost chuckle: Astarion’s confidence is immutable. The raw loathing in him isn’t soothed: Bhaal is still a part of him. Even with the most gracious view, Durge is at least part villain. 

Astarion continues, “I admit, I don’t know what awaits us in our future. But I know I’m not afraid of it, whatever it is.” 

Astarion takes Durge’s free hand, leaving the one cupped gently against his thigh. Durge rubs the pad of this thumb in a slow arc, back and forth, careful to avoid the injured area of Astarion’s leg. He knows he should move his hand away, and should get away as fast as possible to protect Astarion, but separating from the touch seems impossible. 

Durge watches, mesmerised, as Astarion kisses his knuckles one by one as he continues,“What I do know is that you make me feel cherished . I love the way you snipe at me before you’ve had your tea in the morning. I love the way it feels when you wash my hair. I love the way you say my name, like you could call my body back to life.” Astarion kisses the back of Durge’s hand, “You love me?” 

“Yes.” Durge whispers, the truth drawn out of him like poison from a wound. 

“You want me?” 

“Yes,” Durge admits in a hushed tone, shame filling his heart. He doesn’t deserve this grace from Astarion, but he’s too weak to fight against it.   

“Good. Then we’re not ending this tonight, not like this. We’ll go back to our room, take a bath, and go to bed, and if, after we rest, you decide you still want to leave -,” Astarion pauses as he heaves a heavy sigh, rubbing the pad of this thumb over the soft scales on the inside of Durge’s wrist, “ - then I’ll respect your choice.”

Durge follows Astarion out of the hideout, through the hidden door in the wine cellar of the Elfsong Tavern. They step carefully over the many dead rats, and Durge notices Astarion’s nose wrinkle in disgust. He wishes he could watch Cazador die a thousand more times for the tortures Astarion endured. 

Durge wonders how many of his victims would feel the same about him, if they were still alive. He’s certain their families and friends must curse him daily. Maybe this lingering darkness in him is the penance he has to pay.

As he broods, Astarion opens the door at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the tavern’s kitchen, but darts out of the way quickly, hissing through his teeth. A shaft of morning sunlight spears through the gloom of the basement.

“Shit,” Astarion says through a grimace, closing the door quickly with a snap, “I really have no luck at all,” he says, leaning against the back of the door. He looks at Durge, drawing him in with that crimson gaze, a playful smirk turning up his cheeks, “I must have spent all my luck on you, darling.” 

He gives Durge a dramatic wink, and Durge rolls his eyes. He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head in exasperation. He sighs, “It’s a good line, Astarion.” 

Astarion is irresistible . It’s maddening. 

UNWORTHY. WEAK.

“It can be a good line and also be true,” Astarion quips. He taps his long fingers against the door as he pushes himself away from it, stepping forward to stand next to Durge as they consider the challenge together. How do they get Astarion safely back to their room without having to wait in a dingy rat-filled basement until nightfall?

“Can you transport us with your magic oh-so-powerful sorcerer?” Astarion teases, flipping his wrist in a mock spell casting. 

Durge snorts, “Oh no, my magic is more of the mending pants power at the moment. I do have a few ideas, though,” Durge says curiously, “I’m not sure what will work, but I have things we can try. Do you think you can keep up with me?” 

“Step for step, darling.” 

“Keep to the shadows,” Durge says, his tone playful despite himself. It’s something Astarion whispers to himself often while trying to be stealthy. The scowl Astarion gives him, the one that brings out his forehead wrinkles, is worth it. He feels a smile growing across his face, but winces at the soreness. 

UNWORTHY. 

Durge gestures for Astarion to step away from the door, and then slowly opens it, stepping into the sunbeam. The early morning light is angled sharply, and Durge’s broad form casts a wide silhouette. 

“That line is mine,” Astarion grumbles as he tucks himself into the shadows. 

Durge appraises Astarion over a shoulder - it seems to be working. He starts moving up the staircase cautiously, trying to make his movements smooth and clear. When he makes it to the top of the stairs, he rotates slowly, catching the angle of the sun to cast the widest shadow possible. He has to walk with his shoulders turned slightly sideways as they make their way past the open windows in the kitchen, but it works as well as he could have hoped. 

Astarion keeps step with him perfectly, staying close to his side and slightly behind him to stay in the shadow he casts.  When they move from the kitchen into the main taproom, the windows are far enough away that there’s plenty of room for Astarion to manage, and he slips out in front of Durge to make his way up the stairs. 

“That worked a treat , darling,” Astarion praises as he darts up the stairs and down the hall, “The metaphor is a bit heavy-handed, but very clever indeed.” 

“The metaphor?” Durge asks as he follows, not understanding.

“Well, yes,” Astarion says as he unlocks their room, “You shared your darkness with me, and kept me safe in doing so,” he shrugs as he holds the door open, “And I stood by your side through the shadow and came out perfectly on the other side. Almost as if there’s a lesson to be learned.” He turns to Durge, eyebrows cocked in playful accusation. 

“Or perhaps you simply suffer from a terminal penchant for drama.” Durge says as he enters, Astarion clicking the door closed behind him. 

“That I cannot argue with,” Astarion pauses, and then gestures to the bath, “Together?”

Durge considers this. It’s foolish to allow himself any more intimacy, both because it will make what comes tomorrow harder, and he simply doesn’t deserve it. He begins to worry that his resolve will crack, because it feels so right to be with Astarion. To tease him. To touch him. To protect him. 

Durge’s instincts war within him, ice and flame to each other. The desire to love Astarion and the desire to keep him safe, crackling and fizzling as they clash. He looks at Astarion, who is regarding him with such undeserved patience. He sighs, and nods. 

“Nothing untoward,” Astarion says with a wink, as he begins to unclasp his doublet. 

“Of course not,” Durge confirms with a rumble. If this really is their last night together, sex is a boundary he won’t cross. They both have too many unknowns about how to blend emotional and physical intimacy, and it’s not fair to either of them to explore one without the safety of the other. He feels a pang of sadness at the thought of losing that opportunity. Grief . He winces.  

“Come along, darling,” Astarion says, already having situated himself in the bath, his fabulous clothes hanging neatly in the wardrobe they share. 

Durge hangs his garments carefully next to Astarion’s, admiring one final time how beautifully planned they were. He closes the wardrobe door and pads to the bath, sinking into the warm water slowly, the tension coiled within him releasing in some small measure. He hears himself groan as he fully settles into the bench built in the perimeter of the tub. 

Astarion passes him a soapy cloth, and they clean themselves in silence. Durge wants to reach out and take the cloth from Astarion, to touch every inch of him and beg for a chance to forget all of this, but he can’t. Astarion deserves better. He needs better than anything Durge can offer him. 

“Will -  ,” Astarion clears his throat, “will you wash my hair?” It’s a gentle request, but Durge understands the meaning. One last time. He nods, and Astarion passes him the bottle of liquid soap. 

Durge takes his time, savouring every moment. As he watches Astarion’s face relax under the gentle, methodical touch as the soap works through his curls, Durge knows he’ll dream about this beautiful man and his tender bravery for the rest of his life. 

Durge rinses Astarion’s hair gently, planting a chaste kiss to his temple as a signal that he’s finished. He hears Astarion sigh before he straightens himself against the opposite side of the tub, their legs tangled together in the centre.

“Thank you. That was a gift,” Astarion murmurs softly. He considers Durge for a moment before he continues, “And if tonight is our last night together, I want you to know that I truly love you, and you have brought my dead heart back to life. You have reminded me what it was like to feel - to hope .”

Durge can’t bring himself to respond. He nods stiffly in acknowledgment, but can feel his heart cracking under the pressure of all the things he wants to say, but can’t admit without hurting them both. 

“If there’s anything I can do to convince you to stay with me,” Astarion softly admits, “I will do it. I don’t want to be without you.” 

Astarion watches this turmoil no doubt playing itself out all over Durge’s face. They sit like this for a moment, Astarion watching as Durge tries to work up the courage to say anything at all.

“I’ll be right back,” Astarion says, suddenly and seriously, as he stands. 

Durge watches in confusion as Astarion quickly steps out of the tub, dripping water all over the floor as he darts to the wardrobe and grabs that red silk robe. He hastily ties it around his waist before cracking open the door to their room and darting out. 

He returns quickly, a small bottle in his hand, the pale pink liquid in it sloshing gently as he closes and latches the door. 

“Neither Gale nor Shadowheart are back yet,” he says as he disrobes and climbs back into the tub, “I’m not surprised about our girl, but I assumed Gale would be cuddled up with a book by now. Very curious to hear where he landed after the party.” 

Astarion extends the bottle to him. Durge takes it, the ridges of the bottle are distinctive, bubbled across the whole surface, and indeed Durge recognises the potion as one he’s never found cause to use. 

“A potion of mind-reading?” Durge asks, incredulous. 

“Yes. We must have a dozen of them in that chest in the other room, we really need to clean that thing out. In lieu of the tadpoles, I thought this might work. You reassured me so many times with the connection between our minds, and I want you to know what I’m thinking, since, I’m sorry to say, darling, you are a terrible listener today.”

“I have heard you, Astarion, I just can’t - ,” Durge says, “I can’t reconcile the way I see myself with the way you say you see me.”

“Darling,” Astarion says, closing Durge’s clawed hands around the potion and squeezing, “You either trust me, in which case you should take me at my word when I tell you I love you, and I want you, and that you are what I need. Or you don’t trust me, and we shouldn’t be together for that alone. Give me the chance to show you how I feel before you decide.” 

His words clatter through Durge, the truth biting through him with terrible force. He does trust Astarion, more than anyone. Why can’t he defer to Astarion’s judgement on this one thing? The consideration is painful as it occurs to him how horribly selfish he has been, succumbing to his darkest nature with no consideration for Astarion in the process. 

He has been wallowing in self-serving sabotage, never once asking Astarion what he needed, or what he felt. When Astarion did share his feelings, Durge dismissed them as invalid because they didn’t align with his twisted view of himself. The failure of his character is crushing . He’s already primed for self-loathing, but this hurts.  

Astarion, his cool, long fingers still wrapped around Durge’s cupped hands, moves to take the stopper out of the bottle, tapping Durge’s hands in encouragement to drink. Durge wants to protest, but can’t deny Astarion anything after this revelation.

He drains the potion, hissing at the bitter taste. Astarion appraises him trying to see if the effects have taken hold. Durge pushes his thoughts outward hesitantly and finds a small mindbridge between himself and Astarion. His instinctual assessment is that it only moves one way: he can experience Astarion’s thoughts, but not the other way around.

He crosses the bridge, and gasps in surprise. 

Astarion is picturing scenes from their life together, and Durge watches as they flash by. Their first camp, Durge speaking to Gale next to the fire, both of them awash in the light from the flames. The goblin camp, Durge smirking at Astarion, covered in blood after battle. Their pale fingers intertwining. Durge laughing uproariously, sitting in the tavern with Shadowheart and Gale. Their steadfast, exhausted embrace after Cazador’s defeat. Durge drooling onto his pillow, snoring softly. A pout while reaching for a mug of tea. Their final sunrise.

Every scene, every image, awash in affection and admiration. He can feel Astarion’s playfulness, his excitement, his arousal, and his deep, unequivocal, unshakeable love.

It’s too much to bear. A sob rends through Durge, and he places his head in his hands. 

“I’m so sorry, Astarion.” He whispers, and he feels Astarion’s cold lips planting kisses across his face, wiping away his tears with gentle affection. 

“It’s alright. It’s alright, darling,” Astarion coos, gently embracing Durge as the last dregs of emotion pour out of him. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” Astarion wraps himself in Durge’s arms, settling into his lap, bringing Durge’s heavy head down to his chest to hold him as he weeps. 

When the last of the ripples from Durge’s falling tears have dissipated into the bath, Astarion sends him an image of the two of them curled in bed together. Durge nods weakly. 

Astarion rises from the bath, wrapping his body and hair in two separate towels, before pulling a third towel off the shelf for Durge. Durge stands there, raw, as Astarion dries him, then himself, before grabbing their nightclothes from the wardrobe. They dress, and settle into the bed. They each close the shutters on the bedside lamps, and in the dark they wrap themselves together closely. 

“I’ll never be good enough for you, Astarion,” Durge sighs, his voice raspy. He feels the cold tip of Astarion’s nose nuzzle into his neck, and a soft, gentle kiss follows. 

“I don’t want you to be good , darling, where’s the fun in that?” Astarion quips into the crook of Durge’s neck. His cool breath tickles and Durge can’t help but chuckle. He tightens his arms around Astarion, bringing him close, and presses a cheek into his soft curls. He feels Astarion splay a palm over his heart to feel it beating. 

“No,” Astarion breathes into Durge’s neck, “I don’t want you to be good. But you are enough.” 

Durge wakes up to the click of the door closing. Eyes still closed, he pats the bed next to him: no Astarion. He cracks a heavy eyelid, slitted pupil adjusting to the gloom. His eyes and throat are sore. He sees Astarion softly padding toward his side of the bed, a mug carefully wrapped in his long fingers. 

He sets it on the nightstand next to Durge, and an intoxicating aroma wafts toward him. 

“Ready for the light, darling?” Astarion calls softly.

Durge nods sleepily, picking himself up to set against the headboard. He blinks as Astarion lifts the shutter on the lamp, casting the room in a calm, warm light. 

“What’s this?” Durge says, picking up the steaming mug, taking a sip. He groans. It’s rich, herbal, but also floral. Astarion has sweetened it with honey, just the way he likes. An ideal cup of tea, exactly to his tastes.

Astarion chuckles, “I thought, in the event you still wanted to leave this morning, you should at least have the opportunity to test if I’m your favourite flavour,” he winks cheekily, “I had them add bergamot oil and lavender to the tea. What do you think?”

Durge can’t help but roll his eyes at the absolute audacity .

“I must say, that is perfection ,” Durge says playfully, “We’ll have to think of a name for that. Put a little brandy in there and that’s a flavour I’d like to taste every morning,” He’s graced with a smile from Astarion, his fangs glinting in the lamp light.  

“Every morning? That’s indulgent, even by my standards,” Astarion says, eyes twinkling. 

Durge clears his throat, “That is - if you’ll still have me. If you wanted to go your own way, I would understand.” 

“Oh please, darling. You’re allowed to succumb to feeling, whenever you need to,” Astarion says dismissively, “I would never leave you because you shared a part of yourself with me, no matter how dark. I’m grateful you opened up.”

Durge reaches out to clasp Astarion’s hand. He squeezes it, and Astarion squeezes it back twice in response. 

“I mean it, Astarion. I failed you yesterday. I gave in to this new dark urge without respecting what you needed. I didn’t even ask,” he shakes his head, trying not to wallow in the shame he feels, “That was wrong, and unfair to you.” 

“Perhaps. But I trust you will work on it, and I plan to help you through it,” Astarion brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing each scaled knuckle on Durge’s hand. 

Durge nods, meeting Astarion’s crimson gaze, “I love you, Astarion, and I am sorry.” 

Astarion kisses the back of Durge’s hand and says, “I love you, and I forgive you.” Astarion brings his other hand up to Durge’s jaw, pulling their lips together in a gentle, loving kiss. A sense of peace settles in Durge. 

He settles back against the headboard, cupping his tea, savouring the heady aroma. He asks, “What would you like to do today? I’m not sure we have any obligations for the first time in a while.” 

“I ran into Shadowheart in the taproom downstairs, she’s finally dragged herself back from her dalliance with the Hullhollyns,” Astarion raises his eyebrows conspiratorially when Durge gasps, “I know. I know! I made the introduction,” he preens, “But more on that later, darling. She did mention she wanted to speak with us, once she’s had a chance to bathe and rest. So we have some time.” 

Durge hums in confirmation. It’s always good to chat with Shadowheart. He hopes she had fun, at least. She’s always expressed that she prefers ‘short term engagements', but whatever was happening between her and Lae’zel seemed to grow over the course of months. He hums again as he drains the dregs of tea from his mug. Divine.

“We have some time ,” Astarion repeats slowly, taking the empty mug from Durge and placing it on the nightstand, “ Alone .” 

“Together,” Durge murmurs. They grin at each other, and the look of desire in Astarion’s red eyes is enough to spike Durge’s heartbeat. 

With agonising slowness, Astarion straddles him, knees framing his hips as those cool hands run up his bare chest, dragging a deep, throbbing heat behind them. Astarion’s fingers settle on Durge’s neck, tracing light circles where his pulse is pounding. Everywhere he touches turns to fire, and Durge is already short of breath. 

At this angle, Durge has to look up at Astarion. His sharp features are cast in a warm glow from the lamp. His eyes are radiant, and he’s stunningly beautiful. Durge brings a knuckle up to draw down Astarion’s porcelain cheek. 

For a moment they simply watch each other, Astarion tracing circles on Durge’s neck while Durge draws his knuckle across Astarion’s cheekbone. Like a thunderclap, it hits him all at once Durge realises how close he was to missing this moment. To missing every moment like this. 

He pushes his fingers into Astarion’s hair, lightly drawing his claws against Astarion’s scalp, and when Astarion moans he pulls their lips together to taste his pleasure. Astarion returns the kiss with a fury, bringing his hands around Durge’s neck and pressing their chests together. 

Durge draws the point of his tongue along Astarion’s lips, and Astarion parts for him immediately. When their tongues collide, Durge can’t keep the groan from rumbling through his chest. He draws his hand out of Astarion’s cloudy hair and brings it down to flirt with the waistband of his trousers, drinking in Astarion’s throaty sigh. 

He runs his fingers up Astarion’s spine, enjoying the shiver it sends through him. Slowly, he draw's Astarion's shirt up over his head, the intimacy of the act dousing him further in arousal. He passes his fingertips down Astarion’s scarred back, drawing another quiver from him.

“Astarion,” Durge whispers as he breaks their kiss, lightly touching Astarion’s lean back, “Do you want me to keep going?” 

Astarion kisses him with passion, settling himself slowly and fully into Durge’s lap, both of them groaning as they feel each other's hardness. Durge feels the softest whisper of breath on his lips as Astarion says, “Yes.”

Carefully, keeping their bodies close, Durge lifts Astarion up and rolls them flat onto the bed, so he’s nestled in Astarion’s hips. He keeps the bulk of his weight on his arms, but Astarion pulls him closer, as if wanting every inch of their bodies to touch. 

Durge draws his claws lightly up Astarion’s leg, starting softly at his foot, then slowly up the outer edge of his calf. When he gets to the crook of Astarion’s knee, he hears a soft gasp, and feels a throb from Astarion’s cock against his stomach. He growls with delight, chuckling into their kiss. 

“If you keep teasing me, I’ll have to find a way to enact revenge,” Astarion whispers. 

“Promises, promises,” Durge growls before swallowing Astarion’s response with another kiss.

Slowly, he brings his claws up the back of Astarion’s thigh, and Astarion bites his lip. The pain is delicious, and Durge feels a throb in his cock in response. He feels Astarion chuckle. 

He moves away from Astarion’s tempting mouth, kissing his way down the porcelain column of his throat. He feels Astarion’s hands rake along his back, and he grinds their hips together. 

He moves his hand up to the waistband of Astarion’s trousers, loosening the ties before gently curling a finger underneath, slowly drawing it back to Astarion’s hip. 

“Don’t touch me.” Astarion hisses suddenly. Durge freezes, a lance of anxiety stabbing through his chest. He quickly releases his hold on Astarion’s hip, and lifts his weight to separate their bodies. He sits back on his heels, perching at the foot of the bed, searching Astarion’s face for any signs of pain or fear. 

He sees nothing but lust in Astarion’s heavy lidded eyes, the crimson burning through him and stealing the breath from his lungs. He watches as Astarion settles himself back against the headboard, relaxing into the pillows, his pants hanging low on his hips, bare chest rising and falling with hurried breaths. Slowly, he lets his knee drop to the side, opening his hips to bare himself completely before Durge. 

In a husky voice thick with desire, he says again, “Don’t touch me. Taste me.”

Chapter Text

Durge can never deny Astarion anything. But when Astarion demands to be tasted, spreading himself on their shared bed like the most decadent feast, Durge is certain that he could refuse, and Astarion would be sympathetic and fully understanding. 

He won’t refuse, of course. Not this, not something he’s been aching for these last few tendays. Not something he knows they both want, and after they came so close to losing the chance. Durge, in his stubbornness and senseless drive for self-sabotage, almost walked away from this before he had a chance to give himself to Astarion fully, in body and soul. 

He realises, now, that the clock won’t stop: this is all they get. One life, one chance , to know true happiness, and he almost left it behind.

Never again.

Astarion leans against the headboard, his hips open, erection fully on display beneath the light layer of his sleeping trousers. Durge takes a breath and holds it, savouring the sight. He’s awash in arousal, but for a moment he’s overwhelmed with affection for Astarion. He exhales slowly, searching himself for any hesitation. Nothing . No sense of doubt or unworthiness: just a desire to be closer to this man he’s come to love. 

Astarion shifts his hips under Durge’s gaze and softly whimpers, “Please.” 

Durge chuckles softly. He shifts his weight to his knees, and crawls himself over Astarion’s alabaster body to taste his pout. Astarion draws his fingertips up Durge’s arms as they kiss, and he shivers at the contact. Every touch lights a fire under his scales. He kisses his way down Astarion’s jaw to the crook of his neck. 

“You’re so impatient, Astarion,” Durge whispers against Astarion’s throat, flicking his tongue out to tease him. He drinks in Astarion’s desperate hiss, and feels Astarion’s hands tracing across his chest.

“I’m exceedingly patient,” Astarion murmurs, grinding himself against Durge’s thigh, “Saintlike, even. I’ve waited almost two hundred years to be loved like this.”  

Durge chuckles into Astarion’s bare collarbone, burrowing his snout into the well defined muscles of Astarion’s chest to breathe in his perfume as he mumbles, “I hope I can be worth the wait.” He feels the slither of dark thoughts in his mind, stirring in that black pit of despair that calls to him. 

“You already are,” Astarion says with a fury, bringing his arms around Durge’s neck to pull him in for a passionate kiss. It burns Durge’s doubt away, for the moment. 

The heat between them stokes into a raging inferno, and their kisses turn to madness, tongues thrashing. When Durge grinds their hips together, they groan in unison, Astarion breaking their kiss to dramatically throw his head back onto the pillows. The target of his vulnerable throat is too much for Durge to resist, and he brings the flat of his tongue up the column of Astarion’s neck, delighting in how he writhes in frustration. 

He pulls back to watch Astarion’s face, panting heavily. In the look that passes between them, Durge feels both a sense of weight lifting from his shoulders, and a tightness in his throat. He breathes in slowly, holding it for a moment. 

“You are in control,” Durge insists as he exhales, placing a gentle kiss on Astarion’s temple, “All you have to do is tell me to stop, and I will.” Astarion nods, and Durge sees him swallow hard. Durge knows that Astarion has a place in his mind where goes to escape, a safe place he built as Cazador’s thrall. 

More than he wants to taste Astarion, more than he wants to be buried in him, Durge is desperate to become a new safe place for Astarion. A wholesome one. It’s a gift they can give each other. 

“Astarion,” Durge says, gently placing a knuckle to Astarion’s chin to align their gazes, “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t need -”

Astarion interrupts him with a fearsome, forceful kiss, drawing his cool tongue against the seam of Durge’s lips. “I want this. I want you ,” Astarion asserts, pulling Durge in for another kiss, “My choice is to share this with you, darling,” He says it with simple sincerity before he nestles back into the pillows, a pale toned arm tucked behind his head. 

“You want this, too?” He asks gently. Durge nods, and Astarion continues playfully, “Then stop stalling,” Astarion winks at him cheekily, and Durge chuckles. What a fool he was to think he could ever leave this man behind.

Never again.

**********

“I’m not stalling,” Durge murmurs as he kisses his way down Astarion’s chest, flicking the tip of his tongue over one of Astarion’s nipples as he goes, “I’m savouring.” When Astarion gasps softly, Durge hums, passing the flat of his tongue over the same spot, then moving over to give the other nipple the same attention. 

Every piece of Astarion is a story of hard and soft: he’s well muscled, his body perpetually toned by his vampirism, but his skin is silk, and his edges are smooth. A gentle kiss, and a sharp bite. Perfectly balanced.

He kisses his way down to the loose waistband of Astarion’s sleeping trousers, curling a claw underneath to flirt with it. He passes his finger back and forth slowly, drawing the waistband lower until the tip of Astarion’s hardness is just barely covered. 

“Stop taunting,” Astarion hisses at him. 

“Taunting?” Durge hums as he passes his finger under Astarion’s waistband again, the tip of his finger barely touching Astarion’s sex. Astarion’s hips buck as if he’s trying to prolong the contact, and Durge chuckles, moving his hand out of the way as he continues, “At worst, I’m teasing.”

“That’s what taunting means,” Astarion bites out in feral frustration. Durge chuckles again, but finally, gently, pulls on Astarion’s undergarments and trousers, sliding them down his legs and off his feet, baring him completely in one smooth motion. 

Fuck. He’s divine. He might actually be the god of something, looking like that. His alabaster skin glows in the warm lantern light, his cloudy curls softly resting on the decadent pillows, wreathing his beautiful face like a resplendent halo. 

There’s a bead of arousal at the tip of Astarion’s cock, and it looks so inviting that Durge's mouth starts to water. With a growl, he tucks himself between Astarion’s legs, bending each of Astarion’s knees over opposite shoulders. Durge feels Astarion shudder as his breath passes over Astarion’s cock, and the anticipation almost becomes too much to bear. 

Durge kisses Astarion’s inner knee, then his inner thigh. He softly nuzzles his snout into Astarion’s pale flesh there, revelling in the smoothness against his scales. He places one more gentle kiss in the crook of Astarion’s hip before meeting his gaze. His cock throbs at the sight of Astarion biting his lip, a fang exposed over the perfect curve of his mouth, the suspense and lust written like a poem on the planes of his face. 

“Do you want me to taste you, Astarion?” Durge asks in earnest. Even now, he would gladly stop. This vulnerability, this intimacy, has already been a gift greater than any for which Durge could have hoped. The promise of what’s to come between the two of them, in a year or a hundred, is enough to sustain him. 

When Astarion nods his consent, whispering, “Yes,” Durge could come apart. Durge rubs his fingers along the backs of Astarion’s legs, letting his hands come to rest softly on Astarion’s ass, drawing his scaled thumbs in slow circles along the seam of Astarion’s pale upper thigh. 

Durge swallows hard, carefully considering how he wants to proceed. He worries over which path will be least likely to push Astarion away toward that place in his mind. He presses another kiss to Astarion’s inner thigh and breathes to him, “Stay with me.” 

Astarion holds his gaze, and Durge watches him take a breath. He knows his own emotions are as clearly written in his scent as on his face, perhaps moreso. He’s feeling many things, but more than all of them he hopes Astarion can scent the love between them.

Astarion nods again, insisting, “ Forever .” 

Durge kisses Astarion’s thigh, more forcefully this time, and then kisses his way into the crook of Astarion’s hip, relishing in his soft, cool flesh. Astarion looks like he could be sculpted from marble, but he’s soft and smooth in a way Durge has never appreciated before. 

As he considers the inviting appeal of Astarion’s cock, finally available to him, Durge faces a hard reality. Durge’s mouth, all pointed teeth and jagged edges, is not a hospitable place. He can’t take Astarion’s length without the potential for injury, no matter how careful he is. 

Instead, he draws his tongue up Astarion’s hardness, groaning at the clean, floral, musky taste. He laps up the arousal at the tip, and the salty, heady flavour bursting on his tongue starts a frenzy, his heart pounding and blood boiling. He runs the soft pad of his tongue all over Astarion’s length, drinking in every gasp and sigh from Astarion as he does. 

When he draws his tongue up the seam of Astarion’s ass, Astarion cries out in pleasure and Durge almost bursts at the sound. He settles into a rhythm, alternating between tasting Astarion’s gorgeous ass and servicing his cock gently with the flat of his tongue. All the while, he carefully checks Astarion’s face, searching for any signs that he’s travelled to that place in his mind, but he remains fully present, one hand curled around one of Durge’s horns, the other fisting the sheets.  

Durge slowly licks Astarion’s ass, his own arousal heavy as Astarion squirms on his tongue, the intimacy drowning them both. He finds himself pressing his hips into the bed just to feel some kind of friction, and for a moment he wonders if it’s possible to climax from someone else’s pleasure alone. When he brings a pebbled thumb up to stroke the underside of Astarion’s cock, slowly drawing it up from root to tip, Astarion hisses, then stammers, “Stop, please, darling, I - I’m close to finishing.”

Durge stops immediately, moving his hands to Astarion’s hips and nuzzling his snout into Astarion’s shaking thigh. He plants a kiss to Astarion’s inner knee as he murmurs, “Then let me finish you, Astarion.” 

Durge watches Astarion shake his head, and smirks at those cloudy, dishevelled curls - they’ve flattened and splayed most indecently, and Durge feels a sense of pride. He can’t imagine anyone else would be privileged enough to muss Astarion’s hair like this and get away with it. He kisses the inside of Astarion’s knee again, tenderly, trying to express his gratitude for this gift in some small measure. 

Astarion sits up, sliding his legs slowly out of Durge’s grasp. Their parting leaves Durge cold, and the further Astarion gets, the harder the pull he feels to be drawn back together. He growls, turning himself to face Astarion as he levels a glare on him, the tension between them overtaking his better nature, “I want to taste you as you finish, Astarion,” he growls.

“I am almost tempted to let you,” Astarion says through a smirk as he shifts himself on the pillows, “You sound absolutely desperate.” He gestures to Durge’s breeches, his point quite clear. 

“I am,” Durge rumbles as he unties his trousers, “I am desperate for you to spill your load on my tongue.” Not sparing any thought for grace, he pulls his trousers off quickly, tossing them carelessly off to the side, “I want to taste every drop.” 

He kneels at the foot of the bed, bared in his entirety. Astarion gives him an appraising look, an eyebrow raised suggestively. “Satisfied?” Durge asks with a bite of cheek. 

“Very nearly,” Astarion purrs, matching Durge’s humour, but he quickly turns sincere, his red eyes going wide as he clears his throat, “But I - I want us to finish together.”

Durge’s cock is hard and weeping, his arousal sliding in rivulets between the scales that pebble his length. Astarion hums at the sight, drawing his tongue over a fang. Durge growls at him, wanting that tongue to himself, but won’t cross any threshold of Astarion’s without being invited. 

When Astarion reaches for him, Durge feels his heart leap, and a flutter builds in his stomach when their lips finally meet again. Astarion’s legs wrap around him, and as Durge slowly lowers his weight into the cradle of Astarion’s hips, they both moan as their cocks slide against each other.

“ Fuck ,” Astarion groans against Durge’s lips, rolling his hips again. 

“Gods,” Durge hisses, all thoughts beyond their bodies emptying from his mind. 

The pressure of their bodies, the differing textures of their skin, and the slickness of their mixed arousal makes for an intoxicating sensation, and Durge can sense that it won’t take him long to finish. He starts to take a grounding breath, but Astarion’s mouth is on him before he can steady himself. Nothing has ever tasted as good, no flavour remotely as rich, as Astarion’s cool tongue as it flicks against his lips.

Slowly, at first, they rock against each other, their erections sliding just next to each other over the planes of their stomachs, smooth on Astarion’s side, rough and textured on Durge’s. As their pace builds, Durge’s breath hitches, the sensitivity overcoming him, and he breaks their kiss to catch his breath. 

When Astarion reaches between them, holding their cocks together tightly, Durge almost reaches the point of no return. He threads the fingers of one hand into Astarion’s silky hair, and moves his other hand to Astarion’s hip, applying the slightest pressure to control the movement between them so he doesn’t finish too quickly.

“Astarion,” Durge pants, and he feels Astarion’s moan in response before he continues, “Astarion, I want you to taste me .” As he says it, he rolls his head, exposing his crimson throat. 

As Astarion’s fangs sink into his neck, Durge finishes with a groan, the pain of the bite pushing him over the edge, a wave of bliss crashing over him. Astarion follows him a moment later, his fangs receding from Durge’s neck as he gasps. They collapse into each other, the release spreading through them both like the lapping of cool waves on the shore. 

**********

They lay, a tangle of tired limbs, and breathe each other in. Astarion laps up the dripping blood from the bite on Durge’s neck while Durge nuzzles his snout into Astarion’s shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around Astarion’s back. Their stomachs, and Astarion’s hands, are covered in their collective spend, the scent of musk and arousal spiralling around them. 

Durge chuckles as a sense of relief pours through him, but it quickly becomes a sob as a torrent of emotions douse him. He presses his face into Astarion’s chest, steadying himself with a breath.

He shudders as Astarion’s cool breath whispers a soft caress against his neck, “Stay with me.”

Through the lump in his throat and the tightness in his chest, Durge promises, “ Forever .”

Durge eventually carries Astarion to the bath, easing their way into the warm water. He cleans them both, and washes Astarion’s hair gently, and for a while they just watch each other. Astarion wipes Durge’s tears from his face with such overwhelming gentleness, and Durge softly runs his hands over the scars on Astarion’s back, wishing he could wipe them away as easily.  

Astarion stays in his lap, his legs still wrapped around Durge’s hips where they were during their coupling, as if he is loath to separate. Durge sympathises.

At some point, Astarion fully melts against Durge’s chest, and a warmth spreads through Durge like he has never known: a true sense of peace. Astarion isn’t breathing, and his heart, of course, doesn’t beat, so from time to time Durge squeezes Astarion’s hand, their fingers laced together under the bathwater, and he feels two pulses on his hand in return.

Durge takes the time to admire Astarion’s face, drawing a knuckle down that porcelain cheek. He loves those laugh lines around Astarion’s mouth, and those forehead wrinkles that show up when he scowls. He loves the way the apple of Astarion’s cheek turns up during a smirk, and how his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Most of all, Durge thinks, he loves the way the delicate strands of his cloudy hair curl up around his pointed ears. 

Astarion is handsome, it’s indisputable. But he is so much more than that. He’s sensitive. He’s brave . He was willing to be vulnerable, but stayed strong when Durge needed stability yesterday. Astarion is all the things Durge wants to be in a partner, and as he realises this, he shakes his head to himself in wonder. The tightness in his chest returns, bordering on agony. 

Is it possible to love someone to the point of pain?

Unworthy.

The thought rockets through Durge like a magic missile, the sting of it lashing through him. He takes a breath, and reaches up to tuck a curl behind Astarion’s ear. Astarion has had countless opportunities to turn away from him, and he’s been nothing but steadfast. He deserves the same. Someone who is strong enough to stay.

UNWORTHY.

Durge brings in another breath, holding it in until he counts to four, and when he exhales, he lets his self-loathing go with it. When his mind stays quiet, he smiles to himself. He plants a kiss on the crown of Astarion’s head and hums, “I love you.” Astarion squeezes his hand once, and Durge squeezes it twice in response. 

He feels the cool tip of Astarion’s nose rub against his neck, and barely catches on a whisper of a breath, “I'll love you, too. Forever.” 

Chapter Text

“You’re leaving ? Are you serious ?” Astarion paces back and forth in a rage, hissing the words out through bared fangs. The bliss from his lovemaking with Durge is long gone, as is the post-coital relaxation, which he was looking forward to turning into a multi-day orgasmic entanglement until this unreasonable distraction. Right now, he’s feeling quite thieved of any potential hedonistic debauchery, and spits out with venom, “After everything we’ve been through?”

“There’s no need for dramatics,” Durge rumbles, his tone laced with humour, which is insulting at a time like this, especially from him. Astarion rounds on him, levelling a furious glare in his direction.

“Keep your pretty mouth shut, darling , or you may find my fangs buried somewhere other than that delicious throat next time,” Astarion threatens, his eyes roving over the marks he left behind on Durge’s crimson neck, the soft scales there still raw.

“Promises, promises,” Durge snarls at him, his eyes flaming with a sudden intensity. And because he is a little lecherous, at least where Durge is concerned these days, Astarion scents the air. He feels a throb of desire rush through him when the spiralling heat hits his nose. The dark, burning red lust pouring off Durge pulls a purr out of his throat. Damn this man ! 

“Not now! I’m in the middle of a tantrum!” Astarion wags an accusing finger at Durge, but then brings his hand up to flirt his hair into place, “But maybe later?” When Durge growls at him again Astarion seriously considers taking him here on the common room floor. It would be fascinating to see what kind of damage those scales could do to the hardwood. 

“Good gods, this is disgusting ,” Shadowheart admonishes them from her spot on the couch, Scratch leaning heavily against her legs. She’s casually petting him, scratching him behind the ears in the way he likes, as if she hasn’t just dropped this fireball on them. She rolls her eyes as she continues, “Can the two of you please keep it together for the rest of this conversation?”

Astarion ignores her question, “What’s disgusting is the entrapment of luring us all the way in here, out of the very warm bath, into far, far too much clothing -” he hears Durge chuckle behind him, “- with the expectation that you would delight us with tales of your sexual exploits -” 

“Your sex ploits, maybe?” Durge chortles. 

“No.” Shadowheart and Astarion insist in unison.

Astarion continues, “But instead you tell us you’re leaving? And taking Scratch with you? It’s needlessly cruel, darling. I wanted some gossip, not heartbreak.”

“It’s not heartbreak , Astarion, you’ll be fine,” Shadowheart insists, a little callously. Touchy.

Astarion seats himself on the couch next to her, giving Scratch a pat as he does. What a darling, if sometimes disgusting , creature. He’s always turning up with something in his mouth, a proper little thief. He turns to face her fully, but she’s avoiding his gaze, watching Scratch’s face instead. 

“Of course it’s heartbreaking, darling,” Astarion says in earnest, “You are my - well, in truth you are my only friend.” He means it: she is the only one of their troupe who fully understands him, and accepts him as he is. Durge notwithstanding, of course. What they have between them is wholly different . 

“Only friend?” Shadowheart and Durge say together, their tones equally surprised. 

“You know what I mean, my love,” Astarion says flippantly, flicking his wrist at Durge by way of dismissal, his attention still fixed on Shadowheart. Her hair is out of its customary braid, hanging limp and damp past her shoulders. The skin around her eyes is swollen by the barest degree, and the whites of her eyes are stained with the gentlest tinge of red. 

“I really don’t,” Durge says. He sounds a little hurt. It’s very sweet. Astarion can hear the clinking of tooth to scale, and knows if he looks over he’ll see Durge worrying his lip with those sharp teeth. After everything, he still remains unsure. They’ll have to work on that. 

“He means he doesn’t see you as a friend . You’re something else. I’m his only friend, because he isn’t in love with me,” Shadowheart sighs. 

“Yes. That is exactly what I mean,” Astarion says, and he hears a soft sigh from Durge that almost makes him roll his eyes, “Obviously. See? You understand me. Why would you leave?” 

He tries a pout. Shadowheart gives him absolutely nothing as she passes her hand over her brow, kneading her fingers over her temple, but he hears a small rumble from the couch across the fire. He deepens his pout, just the smallest degree, and when the rumble deepens to a growl he can’t help but smirk. Astarion tosses a wink at Durge, savouring the fiery glance he’s graced with in return. They do have their fun together.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart says curtly, finally meeting his gaze, “I need to do this. I need to leave. I can’t -” she shakes her head, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, “I can’t just stay here waiting for something to change.”

Astarion remains quiet. He senses that something is shifting in her. He does reach out to take her hand from where it rests on Scratch’s head, and she allows it.

“I am glad the two of you have found something real. You deserve that, both of you,” Shadowheart squeezes Astarion’s hand as she looks to Durge giving him an honest nod before she continues, “But there’s nothing for me here.” She looks defeated. 

“Did the Hullhollyns treat you poorly?” Astarion asks, “I know a very proficient murderer if we need -” Durge scoffs in mock contempt, and so Astarion says, “- I meant me, darling, I daresay I am the finest among us -” Another scoff, this one more honestly outraged, “ - certainly the most practised at the mo-”  

“No,” Shadowheart interrupts before Astarion can continue, “They were very…satisfactory. It was exactly what I wanted,” Her gaze passes between Astarion and Durge as she says, “But it wasn’t what I needed.” 

And there it is. She’s pining for something real - for what she had with Lae’zel. For a moment, Astarion considers what it would have been like if Durge had chosen to leave. A pang of terror clangs through him as he looks at that handsome face and his imposing figure, and it occurs to Astarion that he would have handled it far less gracefully than Shadowheart has done.

 Astarion nods, “Of course, darling. I believe I understand.” He pats her hand, and then withdraws his touch.

“When do you leave?” Durge rumbles. 

“Soon,” Shadowheart says, “Very soon. Perhaps as early as -”

The door to the common room swings open, and Gale steps through the door, still wearing his ensemble from the party, but looking quite haggard. 

“Ah. Very good. You are all already here,” Gale says, his fist knocking on his leg, a familiar nervous tick of his, “I have something of an announcement that may be painful for you all to hear.” 

Shadowheart, Astarion and Durge trade looks between them, and Astarion notices Durge trying to choke back a laugh. Gale bursting into the room with some grave announcement has become something of a pastime for them. Astarion turns toward Gale, placing his chin in his hands in the most dramatic way possible, feigning unflinching interest. He hears a sharp exhale from Durge and brims with pride at making him crack. 

Gale meets Astarion’s eyes and does not at all sense Astarion’s sarcasm. He’s so oblivious it’s hardly even fun. In fact he seems almost bolstered by Astarion’s mock enthusiasm. Astarion sighs and sits back in his seat. If Shadowheart understands and accepts him fully, he and Gale have missed each other completely by sheer luck, like ships passing in the night. 

Gale continues, “I’m afraid to say I’m leaving,” Astarion sighs heavily and rolls his eyes. This again? “This shall be the end of our storied adventure together, but not, I daresay, the end of our storied friendships.” 

“Alright, then,” Astarion says as he stands, moving to seat himself next to Durge, curling his toes under Durge’s thigh while Durge puts an arm around his shoulders, “I think I speak for us when we wish you both the best on your travels.”

“Both?” Gale looks to Shadowheart in question, and she nods while continuing to massage her temple. She’s clearly ready to move on, and at this moment Astarion can’t blame her for it. 

Gale tells them he’s been out all night and day recovering the Crown of Karsus from the river, but then did the astonishingly stupid thing of giving it to Mystra. Astarion is aghast, but seems to be the only one. Durge nods approvingly, and Shadowheart - Shadowheart - congratulates him on making the right choice? Why is everyone so set on making the right choice instead of the fun one? He rolls his eyes. 

Apparently, Gale has been offered some sort of professorial position in Waterdeep. He and his lovely creature Tara will be relocating there on the morrow, and naturally he invites them all to visit. Astarion feels as though he could pin Durge to the couch and ride him until sunset in gratitude when he gives the most noncommittal, “Perhaps another time.” 

Shadowheart shares her plan to take Scratch first to Reithwin Town to visit Halsin and check in on Aylin and Isobel, and then to travel. When she says she isn’t sure what will come next, she has a smile on her face. That’s enough for Astarion. He finds himself hoping she can find what she’s looking for, and rolls his eyes at himself. Ugh, I am going sloppy. 

Eventually, they say their goodbyes. Astarion kisses Shadowheart on the cheek, and makes her swear on the gods that she’ll write. The vow means nothing to Astarion, but he’s hopeful it will guilt her into keeping in touch. 

Durge offers his hand when he stands from the couch, and Astarion takes it, lacing their fingers together as they leave the common room, and their friends, behind. 

“I am - grateful - that you chose not to leave,” Astarion says softly, squeezing Durge’s hand twice as they cross the hall to their room, “Please - stay with me.”  

“I intend to,” Durge says with intent, as he opens the door for Astarion, “Forever.” He graces Astarion with such an easy, sincere smile that Astarion feels a stirring sense of…confidence? Hope? Something soft and sweet, and surprising. Sloppy, indeed.

“It’s just to be the two of us, then?” Astarion says, gesturing in mock awkwardness.

“Indeed.” Durge says, head cocked to the side in question as he closes the door. Astarion hums. Try as he might, he loves that look of curiosity too much to keep from trying to kiss it from that handsome, sharp face.

When their lips meet, as is the case every time now, a burning desire takes flame in Astarion’s gut, a welcome change from the forced apathy he’s felt from contact with others for so long. He is somehow left satisfied and wanting in equal measure. 

“The magic is gone, isn’t it?” He quips against Durge’s lips, flicking his tongue against those scales to taste him more completely. 

“Oh yes,” Durge says, matching Astarion’s humour and intensity with such perfection, “In fact I’m feeling quite repulsed.” He presses their chests together as he continues, “We really needed all the others to make this work, hmm?”

“It doesn’t feel like “us” without Gale just bursting in at any moment.” Astarion sighs softly as he wraps his arms around Durge’s neck, kissing the marks he left there during their coupling yesterday. 

“If it helps you, I think I could be convinced to burst at any moment?” Durge says cheekily, while pressing his hardness against Astarion’s hip. 

Astarion lets out a boisterous laugh, surprising himself, “You’re becoming an incorrigible flirt, my love. I like it.” 

“And you, Astarion,” Durge says through a soft kiss, “seem to be becoming quite a happy creature indeed.” 

“What’s something that you hate?” Astarion asks. His head is resting on Durge’s stomach, and Durge is running those thick fingers through his hair. It’s so relaxing . 

In the course of starting to dress for the day, they’ve just been chatting . Durge is still in his sleeping trousers, and Astarion just in his shirt and undergarments, bare legs splayed across the soft bed linens. 

He can’t remember a time where such casual proximity to another person like this was so comforting. Being close to someone usually ended in pain at Cazador’s hands, for either him or his victims. But this? This is nice . 

“Sneezing,” Durge says with certainty. Astarion bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, you are demented, my love! Sneezing?” Astarion giggles, “I was expecting you to say ‘I hate the idea of starving children’ or ‘bees’ or some other nonsense. Sneezing? Ha!” 

“What? I don’t like the feeling of being totally out of control of my body, even for a moment, it’s only to be expected.” Durge says, as if it’s the most obvious answer. Sneezing? But Astarion does suppose it makes sense. The compulsions he would endure from Cazador felt somewhat like a sneeze: a contraction of his body that he could not control. Yes. It does make sense.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Astarion asks quickly, reaching a hand up to stroke the soft scales at Durge’s neck. His lovely pulse is nearly visible, his beating heart full of life and love.

“Blood red.” Durge answers, again with certainty. He knows himself so well in so many ways, but doubts himself so fully in others. 

“What?” Astarion laughs again, “A Bhaalspawn whose favourite colour is blood red , it’s far too trite for someone as interesting as you!” 

“It’s the colour of your eyes, of course it’s my favourite!” Durge says, aghast in mock disbelief. 

“My eyes are crimson , thank you!” Astarion rasps through another bout of chuckling.  

“Yes, that’s what I said! Those are the same thing! , ” Durge insists through a chortle. Astarion’s head bounces on Durge’s stomach in time with his laughter, which only makes them laugh harder. Durge starts to wheeze, and Astarion’s abdominals start to hurt.  

“What’s your favourite smell?” Durge asks when they’ve finally settled themselves.

“You.” Astarion says earnestly, “You taste and smell absolutely divine. ” Durge hums, and runs those fingers through his hair again. Gods, he might finally be happy for more than a moment at a time. 

“There’s so much I have yet to learn about you, Astarion,” Durge rumbles, and when Astarion hears his name he could almost swear the tightness in his chest is his heart trying to beat. Durge continues, “I can’t wait to learn all of it. Every. Single. Piece.” He sits up, kissing Astarion’s forehead with each word before he gently lifts Astarion’s head and rolls out from under him, setting his curls on the bed with care. 

“But all that will have to wait, at least for the moment. I have business that requires my attention in the city.” Durge plants another quick kiss on his head, then multiple on his face and down his neck in quick succession, and his breath tickles Astarion’s neck such that he can’t keep himself from chuckling.

“Business? What kind of business?” Astarion rolls over onto his stomach, watching Durge as he dresses. And what a sight it is. Delicious. 

Durge hums curiously as he swaps his sleeping trousers for a pair of light linen ones, but doesn’t answer.

“Secret business?” Astarion questions further, prodding. 

“No,” Durge insists, turning back to Astarion and planting another kiss on his face, “Not secret business. I would tell you, if you ask. But it is surprise business.” 

“I like surprises,” Astarion says playfully.

“I know you do. Hence the business,” Durge replies with a wink as he pulls a loose fitting shirt down over his chest. 

“Well, what am I to do while you’re gone? Lay around relaxing? It sounds awful,” Astarion purrs. Durge graces him with a few more kisses before donning his cloak and leaving out the door. 

A moment later, he pops his head back in and says, “If you need a suggestion on something to keep you occupied, you could always masturbate furiously while thinking about your cock in my ass.” 

Astarion gasps. He grabs a pillow from the bed and throws it at the door. 

“Okay, I love you, goodbye!” Durge calls as he leaves, clicking the door closed just quickly enough to avoid being clocked by the pillow.

“Rude.” Astarion mumbles to himself. How dare Durge rile him up like that and just leave .  Promises, promises. 

Astarion busies himself for a while. He adds a small bit of embroidery to the collar of Durge’s spellcasting robes. He tidies their room, sorting the various bottles of liquids on the vanity first by size, then by colour, appraising each for the aesthetics. He tries to read a book, but it’s simply not titillating enough. He should ask Shadowheart for recommendations before she leaves. But then he’ll have something to actually talk about with Wyll next time he comes back from Avernus. Pass. 

Out of sheer boredom, he wends his way down to the taproom below, looking for something to capture his interest. He darts through the shafts of light piercing through the windows as he appraises the goings-on. 

Absolutely nothing. The music is banal, and the taproom is nearly empty at this time of day. Astarion sighs heavily. They really need to find a way for Astarion to walk in the sun again, so that he might conduct his own secret business. Not that he has any idea what that could possibly mean. 

Careful to avoid any errant sunbeams, he vaguely works his way to the kitchens, waving to Alan the barkeep as he goes. He pokes a head around the corner, and sees the red-bearded dwarf chef bustling around, bossing the other kitchen staff in a gruff. His name is…Reever? Rover? Something like that. 

The man rounds on him, “What do you - oh, it’s you. Are you here for the tea? You can order that from Alan.” He waves at Astarion as if to beckon him away from the door. 

“Would you mind shuttering that window?” Astarion points to a window against the far wall of the kitchen, “The sun doesn’t agree with my countenance, I’m afraid.” He throws on a winning smile.

The man harrumphs, but obliges. Astarion steps into the kitchen. It’s clean and orderly. Everything seems to have its place. It’s refreshing . Durge, bless him, is a bit untidy. He’s a complete mess, actually, like a sentient cyclone. 

“It’s a lovely kitchen,” Astarion says, gesturing. The chef grunts in response as he slices a peach. Astarion clears his throat and continues, “This may seem strange, but I was wondering if you could show me how you make those delightful little pastries with the creme in the middle?” 

“You want me to stop in the middle of my busy preparation time to teach you how to make food that you would otherwise need to buy?” The chef - Roveer! That’s it. Ha ! - seems incredulous. 

Astarion says, “Well. Yes. Chef Roveer ,” He lays it on thick, like warts on an ogre, “That’s exactly what I want.”  He considers dropping a hint about him being the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, but he has a feeling that may not work in his favour here. 

“Why?” The dwarf is persistently suspicious.

“It seems like an excellent skill to have -” Astarion says, gesturing vaguely at the tavern, “- for when we move on from this place someday. And because my partner enjoys them.” 

Roveer raises an eyebrow. 

“Alright, fine. I’m desperately bored. Happy?” Astarion spits out with a scoff and an eye roll. 

“Not particularly. Come on, then, the pastry is ready for its final fold. Are you handy with a knife? This technique requires precise cuts.”

“Oh, well.” Astarion says flippantly, “ That I think I can manage.”

Chapter Text

“You made this?” Durge asks, astonished. The pastry is golden, just browned around the edges, and there’s a healthy dollop of a thick, pale cream in the centre. It’s perfectly shaped, crispy along the bottom, and looks most tempting. Durge sits on the stool by the vanity, Astarion perching next to him on the bench at the foot of their bed. 

“I could do without the tone of shock, darling. You will recall that I am quite capable at - well, everything.” Astarion says it with a flourish of his wrist, turning his fingers through his hair. 

Unworthy.

Durge shakes his head, letting the thought pass, “Of course, Astarion, you are a paragon of all things,” When Astarion preens at the praise, Durge chuckles, “I only meant - you made this for me ?” 

Astarion nods, and a cloudy curl falls from its particular place in his perfectly coiffed hair to rest on his pale forehead. 

Durge is touched. Astarion made something for him? Astarion does things for him all the time: he tidies the room, mends his clothes, even when he doesn’t need to. Durge can do all those things with magic, Astarion just … beats him to it, usually. All the time, actually. Now Astarion is also making food for him? Durge is filled with a sense of gratitude. 

“This is too kind, Astarion,” Durge says, leaning over to tuck the errant curl back into place. He draws his knuckle down Astarion’s cheek, enjoying how Astarion turns his face into the warmth of his hand. He feels the stirring in the dark place in his mind, but focuses on Astarion instead, continuing softly, “Thank you. I’m looking forward to trying it. It looks different from the last time.”

“We made some changes to the recipe.” Astarion says, crimson eyes twinkling, “Go on!”

“We?” Durge asks cheekily, as he takes a bite. It’s perfect . If he hadn’t been so spoiled in this particular regard lately he might think it was the best thing he’s ever tasted. The flaky pastry dissolves on his tongue, the soft, sweet creme that follows is bursting with the tang of peaches. 

He takes a sip of the tea, and relishes flavour: sweet and floral and Astarion. He could die happy in this moment, utterly fulfilled. He takes another bite, humming in satisfaction. 

Astarion is watching him so closely, their knees are touching as he leans in to watch Durge’s mouth move. Durge chuckles. Astarion’s eyes are so wide, entirely fixated on Durge’s face, his ears pointed back in the most curious, almost vulnerable gesture. Receiving the full measure of his attention in this way gives Durge the strangest feeling of intimacy. 

“Are you enjoying watching my mouth make quick work of this delicacy, Astarion?” Durge jests, licking a bit of pastry off a finger with a wink. 

“Your flirting is beginning to border on the lewd , darling,” Astarion exclaims with a cheeky glare, clearly shaken out of his trance. His tone is playful as he says, “But yes, in fact I am.” 

Durge sets his tea down on the table, and snakes his hand under Astarion’s ass and lifts him into his lap. Astarion purrs as his cool hands draw up Durge’s neck, tracing soft circles where his pulse is strongest. Their lips meet gently, and in place of the typical fire of passion, the sweetest, softest ache builds in Durge’s stomach, like leaves fluttering on a gentle autumn breeze. 

“Would you like to try it, Astarion?” Durge whispers against Astarion’s lips. He brings the last bite of pastry up between their faces. Astarion’s nose wrinkles in disgust, and somehow it’s Durge’s favourite thing. The fluttering in him begins to rage like a storm, the ache swelling to the blissful edge of pain. 

Astarion scoffs, “Darling, you know I would taste nothing but ash. I’d rather taste you.” He flicks his tongue against Durge’s lips and a rumble builds in Durge’s chest. Astarion is irresistible. 

“Food is more than just taste, Astarion,” he hums, drawing his free hand down Astarion’s back, “It’s also about smell,” He brings his snout to Astarion’s neck and breathes in deeply, savouring his citrus and floral scent.

“It’s about temperature,” he continues, calling on the barest hint of his wintry breath, drawing a line of cold air along Astarion’s jaw. Astarion shivers in his lap, his hands drifting down Durge’s chest as if to steal the warmth from his beating heart. The sweet ache in Durge’s gut has caught fire, immolating him from within. 

“Texture,” Durge rumbles, nuzzling the rough scales of his snout into the crook of Astarion’s neck before he draws the soft pad of his tongue over the same spot. Astarion is writhing indecently in his lap, and Durge can feel himself stiffening in response.

He brings their lips together, just barely touching, as he breathes, “The anticipation before the next bite.” The tension between them is like a rolling boil, breaking the surface and nearing to the point of spilling over. Durge can’t keep his eyes from exploring Astarion’s face, flickering between his pretty mouth and those enchanting red eyes. 

“Oh, that I understand very well, darling,” Astarion purrs against his lips, running a cool thumb over the fang marks on Durge’s neck that have only just healed. And for a moment, Astarion regards the last bit of pastry as if he might actually be tempted to try it. Durge brings the bite closer to Astarion’s mouth, and he parts his lips in invitation. Durge hums, fascinated by Astarion’s willingness to try something new, and moves to place the last bite on Astarion’s tempting tongue.

But Durge pops the pastry into his own mouth quickly instead, moaning in pleasure, and Astarion gasps, a look of dramatic betrayal on his beautiful face. 

“Drink,” Durge chuckles, exposing his throat. To his credit, Astarion doesn’t tease him in retribution. The icy piercing comes swiftly, followed by the throbbing numbness, and the pulling as Astarion drinks deeply. It has become a familiar and intoxicating feeling for Durge. There’s something wholesome to him about being able to nourish Astarion in some small way. It might be minimal compared to everything Astarion does for him, but it’s something . 

And, of course, he relishes the closeness of Astarion’s lips against his neck. The tightness of their bodies pressed together, Astarion’s hands roving over his chest. Even if they spend eternity this close, it won’t be enough. 

“Gods,” Astarion says as his fangs recede from Durge’s throat, “You taste heavenly.” 

“You can have more, Astarion. Drink your fill,” Durge insists. Astarion wipes the blood beading on Durge’s neck, licking it off his thumb in the most obscene fashion. Durge’s mind goes blank as he fixates on Astarion’s tongue flicking on that finger pad. 

“There would be nothing left of you if I were to drink my fill,” Astarion says, “I’ll never be finished with you, not for a thousand years, at least.” Durge runs his hands down Astarion’s back again, wrapping his hands under Astarion’s ass. He feels Astarion’s legs tighten around his hips. 

“I can’t imagine a better way to go, today or in a thousand years,” Durge jests as he lifts Astarion up, turning to carry him over to the bed. “Although I will remind you, I did go that way once, the first time, when you quite literally drained me dry.” 

Durge tosses Astarion onto the bed instead of laying him down with his customary gentleness.

“You ended up being perfectly fine!” Astarion shrieks as he bounces on the mattress. Durge pounces on him, planting kisses all over his face and neck, while Astarion giggles in protest.

“Just like you,” Durge claims between kisses, “despite your fussing , are perfectly fine.” He rolls off Astarion, laying on his side, a wide grin cracking his face as Astarion huffs in frustration.

Astarion sighs dramatically, “At the very least my hair is a mess now, surely.” He runs his long fingers through is white hair, face drawn in mock devastation. 

Durge gives him an appraising look, “A tragedy. I think I see one - oh no! two! - errant strands?” 

Astarion darts at him, pinning his shoulders to the bed with his hands. He’s almost feline in his grace, his body coiled tight like a spring, ready to snap. 

“Quite beastly of you, to tease me so,” Astarion snarls, “But I will have my vengeance.” Durge hums, cocking his head to the side as Astarion continues. “Perhaps I’ll drain you dry, after all.” 

As he threatens, he pulls on the laces of Durge’s trousers, his cool hands barely brushing against Durge’s hardening cock. Despite his body roaring at him to answer the call of Astarion’s touch, he rolls his eyes before pecking Astarion chastely on the mouth. 

“Come on now, Astarion” Durge says through another kiss, flipping them again so he’s on top, “What would you actually like to do today?”

“What do you mean, darling?” Astarion purrs, planting kisses softly along the wide span of Durge’s mouth. 

“We can’t very well lay here for the rest of our lives, kissing until the end of time.” Durge says, settling his weight into the cradle of Astarion’s hips, holding his torso on his forearms to keep them separated by some degree. 

“And why not?” Astarion questions with a sigh, settling his hands on Durge’s hips, leaning up to press his lips against Durge’s throat, where his pulse hammering wildly. His body is incapable of keeping any secrets from Astarion, and he loves that. There is something very honest about the way their hearts are laced together. 

“You make a compelling argument,” Durge affirms through a deepening kiss before he moves his way to Astarion’s neck, nuzzling his snout into the soft flesh there as he says, “But once you can walk in the sun again, we could buy a small house with a garden, as Shadowheart plans to do.” He kisses his way lazily across Astarion’s collarbone, moving the neckline of his ruffled shirt out of the way with a claw as he goes, “Or I could buy you a ship, and we could sail the Astral Sea. Conquer worlds together. We could travel endlessly, finding the best food and drink to drown ourselves in.” 

With a sudden burst of dexterity, Astarion presses hard against one of Durge’s hips while pulling on the other, flipping them both so he’s on top, knees straddling Durge’s hips. 

“Or, sunlight notwithstanding,” Astarion says, “We could descend into the bowels of this city and destroy every last Bhaalist, and your father’s dreadful temple as well.” 

Durge is stunned, pulled out of their game. He places his hands on Astarion’s hips, circling his thumbs around the waistband of Astarion’s breeches, “You would do that for me? Truly?”

“I would do that with you, and many other things besides,” Astarion purrs, “But all that will have to wait, as I have business that requires my full attention,” Astarion echoes Durge’s own words from earlier in the day back to him, teasing Durge’s cock through his trousers as the does.

Durge growls, the smouldering fire in him blazing into an inferno at Astarion’s touch. Maybe they can lay in this bed until time ends, or the sun burns out, enjoying each other forever. Maybe they deserve that. Whatever other business they have can surely wait. 

“As for how I’d like to spend my day, well, I would very much like to taste you , darling,” Astarion croons, his fingers exploring Durge’s length through his trousers. Durge can feel the tacky wetness there, his arousal already spilling through the thin fabric.

Durge runs his hands down Astarion’s thighs, drawing his claws over Astarion’s supple flesh gently. When he looks up to meet Astarion’s gaze, Astarion eyes are heavy with lust, but he’s patiently waiting for Durge’s further consent, tracing circles with his fingers across Durge’s lower stomach where his shirt has ridden up. 

Durge nods, feeling a sense of pounding excitement, but also an apprehension that leaves him breathless. He could service Astarion for eternity, he’s sure, but the vulnerability of being taken by him like this feels new, and terrifying. 

Astarion seems to understand. Holding Durge’s gaze, he loosens the ties of his own shirt first, drawing it over his head and tossing it to the side. An offering of vulnerability for Durge’s comfort. The gesture is so sexy , but romantic and passionate too, and Durge finds himself sitting up, drawing Astarion in for a kiss. 

As their lips collide, Durge feels Astarion’s cool hands draw his shirt over his shoulders, and they part for a moment while Astarion pulls his shirt off completely. He feels Astarion’s long cool fingers on his jaw, bringing their lips together again with incredible tenderness. 

When Astarion flirts his tongue against Durge’s scaled mouth, he parts for him, their tongues playing together in a familiar, thrilling dance. Durge’s pulse is pounding, a rush of arousal stealing his breath away. 

Durge is filled with a sudden, desperate need to be as close to Astarion as possible, for the barriers between them to dissolve into nothing, until they have become as close to one being as they can possibly be. He pulls at the ties of Astarion’s breeches, panting heavily, drowning in the intimacy of their closeness. Can it be like this forever? The constant tug between friendship, intimacy, love, desire? This tension should be tearing him apart, taking him in too many directions, but every day they spend together, Durge feels a little more whole.

When he’s pulled at the last tie, Astarion parts from him, rolling his weight just enough to remove his trousers gracefully. He places himself between Durge’s legs, fingers curled under the waistband of Durge’s pants.

“Can I taste you, darling?” Astarion asks in earnest. 

“Yes,” Durge breathes, heart racing wildly. The smile Astarion gives him in response is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and for a moment they grin wildly at each other. 

Slowly, Astarion removes Durge’s trousers, peeling them off his hardness and over his legs, tossing them off the bed lazily. Durge’s cock is throbbing, the arousal leaking from the tip of his cock pooling at its base, drenching him in slickness. 

Durge sees Astarion’s nostrils flare and his pupils dilate at the tang of lust. Luckily for Durge, he seems intent on not teasing or tormenting him any further, as he quickly draws his tongue up Durge’s cock from root to tip, circling the head for a moment before lowering his mouth fully along Durge’s length.

“Fuck!” Durge groans, his head dropping into the pillows. He looks at the ceiling, unseeing, as he takes a steadying breath. He already knows he won’t last long, but he hisses when Astarion’s hands start exploring him as well.

Astarion’s mouth on him is ecstasy . If there were any gods, he would surely see them now, because there could be no greater call to divinity than this feeling. If his heart beats any harder he’s sure it will pound right through his chest.

There is nothing but Astarion, his tongue, his teeth, his soft, warm mouth. Durge adjusts himself to run his fingers through those cloudy, silken locks, panting heavily as he moves them aside to turn Astarion’s gaze toward him. He wants to watch those crimson eyes as he finishes.

When Durge finally sees Astarion’s face, he is struck, as if by a bolt of lightning, with a deep, penetrating sense of horror.  For Astarion - the man he loves - is gone .

Despite his mouth being fully engaged on Durge’s length, his cool hands working in perfect concert with his tongue and teeth, his crimson eyes are glazed, and he looks as if he is a

million

realms

away.

Chapter Text

“No!” Durge gasps, driving his hips toward the bed, trying to remove himself from Astarion’s mouth, “ Shit . Astarion, stop.” He reaches down to where Astarion’s tongue and hands are on him, separating their bodies as gently and quickly as he can. 

Astarion blinks, and suddenly there he is. It’s unnerving to watch it happening like this, the travelling Astarion does to escape. It’s as if his mind - his wit, his charm, his humour - departs for somewhere else, leaving his body behind. 

“Astarion. Oh gods . Are you okay?” Durge whispers. There’s a sour churning in his gut: this is his worst fear, finally come to pass. Because wherever Astarion went, Durge was the monster who sent him there. Just like Cazador . He’s not just unworthy of Astarion, he’s fucking dangerous.

Worthless.

Bile rises in Durge’s throat, burning through his chest like a splash of acid. This exact torment is what he wanted to spare Astarion from by leaving. He feels himself wince, and his thumb reaches up to turn the platinum warding bond ring around his third finger. 

“What - what are you doing? What’s wrong?” Astarion asks, confused. His tone is strangely clipped, and his pale brow is furrowed. He sits back on his heels, running his fingers through his silvery hair. 

“Astarion,” Durge breathes as he adjusts himself to sit against the headboard, giving Astarion some space, “Nothing is wrong. You’ve done nothing wrong,” He says it with force, his tone more assertive than he means it to be. He tries to be gentler when he says, “You were just gone . I didn’t want to cause you any harm by continuing.” Any further harm. He spins the ring again.

Durge’s erection is waning, and for the first time in ages he feels uncomfortable with his nakedness. Something about his body, or his behaviour, pushed Astarion away, he’s certain of it. Durge flicks his wrist, cleaning them both of the mess of Durge’s arousal with his magic. 

“Gone?” Astarion softly questions. He blinks a few times, as if to clear his sight. He seems disoriented. For what must be the hundredth time, Durge finds himself wishing they had the bridge between their minds afforded by the mindflayer tadpoles. Not that he would want to hurt Astarion any further by letting him see this bitter darkness.

“I - I’m not sure what to say,” Astarion continues, his expression inscrutable. He regards Durge,  appraising their nakedness and the rumpled bedsheets around them. On the floor, their clothes lay in haphazard piles, tossed away in the throes of passion. Astarion looks at Durge, brow still furrowed, and says, “I should finish you,” he pauses for the slightest moment before he continues, “Is that what you want?” 

“Astarion. No,” Durge insists carefully, “That is not what I want.” 

Durge is quick to spiral into the depths of self-loathing, to be swept away on the current of hatred: hatred for his crimes, his father, himself. But, Durge realises with a start, despite his many flaws and failings, Astarion needs him. 

Seeing Astarion like this, confused and vulnerable, cracks something in him, and from the fissure pours concern, affection, and so much sympathy. Astarion has yet to flinch from Durge, even in his darkest moments. They need each other .   

He takes a breath and holds it, trying to root himself to that feeling, to use it to pull himself out of the sinking pit in his mind. He didn’t do this to Astarion. Cazador did. Cazador , a true monster.

Durge will do whatever he can to keep the memory of Cazador from stealing any more happy moments from Astarion’s future. From their shared future. 

“All I want is to make sure you are healthy, and happy,” Durge says in earnest, holding his arms out and gesturing for Astarion to come join him at the head of the bed. The tension in Astarion’s brow loosens, but he stays where he is. Durge continues, “I never want you to do something you don’t want to do.”

Astarion grimaces, and then pouts. The expression is so familiar - so Astarion - and Durge is washed in a sense of relief. Astarion crawls his way up to Durge and curls into his side, spreading his hand over the spot on Durge’s chest where his heart is beating steadily. Durge slowly wraps his arm around Astarion’s shoulder, gently holding him. The anxiety he felt about his nakedness melts away, and in its place he feels a sense of rightness . 

He hears Astarion inhale, and feels the cold tip of a nose against his neck. 

When he exhales, Astarion says, “I did want this, darling. I had imagined it would be quite enjoyable to have you come undone at my touch. I just - I’m not sure what happened,” he finishes sadly. 

“It’s perfectly alright, Astarion. I am content,” Durge reassures, nuzzling a cheek into Astarion’s soft curls and tightening his embrace by the smallest degree, “What do you need right now?” It’s a question he should have asked earlier, before all this. 

“I - I don’t know,” Astarion shrugs. He sinks into Durge’s arms a little further, collapsing into him. 

“You want to take a bath? I’ll wash your hair?” Durge murmurs. He feels Astarion nod. 

He turns himself so that he can gather Astarion in his arms. Astarion protests weakly for a moment, insisting he can take himself to the tub. But when Durge lets Astarion’s weight settle back onto the bed, Astarion glowers, his lip pushing forward in the smallest, disapproving pout.  

Durge chuckles. Another wave of relief rolls through him. Astarion’s absence has clearly passed. He’s present in full force now, unmistakable as a gale wind. It’s the kind of storm he’d be glad to get swept up in.

Durge brings Astarion up to his chest, sliding an arm under his legs and around his back, turning to slide off the bed. As he lifts, he plants a gentle kiss on that cool, pale forehead, no longer creased with stress, relishing in the feeling as Astarion wraps his arms around Durge’s neck. 

Durge steps into the bath, letting the water take Astarion’s weight as they lower into the warmth. Once he’s settled into the bench built into the bath, Durge reaches over to grab the liquid soap, pouring a dollop into his scaled hand. Astarion watches him the entire time, his piercing red eyes seeming to trace the lines of Durge’s face.  

Durge bathes Astarion in silence for a time, lavishing gentle and chaste attention on him. He threads his fingers through Astarion’s hair, massaging the herbal lather against his scalp in small circles. When Astarion moans softly, Durge’s heart catches for a beat. 

Quietly, he asks, “If something like this happens again, Astarion, what can I do to help? Is there a way I can be -” he pauses, “ - better about how I bring you back?” He rinses the last of the soap from Astarion’s curls, wiping a few suds from his temple with a pass of his thumb. 

“You ask too much of me,” Astarion snipes, crimson eyes flashing. 

Durge turns his head to the side in question, not understanding. Before he has a chance to probe any further, Astarion reaches up, curling a slender palm around one of Durge’s horns, and pulls him in for a tender kiss. There’s a flutter in Durge’s stomach. 

“What am I supposed to do? Self-reflect and express my thoughts and feelings in a coherent and reasonable manner?” Astarion scoffs as they part. He closes his eyes, and leans his head back on the rim of the tub. Durge bites his own lip to keep from chuckling at the spectacle.

Astarion sighs heavily. Durge listens as Astarion continues in a softer voice, “You should have found me earlier. You should have been there to save me 200 years ago, and loved me before Cazador broke me.” His voice is strained. 

Durge knows Astarion isn’t blaming him, not really. It’s just his penchant for drama. Even this outburst is so normal for Astarion that Durge finds himself smiling, affection rolling through him like a stormfront. 

He shares some of Astarion’s lament. Durge often feels as though he has been thoroughly broken, too. But when he’s with Astarion, he feels nearly whole. The jagged edges of their souls fit nicely together. 

“You’re not broken, Astarion,” Durge says, running his knuckle down Astarion’s cheek, “You’re perfect. I love you exactly as you are.”

Astarion preens just a little, “Say more nice things.” 

Durge is happy to oblige, “I love how quick your wit is: you make me laugh all the time. I love the games we play together. I love the way your forehead and your nose wrinkle when you gasp,” Astarion gasps, and Durge laughs, “Yes, just like that.” He taps Astarion’s nose affectionately. 

To love someone like this is a feeling beyond compare. The dark corners of Durge’s mind have stopped stirring, soothed by this companionship, and trust, between the two of them. Astarion is a balm to his scars. 

“What else do you need, Astarion, my love?” Durge asks gently, tucking a curl behind those pointed ears he loves so much, “Would you like to lay in the bath for a while longer? Or we could go look for some music to dance to?” Astarion sighs dramatically with feigned indifference. Durge continues, playfully, “Maybe we can find someone to turn inside out?”

Astarion sighs again, “You say the sweetest things.” 

They spend the rest of their night between the bath and the bed, talking about nothing or laying in silence, with the promise that Durge will take Astarion out on the town for music and dancing the following night. 

“You want me to sweep you off your feet?” Durge asks by way of confirmation, sweeping his fingers through Astarion’s hair as they cuddle. 

“Quite. It’s about time you do some of the sweeping around here.” 

The summer night is hot and heavy as they turn the corner to the Blushing Mermaid. The sky is clear, and the celestial bodies are out in force: the stars glimmer brightly, and the moon is pale and domineering from her perch. While Durge watches, the Tears transit over the moon, rocky bodies tumbling through the Astral Sea.

“I wonder if Lae’zel is up there?” Durge asks, squeezing Astarion’s hand and pointing to the Tears. 

“Ugh, who cares,” Astarion dismisses with a wave of his hand, “After she broke Shadowheart’s, well, heart , darling, I simply cannot be bothered.” It seems callous to Durge, but he doesn’t push the issue. They don’t have to agree on everything.

The tavern is raucous this hour of the night. Drunken patrons are spraying spittle on each other, spilling drinks and leaning heavily against chairs and tables. Laughter and loud voices bounce off the worn wooden floors and panelled walls, melting into indistinguishable noise. Music tumbles, wild and carefree, from just beyond the bar. Astarion turns, grinning wildly at him, like he can’t imagine a better place to be. 

“One of my finest old haunts. Let’s make some trouble , darling,” Astarion purrs, skipping lightly into the crowded room, pulling Durge along. After today, Durge is more than pleased to be caught up in the wake of Astarion’s delight. Durge finds himself feeling inspired by Astarion's resilience, and his unyielding demand to enjoy life.

Like a moth to a flame, Astarion is drawn to the music, and together they dance. This is different from the Upper City party: there’s no decorum here. Astarion’s hands are on him, everywhere, and their bodies are tangled together in time with the music. And yet, there's no pressure to perform. It’s heady, intimate, and easy.  

Astarion’s face is alight with joy, and if Durge wasn’t sure Astarion would kill him for suggesting it, he might propose marriage right here and now, if only to be guaranteed they could spend every day together. He almost chuckles as the thought passes through him. He can't imagine either of them will be keen to make any permanent bonds after their terrible luck with such things.

Durge, as is his way, eventually takes a moment by the bar to catch his breath. He watches Astarion from his perch, marvelling at the speed and grace he employs when he moves his body. He can’t seem to stop himself from grinning like a fool. 

A man sidles up next to him at the bar with a lit roll of paper between two fingers, a bitter, herbal smoke spiralling from the end of it. 

The stranger speaks in a cool tone, “I have found that even in death - ,” Durge turns to face the stranger, schooling his features to calm the air of shock around him, “- the body yearns for life. For music, for nature, for love. It seems as though your companion shares this sentiment.” 

The pallid skin. The sunken eyes, gleaming red. For the barest moment, the glint of a fang. This stranger is a vampire, but Durge is unsure of how to determine the difference between a vampire lord or its spawn. Either way, his heart begins to pound. 

The man is well dressed, but seems haggard. His golden hair hangs limp around his drawn face, and if his elven features weren’t so handsome, Durge is certain his condition would be painfully obvious to any passersby. The hunger in him is disturbingly apparent.  Where Astarion’s eyes twinkle like inlaid rubies, beautiful and precious, the red of the stranger’s eyes is dull and tarnished, like dried blood on a steel blade. 

Some instinct inside him screams at him to take Astarion from this place and run.  

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Durge lies, taking a casual sip of the summer ale in his mug. He cannot seem to taste it, the burden of his attention fixed the stranger’s words.

“I mean ,” the stranger says, leaning in to whisper, “Whoever he belongs to - whoever his master is - has not seemed to destroy every living piece of his soul.” He nods to Astarion, who is lighting up the room like the fucking sun in the sky. For a moment, he takes Durge’s breath away.

“He has no master. He’s broken his chains,” Durge says with immense pride. He pauses before asking, “Who are you?”

“Who I am is of no consequence. It is what I am that matters,” His affect is difficult to place, his voice is thick with an accent Durge does not recognize. 

Durge rolls his eyes. Maybe theatrics are a symptom of vampirism, “And what are you?” 

“A hunter,” Through a cloud of acrid smoke, his dull eyes flash, “Of his kind.” 

Durge considers this. A vampiric vampire hunter. He could shudder at the thought, but holds the tether on his emotions tight as he blankly says, “Whatever you’re thinking about him: you are mistaken. A month ago, we defeated the Nether Brain together, in broad daylight. Hells, ask anyone in this place, and they’ll be likely to know the Hero of Baldur’s Gate.” Durge gestures to Astarion with a lift of his chin.

“Is that so?” The mystery figure sounds sceptical in his hushed tone.  

“It is.” Durge replies.

“And what are you? ” The stranger asks, pointedly. 

“I am his. ” Durge says with finality. 

“A loyal thrall.” He scoffs, taking a long drag from the spliff, the end burning hot. 

“A devoted partner ,” Durge snarls in warning, louder than he intends. His murderous urges left him after Bhaal’s disownment, but he feels something like it churning in him now. This pitiful creature is threatening his Astarion. A lick of frost tickles the back of Durge’s throat as his natural Dragonborn power starts to rise within him. 

When he exhales, his breath is visibly cold. He considers ripping the leg off the stool and staking this miserable bastard to the bar. But he imagines they won’t be welcome back for some time if he does that, though. He’s loath to rob Astarion of a place to come dance. He takes another shallow breath. 

“If I may offer some unsolicited advice,” the stranger croons, tapping the ash from the roll between his fingers into a dish on the bar, “Enjoy the life you have left. For however long you can.” He puts out the smouldering bud, tapping it into the dish, before standing.  

Suddenly, with a whirlwind of lavender and bergamot, Astarion is tucked under his arm, and Durge feels as though he can breathe normally again. In a smooth voice, Astarion asks, “Who’s your new friend, darling?”

“Leaving,” the man says, as he twirls his red cloak in a dramatic fashion as he exits.

Astarion looks at Durge in question, splaying a cool hand over his chest where Durge’s traitorous pulse is still hammering wildly. Astarion’s brow furrows with concern. Durge passes a thumb over Astarion’s temple, pressing a soft kiss into his forehead to relieve the tension there.

“Nothing we need to worry about tonight,” Durge says carefully, “I’d rather you sweep me away.”

Chapter Text

“I’m not ready,” Durge groans, his breath hitching. Astarion writhes at the sound. Gods , he could drown in that voice. It’s deep and rich, just like the flavour of him. A flavour Astarion wants to revisit, when time and trauma allow. He could roll his eyes at the thought: the robbery of their collective ecstasy by some instinctive, protective habit. 

Astarion heaves a heavy sigh to make himself feel better. It works, but he catches a whiff of something curious. His nostrils flare: he can sense the many emotions pulsing through Durge. There’s the usual notes of blossom-pink affection, the burning tang of self-doubt. A complex, chocolate lust, of course, but all of it is tempered with the bitter-green of hesitation. 

“You are ready, darling. We are ready,” Astarion purrs in reassurance. Durge is tense, his teeth on edge, his jaw bulging. But this is the next step for them, a step Astarion is aching to take. When Durge asked him how he wanted to spend their day, there was really only one answer.

He brushes his hands up Durge’s chest, bringing them to rest on his neck where his scales are soft and smooth. His mouth waters (and his cock throbs ) in response to the pounding he finds there. Lucious. He runs his tongue over the tip of a fang. He's fully satisfied from feeding earlier (at Durge's insistence - he's begun to enjoy it), but he wouldn't mind another taste. 

To hunger in so many ways for a single person? It’s indulgent to be so well fed and well loved. Vampire hunters, Bhaal cultists, and the danger of the fucking sun not withstanding, if they can figure out how to get them both well and thoroughly bedded, they might actually be set for eternity together. 

“Oh gods,” Durge growls, that lovely pulse fluttering madly. It’s sweet , really, how nervous Durge is. Astarion had almost forgotten what this kind of delicate emotion could feel like. Paper thin and crisp, just waiting to crumble at too firm a touch. 

“You have to relax if you’re to let me in, darling,” Astarion huffs, peppering Durge’s chiselled face and those delicious lips with comforting kisses. He wants to be invited in. To be welcomed in through this most intimate of barriers. It’s time. 

They’re standing next to their overburdened traveller’s chest, which Durge has singularly maintained during their travels together. Whenever they returned to the camp after a day’s adventure, Durge would empty his pack into the chest, and only occasionally revisit it. But every so often, Astarion would find a new piece of gear or extra potions in his pack, and so he found himself spared the task of managing any of it himself. And admittedly, he had other things on his mind. 

But when he went to grab that potion of mind-reading some days ago, he saw what an absolute mess it was. If he were a clumsier sort, like Gale, he might have lost every finger extracting the potion bottle from the chest. There were knives and swords and all manner of equipment tossed about like absolute madness. It’s long past time to address it. 

“Where’s this hesitation coming from, darling?” 

Durge harrumphs. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and closes it again. He meets Astarion’s gaze, and Astarion can almost feel the plea in his eyes.

“It’s -” Durge sighs, “It’s my hoard. I can’t help it -” Durge rubs his hand over the back of his neck as if to relieve some kind of tension there, “- it’s a dragon instinct.” He’s embarrassed? 

Astarion arches an eyebrow, and Durge snipes, “A dragon kin instinct, then, and you are not convincing me that this is a good idea with that attitude,” he wags an accusing finger, and Astarion for a lecherous moment imagines popping his lips around it and running his tongue over the scaled pad, but Durge continues, “I derive a great deal of enjoyment from collecting things during our travels.” 

“Darling,” Astarion says with a knowing tilt of his head, “Collection implies some sort of method or intent. This is, well - I don’t think it would be overstating to say that this is unbalanced. Barmy, even,” Durge snorts out a laugh at that, and Astarion feels a smile crest over his face, “And you know I love your brand of derangement, but it really is a safety issue.” Astarion tucks himself under Durge’s heavy arm, planting a few more kisses on his collarbone and shoulder for good measure. He hears Durge sigh.

“Does it help to think that we’ll be making room for new things to find on our next travels?” Astarion asks, struck by genuine curiosity. 

For a long time, becoming attached to physical objects was just another way Cazador could exercise control over him. He recalls a woven silk vest he stole in the early years of his enslavement - a beautiful, delicate elven thing that must have taken a hundred years to make. Cazador burned it off, searing Astarion’s skin to blisters, and then watched while he made Astarion clean the ashes off the floor with his tongue. He didn’t keep anything of his own again until after his capture by the mindflayers. 

He enjoys luxuriating in material things, of course. And, now that he’s free, he can do as he likes. They can do as they like, he thinks as he snakes an arm around Durge’s waist. It’s a wonderful thought. 

“New things?” Durge says with a bit of wonder, his pupils dilating the barest amount.

“Oh yes, of course, darling,” Astarion says, turning to face Durge, placing his hands gently on Durge’s waist and running them up his chest as he speaks, “Trinkets, treasures, baubles, even. Anything your heart desires, once we have room. Would you like that?” A rumble has started in Durge, reverberating through Astarion’s hands. It’s the same kind that starts when he’s feeling particularly affectionate . 

“Is this… arousing to you?” Astarion asks, incredulous. He’s a creature of many appetites, but this would be a new one for him, experienced though he is. 

“Say ‘baubles’ again,” Durge growls as he places a hand on the small of Astarion’s back, pulling their bodies together tightly. It becomes immediately clear in the press of their hips that talk of adding new things to his hoard has made Durge hard as stone.

Astarion laughs, pushing Durge away, shaking his head, “Gods, I love you, you are such a freak!” Durge and his lively impulses are the perfect match for Astarion’s boundless hedonism. They have yet to spend days in bed together, but Astarion wants that: to feast and be feasted upon. If he can work through this strange habit of disappearing into his own mind, he’ll insist on it. He deserves a few days of debauchery. 

But not today. 

“Are you sure this is how you want to spend your time?” Durge asks, “Sorting through months of loot instead of squirming that pretty ass on my tongue?” His look is intense and fiery, and there’s a swooping sensation in Astarion’s core, his cock stiffening at Durge’s filthy words. 

“You wicked thing. You won’t distract me from this,” Astarion lies. He knows it will take very little convincing to defer him entirely. He puts on what he thinks is the most stoic look possible, meeting Durge’s gaze with equal intensity. He can feel his resolve crumbling, and it takes every ounce of his self control to keep his eyes from dragging down that ravishing neck and over those broad shoulders. 

“Alright, you win. Boundaries,” Durge says, sucking a breath through his teeth, wrapping his arms around Astarion and kissing the top of his head. It’s very domestic , but Astarion feels himself basking in the feeling despite himself, “No mocking. I get one free pass on keeping any specific item. And we stop as soon as we’re no longer having fun.” 

“No mocking. But can I tease, just a little?” Astarion asks. Durge nods. Teasing but not mocking. This boundary setting that Durge likes to do is thoughtful, but something Astarion is wholly unfamiliar with. It’s like rules in a game, he supposes. Astarion continues, “ And I want to play something while we work. What if we trade a secret for every item we sort? We can alternate, to make it fair.” 

“So I have to get rid of my treasures and my secrets?” Durge questions. Astarion nods. “Fine. But I also get a free pass on one secret, because I have surprise business, as you know. In fact, the first surprise is nearly ready.” Durge’s tone is thrilled. He’s genuinely pleased to be doing something for Astarion, to be giving him gifts or planning things for him. The devotion is difficult for Astarion to process. He breathes in, and finds a soft, warm honey glow of elation radiating from Durge. 

“First?” Astarion raises his eyebrows in question. Durge presses his lips shut before any more of his excitement can betray him. Gods , it’s all too sweet. There’s an aching in Astarion’s chest. Durge plants a soft kiss into his hair, and steps away. Astarion finds that he already misses the touch. He’s gone far too soft these days. 

“Let’s get started, then,” Durge says, and he flips open the lid to the chest.

“Oh gods . There must be thirty goblin swords in here -” Astarion is astounded, but when he looks at Durge, a grimace mars his handsome features. Somewhat gracelessly, Astarion continues, “- which I am sure is a very normal and not-at-all concerning amount. Not enough, even. We should kill more goblins and add their swords to our collection.” 

Durge rolls his eyes and smirks as he lowers himself to the floor and begins pulling items from the chest, and Astarion couldn’t stop the smile that dawns across his face if he tried. 

Astarion holds up a pair of hand wrappings that look like something a monk might wear. Durge considers, rocking his head side to side as if to appraise the gloves from every angle before shaking his head. Astarion puts them in the bag they’ve designated for items they want to sell. 

“Is it a feature of your kind that you have such abundant arousal?” Astarion asks. The question has been on his mind for days, after he was drawn away from the toothsome act of enjoying that arousal. Durge’s cock is fountainous , if a cock can be such a thing. Astarion could almost purr at the mere thought of how decadent that is. It’s as if Durge has his hedonism built right in. 

“Ah. That,” Durge says as he pulls a few spell scrolls and sorts them into piles, “It’s difficult to say, really. My upbringing was untraditional, so most of what I know about dragonborn, including my own anatomy, is only what I have been able to make sense of over the years. I expect that it is quite natural due to the texture of my scales.” 

Astarion turns his head to the side in question. Durge clears his throat, and continues, “I expect the extra lubrication is required to keep the texture from being …harmful during penetration.” His description is almost medical, no flirtation in his tone at all. Astarion licks his lips as Durge watches him, toying his lip between his fangs, and Durge rolls his eyes, a small smile creeping over this face. 

They’ve made exceptional progress on the chest, and Durge has been a shockingly good sport. He used his free pass on some old lute, of all things. It seems vaguely familiar, but Astarion can’t quite place it. The game of sharing secrets has devolved into simply asking and answering questions, which suits Astarion just fine. 

“Tell me more dragonborn things,” Astarion asks, fully aware he’s taking a second turn in their game. But he is curious to know more. Cazador was indiscriminate about the targets Astarion brought back for him to feast upon and curse, but dragonborn are rare anyway. 

Durge hums as if considering calling a foul, but shrugs as he says, “You likely know as much as I do, to be honest, Astarion. I was made by Bhaal - I wasn’t raised in a clan like most dragonborn are.” 

“Is that something you feel as though you’re missing?” 

“Not lately,” Durge’s tone is matter-of-factly, “I have all the clan I crave in you.” 

He doesn’t say it with any sense of importance, but Astarion feels a pang of emotion at his words. There’s a tightness in his throat for a moment, a lump of emotion settling there. Cazador often described himself and the other spawn as Astarion’s family, but it was yet another facade for maintaining control, for twisting the knife. 

“What happened with that body a few tendays ago?” Durge asks, sparing Astarion any further emotional spiral, as he tosses a pair of boots toward him. It takes a moment for Astarion to remember which body Durge is referring to, but then he recalls: the man who followed the waitress home with ill intent. 

Astarion clears his throat, and says “Ah, yes. I’m surprised it took you this long to ask about that. You helped me destroy that body with no questions,” Durge shrugs noncommittally, as if it’s a perfectly normal thing for him to have done. Astarion chuckles, and tells Durge the details, from watching the man at the bar to following him as he stalked the barmaid, to killing him, quicker than he deserved. At some point Durge sets down the potion bottles he’s picking through to listen carefully.

When Astarion finishes, Durge’s voice is laced with emotion when he says, “You did something heroic. For a stranger?” It sounds like a question, but Astarion thinks Durge might simply be processing his words. He can feel Durge’s gaze passing over his face, the weight and fire of it the closest thing to sunlight he’s felt in months. If his heart could skip a beat, or his cheeks could blush, they certainly would now.

“I’ll have you know, I am selfless to a fault, darling,” Astarion huffs in jest, trying to relieve the tension. Durge is still considering him, his expression difficult to read. Astarion considers scenting the air around them, but instead says, “I hated that she said no, and it didn’t matter. He was ready to take what he wanted, and had no regard for her otherwise.” 

Durge nods in understanding, and something unspoken passes between them. They watch each other for a moment, and the heat of Durge’s fixation has shifted. Astarion feels a heat rising in his body in response, arching like a cat stretching to meet the warmth of a sunbeam. 

Astarion picks a strappy leather undergarment out of the chest, holding it up coquettishly for Durge’s appraisal. The growl that he’s graced with is answer enough, and he puts it into the pile for items they’re planning to keep. 

“When are you going to ravish me?” Astarion asks evenly, schooling his voice into nonchalance to keep the quiver of anticipation from wavering through it. He’s trying to maintain the pretence of the game.

“Do you want to be ravished, Astarion?” Durge rumbles as he passes a handful of spell scrolls to Astaron. He shivers at his name, floating off that tempting tongue like a prayer. A jolt passes through them when their hands touch, and Astarion finds himself taking a breath to relieve the tightness in his chest. 

“Yes,” he says plainly, as if it’s a simple answer. In some ways it is: they want each other, and have for months. There was a period of time where Astarion wasn’t sure he wanted sex at all, preferring to separate himself from the acts forced on him by Cazador. But as the devotion and affection between himself and Durge has grown, so too has the desire. 

Astarion finds himself not just aching for the pleasure of sex with Durge, but the intimacy of it. He yearns , which is a new feeling for him, in his lifelessness. He has wanted, desired, and coveted, but there’s an aching in him, a hollow that sometimes appears in moments of tenderness or passion. A hollow he expects Durge could fill quite nicely. And thickly. 

“How - how do I keep from thinking that your absence isn’t due to something monstrous I’ve done?” Durge is cautious, as if the question itself risks pushing Astarion away. Unfortunately, Astarion himself isn’t fully sure of the rules in this particular game. His escape into his own mind was disorienting and shocking, and he imagines it would have been even more affecting had Durge not been so gentle afterward. 

“I don’t know, darling,” Astarion sighs. Durge is crestfallen, and Astarion cannot bear it. He tosses the candlestick he’s packing over his shoulder, soaking in the surprised chuckle that floats his way in response, and knocks over the neat piles of potion bottles and spell scrolls that are carefully stacked as he crawls his way into Durge’s lap. 

“Done having fun?” Durge chuckles as he wraps his arms around Astarion, drawing his warm hands in large circles over Astarion’s back. 

“Fun of that sort, anyway,” Astarion says, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Durge’s neck. He plants a few soft kisses where Durge’s pulse throbs invitingly before leaning back to look at him. As gently as he can, Astarion says, “I don’t know how to fix the problems in our way,” he brushes a thumb over Durge’s sharp cheekbone in a mirror of the customary touch Durge meets him with in moments like this, “But I know I want to try.”

Their kiss is slow and languid, unhurried and indulgent. The texture of Durge’s scales on the soft  skin of his lips is intoxicating, the rough texture drawing his nerves taut against the surface of his skin. 

Astarion feels one of Durge’s warm hands leave his back, and breaks their kiss to see Durge’s wrist flick, haphazardly magicking the scant items they have yet to organise into the chest, the lid closing with a thud. 

“We’ll have to fix all of that,” Astarion quips as Durge softly lays him down on the floor, hovering over him to keep his weight from pressing Astarion into the hard floor. It’s frustrating, really, to be so close and still left wanting, so Astarion wraps his legs around Durge’s waist and pulls their hips together, groaning at the friction. Durge chuckles, and like the peal of a bell it rings through Astarion’s chest, reverberating through him in pleasant waves. 

“We’ll fix it later,” Durge grumbles as he nuzzles his snout into Astarion’s shoulder. 

“You don’t need to be so gentle with me, you know,” Astarion huffs into Durge’s neck, “I am very difficult to harm these days.” 

Durge pulls back to look at him, and the flames in his eyes are flickering playfully. In that voice, the one that makes Astarion’s toes curl in his socks, Durge rumbles, “Is that so?”

Astarion nods, drawing his nose back to the lush bouquet of Durge’s neck as he breathes, “I think I would enjoy watching you get lost in me, instead of being so cautious.”

Durge hums, and in it Astarion feels an ominous sense of warning. 

Durge leisurely kisses his way down Astarion’s face to his neck, flicking his tongue out softly at all of Astarion’s weak points. The sensations are divine : the scratching of Durge’s snout, the heat of his breath, the soft wetness of his tongue. His careful pace feels like a punishment, and Astarion whimpers.

“You must hate this tenderness, Astarion,” Durge thunders softly, his voice rolling through Astarion like a storm. Astarion feels Durge drawing the barest edge of his claws up under Astarion’s shirt, the feeling just on the edge of a tickle. He groans in frustration, the softness burning through him, his skin alight with need. Oh, this is an unfair game. 

The hollow is building in him, the desire for Durge to be closer, for him to be filled becomes agonising. Astarion tries to grind their hips together, desperate for more contact, but Durge denies him, pulling away and clicking his tongue in admonishment.

This is torment. Durge kisses him everywhere, moving his clothing out of the way but not removing it, keeping his kisses indecently chaste and his touches featherlight. Astarion finds himself panting heavily, his body writhing in answer to the call of Durge’s agonising wickedness. 

Just when Astarion decides he’ll need to take matters into his own hands to seek the pleasure he’s been denied, Durge rolls their hips together. The pressure after so much denial has Astarion nearly ready to finish, his cock throbbing, straining against his trousers. 

He paws at Durge’s bedclothes, ready to rip them off if necessary, but Durge keeps their hips pinned to the floor, and Astarion can find no purchase. He huffs in frustration, but it turns to a moan as he feels the warm tip of Durge’s tongue flick up the point of his ear.

Suddenly, Durge’s weight is gone from him, and Astarion looks to see claws hooked around the waistband of his pants. He squirms, babbling some mess of pleading words and curses as Durge regards him with an equal measure of lust and humour.

“Well, Astarion? Is it decided? You’re finished with gentleness, and you want it rough?” Durge asks playfully, his voice husky despite his control. He begins to pull off Astarion’s trousers, carefully lifting them off his length which is already dripping with arousal.

Astarion groans at the profane, sinful dance they’re locked in, and admits with a breathy hiss, “Gentle.” 

Durge hums and slowly moves between his thighs, carrying on his torment with such careful tenderness.

When Astarion throws his head back and moans, eyes drawn shut with pleasure, he lets his mind wander. Instead of retreating, he finds himself brought right back to this perfect place on the floor of their room, back to the heady, desperate need to be closer to Durge.

Right back home .

Chapter Text

“It’s not fair,” Astarion pouts at him from his spot on their bed, tossing his silver curls onto the pillows dramatically. He is really outdoing himself tonight in playing the petulant brat. A small, prideful smile spreads over Durge’s face, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep it from growing out of his control. He’s not ready for Astarion to stop. All this bother is great for his ego.

“You might be the only creature who finishes twice and still has the absolute gall to complain about it,” Durge teases as he peeks an eye past the lush velvet curtain. There’s still a dusting of pale oranges and pinks on the clouds: still too early. He carefully closes the drapes to ensure no errant sunbeams enter their room, and turns to face Astarion, levelling a reproachful look at him. 

“I’m not complaining!” Astarion complains, “I never complain!

“Astarion.” Durge admonishes playfully, grabbing a pillow from the bed and tossing it at him.  

“What? Is it too much to ask that I get what I want just once! ” Astarion huffs, his crimson eyes flashing with frustration as he snatches the pillow out of the air and hurls it back at Durge. It hits him square in the face. When the pillow falls, Durge sees that Astarion has clapped his hands over his mouth in shock, as if he hadn’t meant to do exactly that . 

He growls, savouring the visible shiver that runs through Astarion. Astarion’s become much more open with expressing himself lately, allowing himself the pleasure of reacting to the world freely and without restraint. It’s been electrifying to watch him change, and to know that, even in some small way, Durge has helped that process along. 

Durge growls again, and sets his feet apart in readiness to pounce. Astarion’s eyebrows raise curiously, and he realises what’s about to happen just a moment too late.

“No!” Astarion wails, trying to roll out of the way as Durge springs across the bed. Durge envelops Astarion in a tangle of limbs, pinning him lightly to the soft bedsheets. Astarion weakly protests through bouts of laughter, and it’s exactly enough to encourage Durge’s bad behaviour, and so he lets his full weight fall onto Astarion. When Astarion gasps, “You brute!” Durge feels as though he’s won the top prize at the carnival. 

“You are fussy tonight, Astarion. Shall I finish you a third time to help you calm down?” Durge murmurs into Astarion’s fragrant curls, planting a few kisses along his face. Tasting Astarion burst on his tongue for a third time today would be a welcome distraction. Durge finds himself feeling quite nervous about the surprise tonight. The nearer the time comes for them to leave, the sharper the needling in his gut becomes. It’s a bit of insanity, what he’s done, and he has no idea how Astarion will react.  

“Only if you’ll let me finish you first,” Astarion insists as he wraps his arms and legs around Durge, making himself comfortable under Durge’s heavy weight., “Or better yet, finish with me, finally .” He says it with a grind of his hips, and Durge finds it to be a very tempting bargain. 

Durge leans back to look at Astarion, running his fingers through those cloudy locks. A rumble starts in his chest when Astarion leans into his touch. The storm of desire has been raging through them both in the last tenday, but Durge has been very careful to tend to Astarion’s pleasure only. 

There’s a stirring in that dark place in his mind, the pit of self-loathing in him slithering in anticipation. A lance of fear pierces through him as he considers giving in to Astarion’s plea. He’s avoiding his own pleasure to keep from getting lost in it, he knows that. He’ll do anything, short of leaving, to keep Astarion from retreating away from him again.

Astarion seems to be wholly present when chasing his own orgasms, and Durge is perfectly satisfied with facilitating that chase, even if it means his own completion is denied. Although, as the heat runs through him at the press of their bodies together, he can’t deny how close he’s come to finishing just from delivering Astarion’s pleasure alone. 

He finished Astarion once first thing when he awoke this afternoon. Astarion, as usual, drew him from sleep with gentle touches and soft kisses, perched on the edge of the bed with a hot cup of tea and a pastry. Between the crisp pastry, the sweet herbal tea and Astarion, there was a clear choice for what Durge preferred to use to break his fast. Durge had pulled Astarion onto the bed and bent him over, feasting on his cock and ass frantically, trying to finish him quickly before the mug cooled down. 

His taste complemented the warm tea perfectly.

The second time was when Astarion put on that wicked red silk robe after climbing out of the bath, hair in sopping wet ringlets. Durge licked every drop of water, sweat and arousal off Astarion, devouring him so completely that he required a second bath after to clean himself again, pouting the whole time.

Yes, a third time would be welcome, indeed. Durge can feel himself stiffening at the mere thought. He hums as he kisses along Astarion’s jaw, enjoying the small twinges and flickers of Astarion’s body and breath as he goes. Durge feels a surge of pride in pulling the reactions out of him.

He hasn’t found a way for Astarion to walk in the sun, not yet, but Durge can at least give him moments of feeling alive. He hopes tonight’s surprise will do just that. 

Astarion purrs into his shoulder, and mutters, “Is this your way of saying yes, darling? Am I to finally have my way with you?” His hands are running down Durge’s chest, over the white linen jerkin Astarion has decorated with fabulous floral embroidery. It’s a bit cheeky to cover a Bhaalspawn in silken lavender sprigs, but Durge secretly loves how delicate it is. He is proud to wear something Astarion decorated for him, and something about it feels right . 

Durge hums, rolling his hips to draw a gasp out of Astarion while pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before rolling off him and the bed. He should really delay no longer: the sun will have set in their time flirting, and if he doesn’t push through his nervousness now, he’ll content himself with lying here with Astarion all night. All week, if the fates allowed. 

“You are very tempting, Astarion,” he says, extending his hand in gesture for Astarion to join him, “But it’s time for your surprise.” 

Astarion sighs, but Durge can see the brightness in his crimson eyes, and he hops off the bed quickly and gracefully. As he passes Durge by, he grinds that perfect ass against Durge’s groin, drawing a hungry growl out of him. He’s gone too soon, and Durge is left aching in his wake. 

Durge rolls his shoulders, taking a breath and holding it. If Astarion has decided to wage war against Durge’s self-imposed celibacy, his resolve will crumble in no time at all, not with him teasing Durge like this. 

“Waiting on you now, darling,” Astarion says from the door, holding it open and gesturing through it in mock impatience, flashing him a playful smile. 

Durge steps out of the door behind Astarion, hands out in apology, but with a flick of his wrist and an incantation under his breath, he summons a mage hand to smack Astarion on the ass. 

The shocked laughter that follows him down the hall is the most beautiful music. 

The closer they get to the waterfront, the more Durge’s nerves burn in his gut. He’s some combination of excited and terribly anxious, and not in equal measure. 

He spins the warding bond ring around his finger. The slither of darkness in Durge’s mind unfurls, coaxed out of slumber by the uncertainty of what’s to come. 

The night is sticky, the humidity tangible in the air. It’s a clear night, the stars out en force, and as they approach the Chionthar, they see the stars reflected a thousandfold in its rippling surface. It’s beautiful, Durge realises with a start, wondering if he’s ever taken the time to appreciate it before. He looks at Astarion and expects he must be feeling something similar, with his mouth dropped open the barest degree and his eyes sparkling. 

They hear the noise first: the chattering of voices, spilling over each other into a fine buzzing; the festive, jumbled music of various instruments and melodies. The smells hit them next, roasted cinnamon nuts and sizzling street foods, a cacophony of competing flavours. 

As they turn the corner onto the main harbour thoroughfare, Durge wraps his arm around Astarion’s shoulders and says, “Welcome, Astarion, to Baldur’s Gate’s very first Midsummer Nights Festival.” 

There are coloured flags and paper lanterns draped between the rooftops, throwing every imaginable colour over the cobbles and surrounding buildings. Kiosks are set up all around, and vendors are selling all manner of wares: food, drink, clothing, crafts. People are chatting cheerfully, and there’s a crackling energy in the air, as if the city is buzzing. 

Durge feels a small swell of pride: all of this, just from a few short conversations with people he met during the resistance against the Cult of the Absolute. All at once, it hits him that he has some kind of influence here. People listened to him, took his thoughts and made them actionable. It’s terrifying . 

He winces, recalling that the last time someone of import took an idea of his seriously, he stole into Mephistopheles’ vault, taking the Crown of Karsus and beginning this whole terrible series of events. He is absolutely unworthy of this level of power. A tremor of doubt runs through him.

Durge takes a breath and holds it, letting the thought pass. At least now he can use his influence for nonsense like planning a city-wide carnival so his sun-averse boyfriend can enjoy himself for a week's worth of nights. 

When Durge looks down at Astarion, he sees him awash in a rainbow of colour, his pale skin and hair reflecting the lantern lights, and it reminds him so much of how he looked the day they watched their last sunrise together. The sharp angles of his face are softened by the glow, and his eyes are bright and wide. Durge’s breath hitches. Astarion is just beautiful , more than the glittering river or the vast night sky. Durge clears his throat.  

“I thought it would be nice for us to have some entertainment outside of the tavern at night. When this started, I just tried to convince a few shops to have some small kiosks,” Durge explains, feeling as though he has to make sense of it all, “But when some of the other shopkeepers heard about it, and then Merchant’s Guild and Flaming Fist got involved, the idea took on a life of its own. It seems like the city needs an outlet for some fun .” 

Astarion remains silent, standing stone still. Without a heartbeat to hear, or a breath to watch, Durge has absolutely no sense of what he must be thinking. A woman on stilts walks by, towering over them, chased by a gaggle of shrieking children. She passes a wave to them, and Durge returns it before turning back to look at Astarion. Still nothing. The awkwardness of Astarion’s silence pushes him to fill the silence with more rambling. 

“I also thought it might be nice to do on Midsummer, which, from what I gather, is generally a cherished holiday among elvenkind. But the Merchant’s Guild suggested it be the entire week leading up to Midsummer, with a closing festival ceremony. Apparently events like this are quite good for business.” 

Astarion is just watching him, eyes trained on his mouth as he speaks. Durge feels hot under his gaze, those crimson eyes boring through him. Maybe it's just the night air, but it’s suffocating. 

“Say something, Astarion,” Durge pleads quietly. 

Astarion clears his throat, “You did this for me?” His tone is even, cool. For all his improvements with self-expression, he’s gone completely statuesque now. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, his eyes roving vaguely over the lights, the people, the shops. 

A hundred thoughts pass through Durge’s mind in a flash. Should he explain how he got the Merchant’s Guild involved? How the previous iteration of this festival was meagre, mostly celebrated in small groups? Would Astarion care that the vendors are all donating a portion of their proceeds to the city’s rebuilding effort? 

But none of these things really matter. And, even if it makes him terrible, none of these things are the reason he started all this in the first place. 

Instead, he simply says the truth: “Yes.” 

“You manipulated an entire city just so I could go shopping?” Astarion asks quietly. Durge can’t tell if Astarion is astounded or offended. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut as he watches Astarion’s face, still blank but for his agape mouth.

“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like much of a gift,” Durge grumbles quietly, wincing a bit as his stomach sours. It becomes clear to Durge that he’s massively overstepped, and of course he has. He always does: he goes too far. He clenches his jaw. 

He takes in a breath, holding it, the fullness of it stretching his awareness just enough to realise that he’s beginning to spiral out of control: his mind running away from him.  

“You - you connived the city’s populace , its - its entire bureaucracy -” Astarion’s tone is almost accusing, but he’s wrapping his arms around Durge’s waist, bringing their bodies close as he breathes, “- just for me?”

“Yes?” Durge says cautiously as he exhales. He gently places his arms around Astarion in kind, unsure exactly what to make of his reaction, “Do you hate it?”

“Are you mad ?” Astarion gasps, pulling Durge in for a kiss. The fire of it burns Durge’s doubt away, but Astarion pulls away too soon to breathlessly say, “I’m not sure I can imagine anything more romantic. This is - I can’t believe this. This is incredible,” Astarion beams at him, “ You are incredible.”

Durge can feel heat rushing to his face, the sincerity of Astarion’s words too soft against the raw wound of his doubts. 

“You - you really love me, don’t you?” Astarion says, his voice full of wonder. As is his way, he quickly shifts to his playful, biting demeanour, flavouring his words with a flourish of his hand, “As you should, of course,” Durge is treated to a delicious wink before Astarion laces their fingers together and continues, “You know, I was very sceptical of that rooftop picnic you planned. Even though I was already in love with you, I still couldn’t conceive that you would do something so thoughtful without expecting something in return.”

Durge hums noncommittally, but the words ring true to him. Durge knows he has a similar inclination: he has a hard time reconciling what Astarion says with how he feels about himself. He squeezes Astarion’s hand once, and feels two pulses in return. 

Astarion leans in, wrapping an arm around Durge’s waist as he does, and whispers, “Now I think I’ve discovered you have some deviant need to please me.” 

A roaring laugh bursts out of Durge, and he throws his head back to let it course fully through him. Astarion’s flair for the dramatic rarely fails to pull him out of his own mind, and he’s grateful for it. He feels a sense of settling in his mind. 

“And why not?” Durge chuckles, pressing a cheek into Astarion’s curls, inhaling his herbal perfume, the last of the tension leaving him. He lays a gentle kiss on Astarion’s cheek, then breathes into his ear in a soft rumble, “I’m going to take such good care of you, Astarion.” He nips the tip of Astarion’s ear gently between his lips, flicking his tongue out for good measure. 

A shiver runs through Astarion, and when he pulls back those crimson eyes are glaring at him. Durge has to bite a lip to keep from chuckling, but feels a rush of arousal anyway. Deviant, indeed. 

“Not fair, darling,” Astarion huffs, brushing his hand through his hair as if it will help to keep himself together. Durge thinks again that he wouldn’t mind this night ending with Astarion falling apart on his tongue a third time.

Or maybe, they’ll fall apart together after all. 

“This might be the best night of my life,” Astarion purrs while watching a bit of candy floss dissipate on Durge’s tongue. The flavour is sharp, far too sweet for Durge’s preference, but having Astarion’s full attention on his mouth was too tempting to pass up. 

“So far, perhaps,” Durge says smugly, “But the festival lasts for a whole week. We may yet top it.” 

“Then this night can be second on the list of things I’d like to top,” Astarion flirts. Durge chokes on a laugh, but before he can gather himself enough to reply, Astarion nods his head in the direction of a booth just across from the waterfront and continues, “Let’s go see if Dammon has anything outrageously expensive that you can buy for me.”

“Ten gold says he brings up Karlach in the first ten minutes,” Durge whispers as he waves casually to Dammon as they approach. 

Astarion also waves, and whispers back, “He’ll bring her up in the first 10 words , and if I win you have to put on that strappy leather harness we found when we get home tonight,” he winks suggestively before turning to greet Dammon.

“Oh! It’s you, nice to see you both, and on such a lovely evening,” Dammon says with a nod, “Shame Karlach couldn’t be here to enjoy a festival like this, eh? I often find myself thinking of her on nights like this.” 

“Me too, Dammon,” Durge says, schooling his features as Astarion pinches him on the ass, just enough to sting. He wonders for a moment if he can convince Astarinon to wear that leather harness instead of paying him ten gold for the wager. 

As Astarion and Dammon chat while Dammon shows off some of his more elegant and expensive daggers, a flash of red catches Durge’s eye through the crowd. 

Limp straw-coloured hair. Sallow, pallid skin, almost translucent in the light of the coloured lanterns. Hollow red glare. The hunter . As their gazes meet, Durge feels his lips pulling back over his sharp teeth, a growling rumble starting in his chest. He wraps an arm possessively around Astarion’s shoulders. 

When Astarion leans into his touch, the tenderness of the gesture snaps him out of the raging storm that’s brewing within. He breathes in and holds it for a moment, attempting to tame the roiling in his gut. When he exhales, there’s a bit of frost on his breath.

“What do you think of these, darling?” Astarion presents him with a matching pair of curved daggers, the handles intricately carved with spiders and webs. Durge nods, but his eyes are drawn back to the hunter, overcome with the need to keep a line of sight on him.

Dammon’s eyes are darting between Durge and the mysterious figure, the question written plainly on his face. 

“Nothing to worry yourself over, Dammon,” Durge grumbles, “Just a pest to be rid of. We’ll take the daggers, and anything else Astarion wants before we’ll be on our way.” He squeezes Astarion’s shoulder, nodding in the hunter’s direction. 

Astarion takes one look at him and nods, gesturing for Durge to pay for the items he’s picked for himself. Durge snorts, but acquiesces. 

Durge is fairly sure this hunter won’t make any moves against them in the busy city square: he could have made a scene in the tavern the other night, and he didn’t. Perhaps he’s correctly assumed that Durge has no such apprehension, and will gladly kill him in front of all these people if it meant keeping Astarion safe. 

“No, wait - I - I recognise that cloak. He’s a Hellrider, or he was,” Durge and Astarion both shake their heads, and Dammon graciously continues, “The Hellriders were famous in Avernus: they were blamed for the fall of Zariel, it’s supposed that they abandoned her down there. I - I am not certain, Zevlor or Karlach might know for sure, but I - I think that might be Jander Sunstar.” 

“Who?” Durge asks politely, but Astarion pats Durge on the arm, a subtle signal.

“You’ll have to forgive us, Dammon, darling,” Astarion says with a thick note of sarcasm, “We haven’t had a chance to stay up on the latest gossip from Avernus, what with all the faff of saving your people from those pesky goblins, and then, of course, you recall the trials to lift that shadow curse. Not to mention the giant flying brain we defeated that was meant to enslave the entire Sword Coast.” Astarion is so beautiful when he’s being petty, “We are quite behind.” 

But Dammon is too kind to say anything about Astarion’s attitude, and instead softly mutters, “He was a bit of a legend when we were trapped in Avernus, actually. Rumours were he was crucified, left for dead for his abandonment of Zariel. But that can’t be right, of course, any man would have died under such conditions. At the very least, centuries of torture would have driven him completely mad.” 

Durge and Astarion share a grim look. Dammon can't possibly know that Astarion was tortured for centuries, and in a turn of surprise, Durge feels a pang of sympathy for this hunter. If what Dammon says is true - well, it matters not to Durge. He won't allow Astarion to come to harm, circumstances of the perpetrator notwithstanding. 

Breaking the tense silence, Astarion quips, “You don’t happen to have any wooden stakes on offer, do you?”

Chapter Text

My dear friend Durge, 

I hope you will forgive me if I dispense with the typical pleasantries upon which I would otherwise insist. I do not want you to think me ill-mannered, but the verbosity herein is already sufficiently dense that the Postmaster’s Guild will surely charge me extra for sending this to you. 

As you requested, I have spent significant resources researching resurrection spells, and have included a collection of tomes and scrolls pursuant to that subject. 

There are pages and pages of citations, annotations and analyses of the finer points, but Durge flicks through them, skimming ahead to the end of the letter. Wizards.

In short, it appears as though the most critical and determinative detail is the time since death. If it has been over 200 years since the expiry occurred, the required spell is significantly likely to fail. The only other path, I am sorry to say, is divine intervention. 

Please return to me the copies I have included at your earliest convenience: I had to check them out from Lady Silverhand’s personal collection under my own name, you understand. The penalties for delinquent returns can be quite sev - 

Durge closes the letter, biting his lip. A pang of sorrow pierces his gut, radiating through him. It’s certainly been over 200 years since that bastard turned Astarion. 

He trusts the truth of Gale’s studies: no one he knows is more annoyingly thorough about the academic principles of magic. But Durge doesn’t experience magic that way, as an interest or pursuit. It is a part of him, as much an instinct as breathing or blinking. 

When he desires to cast a spell, he simply wills it, drawing the power from his internal wellspring and focusing it. Some part of him was sure there would be a magical solution to Astarion’s undeath, his instinct driving his hope enough to ask Gale to do this research. At best, he expected that Gale might put a name to whatever spell Durge was anticipating. 

Perhaps the part of his soul that told him it was possible was the foolish, hopelessly-in-love part, not the scion-of-powerful magic part. 

A pair of arms wraps around his shoulders, Astarion’s pale hands coming into view. Durge sets the letter down and laces their fingers together, bringing each hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss. He feels Astarion’s cool breath upon the back of his neck. 

“What’s wrong, darling? Your heart is pounding, I could hear it from across the room.”

Durge sighs. There are no secrets between them anymore. Just surprises. And he would never keep something this critical to Astarion’s future away from him anyway, even though he can’t help but feel like he’s failed in some way. The sorrow he feels sours into shame. He holds the last page of the letter up, gesturing for Astarion to take it if he wishes. 

Astarion circles around to the front of him, tracing his cool fingers along Durge’s shoulders in a familiar motion. He plants himself with authority in Durge’s lap, stretching his legs out as he plucks the letter from Durge’s hand and unfolds it. 

Durge chuckles and wraps his arms under Astarion’s legs and around his back, tucking him into a comfortable cradle.

“It’s from Gale,” he says as Astarion begins to read, ”I asked him ages ago, the last time we were all together, if he would research resurrection spells for me. I - I wasn’t sure what, if anything, would come of it.”

Astarion has stopped breathing. Months ago, before they were always in such close proximity to each other, this would have lit a flame of worry in Durge’s heart. Now he understands it as a quirk of Astarion’s that he has to focus on breathing, which he exclusively does for Durge’s benefit when they are alone. It’s really very thoughtful. Durge tightens his hold, rubbing his thumb in a short path back and forth where his hand is cupped around Astarion’s thigh. 

“So, that’s it then,” Astarion says, tone bracing. Durge watches as those long, pale fingers fold the letter, creasing it carefully. 

“Hardly,” Durge scoffs, “This is just one path that has closed to us,” As Durge says it, that tugging instinct in that core of magic assures him it’s true, “There are other ways forward, I’m sure of it.” 

“We’re not giving up?”

“Of course not, Astarion,” Durge murmurs, pressing a cheek to the top of Astarion’s head as he sighs, “I was just hoping we could take the easy path for once.” 

“I - “, Astarion pauses and pulls back to meet Durge’s gaze. His ears are tipped back, his eyes wide and gleaming. He sighs as he continues, “If anyone can find a way to overcome the impossible, it’s us.”

Durge nods, and then leans in to press a gentle kiss to Astarion’s temple. 

They sit in silence for a moment before Astarion quips, “And what does a wizard really know of magic anyway?” 

Durge chuckles. There he is . Astarion’s humour is a balm to Durge’s rough edges. 

“What news from Shadowheart?” He asks as he stands, lifting Astarion off his lap and carrying him toward the bed. He savours the short few steps it takes to get there: he loves the closeness of their bodies like this, the tenderness of doing something unnecessarily hospitable. He lays Astarion gently down as he continues, “Is she still with Isobel and Aylin?” 

“The letter was not from Shadowheart, actually,” Astarion says as he scoots over to make room for Durge next to him, patting the lush mattress suggestively as Durge hums, “Although I do expect to hear from her soon. It was from Jaheira.” 

This stops Durge for a moment. He is surprised to hear this: of all their companions, he would have expected Astarion to correspond with Jaheira the least. They rarely saw eye to eye, often locked in a conflict between Jaheira’s unflinching goodness , and Astarion’s, well, Astarion-ness.  

Astarion grabs a piece of parchment and passes it to Durge. Durge unfolds it, curiosity overcoming him, and finds inscribed inside a single word in Jaheria’s flowing hand:

Fine. 

He looks at Astarion questioningly, only to find him grinning madly, the twinkle of mischief clear in his bright red eyes. In a blink, he’s straddled Durge and is slowly unlacing the ties of his jerkin. 

Durge eyes Astarion with a teasing look. He’s not been home from the Postmaster for more than a quarter of an hour, and already Astarion is undressing him. Not that he’s complaining. He rests his hands on Astarion’s thighs, tracing delicate circles with his claws.

“You are not the only one with surprises , darling,” Astarion purrs, rolling his hips to draw a growl out of Durge, “And thankfully, mine is completely agnostic to the weather.”

Durge digs his claws into the flesh of Astarion’s ass, carefully but forcefully drawing him back down to repeat the motion. They both groan. 

“I think you should tell me about this surprise,” Durge rumbles as he reaches up to pull Astarion’s shirt from where it’s tucked, the flame of desire burning hot within him already. 

“Never,” Astarion insists stubbornly, taking Durge’s wrists and pinning them to the bed. A hot flash of arousal shatters through Durge, and he finds himself fighting against Astarion’s grip just enough to play, but not enough to break it. Astarion is nibbling on his throat, the sensation maddening.  He wants Astarion to lay claim to him in this way, he realises with a rush.

But not yet. 

He slips out of Astarion’s grip quickly, wrapping his arms around Astarion’s back and flipping them, pinning Astarion to the bed with his hips. He loves this game, the pull and push of affection and power and desire between them. They are perfectly matched. 

When Astarion’s bottom lip pouts, Durge grabs it between his sharp teeth and pulls gently, just to the edge of discomfort. He knows he reaches the right spot when Astarion simultaneously hisses in frustration  and pulls their bodies closer. Durge relinquishes and plants a line of kisses on Astarion’s jaw. 

“You’ll tell me,” he whispers when he gets to Astarion’s neck, “I can be very persuasive.” 

“Oh, darling,” Astarion purrs as he writhes beneath Durge, “I will take considerable convincing.”

Durge hums, and gets to work.

“It’s not fair,” Astarion pouts from the window. The lush curtains are drawn completely back, the window and shutters thrown open.

“For someone who claims to be happy, you can be quite cranky, Astarion.” 

“I am generally very happy. But right now I am cranky. I can feel multiple emotions at once, do not presume to limit me,” Astarion bites out while wagging his finger at Durge, “And really, this is all your fault in the first place.” 

“My fault?” Durge asks, astonished. For a moment, the dark place in his mind bubbles and froths ominously, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s sure Astarion doesn’t actually mean to blame him. He sits down on the vanity stool and unlaces his shoes, tossing them next to the door.

“Yes. If you hadn’t put together this festival in the first place, I wouldn’t be so hurt by missing a day.” 

“The festival lasts for a few more days. We’ll just have to hope the storm clears,” Durge insists, “I can’t control the weather, Astarion.”

“Can’t you? Aren’t you some kind powerful sorcerer?” Astarion asks, his tone still a bit nippy. 

Durge pauses, considering. He can control the weather, to some degree. He could stop the rain in their immediate area, but that might draw more attention than they would like. Instead of addressing it, he asks, “Why does rain count as running water, but not, say, the bath?” 

“I don’t know,” Astarion says, his tone sharp and mocking, his fangs bared, “I didn’t get the chance to ask Cazador about the nuances of the curse he laid upon me between all the torturing and luring people to their deaths.” He huffs angrily, his gaze drawn back out the window where sheets of torrent are pounding the pavement outside. 

Durge waits patiently. Every bit of it is unfair, and Astarion has every right to be upset. Durge is frustrated on Astarion’s behalf, and he wants to give Astarion the space he needs. 

If the rain doesn’t pass by the last night of the festival, Durge will consider risking the attention from his magic in order to ensure Astarion can attend the closing ceremony. But not every night, it simply isn’t worth the risk. Not for something as precious as Astarion. 

In the end, Astarion’s tense shoulders fall, and he hangs his head, his curls falling limply around his crestfallen face. When Durge opens his arms, Astarion shuffles toward him, placing himself between Durge’s knees and pressing his cool forehead into Durge’s shoulder. Durge wraps his hands around the backs of Astarion’s legs, trying to convey some comfort through touch.

He hears Astarion’s soft voice say, “It isn’t fair.” 

“No, it’s not, my love,” Durge agrees.

“I am cranky.” 

“You can be as cranky as you like for as long as you like,” Durge says diplomatically. If Astarion wants to wallow, Durge will wallow with him. They can pout in the bath or something like that. Surely a bit of self-indulgent relaxation would help. 

Astarion heaves a heavy sigh, tossing his head back dramatically, “I just wanted to enjoy the outrageously elaborate gift my partner gave me, without any interference from or reminder of my eternal curses, and I want to do it while looking fabulously handsome.” He is petulant and petty, and absolutely perfect. 

“Anything else?” Durge chuckles. 

“And ideally I would be filled to the brim and ridden into oblivion at the end of the night,” Astarion says with equal parts humour and finality. 

Durge hesitates. Astarion has recovered himself, his drama, or perhaps the comfort Durge offered, grounding him to a more stable emotional state. But Durge does have another, different gift he can offer: but this is not at all how he had planned to share it. 

He looks around the room, casually drawing his thumb across Astarion’s thigh as he does. They’ve been staying at the tavern for months now, and it has become their home. This is where they confessed their love, where their passion began to burn, and this is what they’ll leave behind when they start their next journey together, whatever that is. 

Even though the spectacle of it isn’t quite what he imagined, there is still a romance to it.

And, truthfully, he cannot bear for Astarion to be wounded in any way. If spoiling him a little early, and maybe needlessly, will help, it is worth it. He pats Astarion’s thigh in a signal for him to step back, and moves to stand. Astarion paces out of the way, his look curious and questioning. 

Durge turns his back to Astarion, opening their wardrobe and removing a small box from inside his neglected leather boots. He was barely able to sneak it in here after picking it up from Dammon earlier this tenday, but if Astarion noticed he hasn’t said anything. 

“You have the handsomeness covered, Astarion, as usual,” Durge gestures at him as the turns back, grinning when Astarion preens just a little, “And while I cannot promise any filling or riding -” a frustrated huff comes from Astarion at that, widening Durge’s smile, “- I can actually provide another outrageously elaborate gift.”

Durge brings the small box forward, and Astarion’s brow furrows. He looks from the box to Durge and back. It occurs to Durge, as is his custom, that he may have gone too far with this gift. He finds himself feeling awash in anxiety, and there’s the creeping feeling of his blood rushing to the surface of his skin.

Durge has imagined this conversation more than once in the last few days, but now that the moment is here, he’s at a loss for words. He clears his throat and offers the box to Astarion awkwardly, wanting nothing more in this moment than for time to pass quickly. 

Astarion takes it without hesitation, his expression seeming confused. He opens the silver fastener that keeps the box closed, and opens the lid gingerly. 

Nestled on black silk cushion is a ring, banded in silver and adorned with a large, polished onyx. The stone gleams in the glow of the lanterns, throwing reflections of golden light into itself in a mesmerising array. Astarion rotates the box, tilting it toward the light, his eyes fixed on how the ring catches the light. 

“What is this?” Astarion asks, his tone almost warning. A pale eyebrow is cocked suspiciously, as if at any moment the ring will open and a viper will strike, “Is this some kind of dragonborn mating ritual?” 

“What?” The question bursts out of Durge. He is shocked. Of all the reactions - a mating ritual?  

“Well! How am I meant to know? The offering of a ring is a symbol of such a thing in many cultures, I hear -” 

Durge feels his mouth open, and he shuts it. He opens it again, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue, but he shuts his mouth on all of them again. The stinking pit of his self-loathing is simmering, inviting him in. 

He focuses on breathing while Astarion rambles.

“Things have been going well lately. Incredibly so. But this? I’m not sure I’m equipped to make any kind of promises -“

“Astarion -” Durge tries to interject, but Astarion keeps going. 

“- I love you, of course. But a commitment of any sort -” 

“Astarion!” Durge interrupts, stepping forward to gently rest his hands on Astarion’s shoulder, passing his thumb in a small line in an attempt to be comforting, “It’s a gift, not a contract.”

“- I simply am not prepared - it is so beautiful though -”

“Will you just put it on, Astarion?” Durge grinds out as he takes a step back, his voice sharper than he means, “Just listen to me, please. I’m not asking for your eternal devotion. I’m just asking you to put on a fucking ring.”

It’s Astarion’s turn to be speechless, apparently. Durge immediately regrets his tone, but Astarion does remove the ring from the box, turning it over in his graceful fingers before slipping it on the middle finger of his right hand.

“Thank you,” Durge says gently, “Now tap the stone once.” 

He does, and looks at Durge expectantly. The tightness of his frayed nerves is an aching pain in his chest. It occurs to Durge now that he probably should have tested the ring, made sure the magic he and Dammon imparted into it works the way he wanted. His instincts tell him it’s right, he was very careful and precise with his intent - 

Astarion gasps, pressing his hands to his face and neck. He closes his eyes, turning his face upwards and heaves a sigh. Durge watches as he unfastens the collar of his shirt, moaning as he opens it. The enchantment must be working.

“Do you like it?” Durge asks softly, not wanting to break Astarion out of his reverie, but needing to know that it’s working. 

Astarion opens his eyes, and Durge sees a tear fall down his pale cheek. 

“How is this possible?” Astarion breathes, “It’s - it’s -”

“It’s a spell of my own making,” Durge says quickly, “It will just - slowly warm the surface of your skin. As if -” 

“- as if I were bathed in sunlight,” Astarion chokes out, blinking more tears from his bright red eyes, “Oh gods .” 

Astarion crumples to the floor, weeping faintly. Durge immediately follows him down, landing hard on his knees and wrapping Astarion in his arms. Astarion's face turns into Durge’s neck, and Durge can feel the cool tracks of tears wending their way down his chest. 

He takes Astarion’s right hand in his, tapping the stone twice to end the spell’s effect, bringing those pale fingers up to his lips and kissing them. Unsure of what else to do, he just waits. He holds Astarion to his chest, occasionally wiping tears from Astarion’s cheek, or running his claws gently through Astarion’s cloudy locks. 

Eventually, Astarion settles himself, one hand splayed over Durge’s beating heart. Durge watches him turn the spell back on, and off again, over and over. 

“I’m sorry, Astarion,” Durge murmurs, “I should have warned you.” 

“No,” Astarion whispers, his voice hoarse, “Do not apologise. Not for something so beautiful.” 

Astarion leans back, cupping Durge’s chin and drawing their gazes to each other. Durge wipes the last tears from Astarion’s cheeks, drawing his knuckle softly over his alabaster skin. The tightness in his chest has finally loosened, and the ocean of his self-loathing is still and serene.

“This is a gift,” Astarion professes quietly, “I won’t forget it.”   

Chapter Text

“That’s a lot of honey,” A voice grumbles from behind him. Roveer. A more dour fellow he’s never known. A poor mood always envelops him, like a cloud of stink around a goblin. But like a stubborn lock, he’s bound to open up eventually. 

“It’s a big day,” Astarion says brightly in answer, taking another spoonful of honey from the jar, stirring it into Durge’s tea. He leaves the tea to steep while he grabs a serving tray from the storage area. He sets the mug of tea on it, and turns to grab a plate.

The storm has yet to break, so he doesn’t need to be careful about moving through the kitchen. Usually he’s dodging shafts of light, careful to catch only the light bouncing off every surface. It gives him a little sunburn, but nothing he can’t heal through quickly.

But today, it’s very freeing. There are bright lanterns lit, and the windows are open, letting in the smell of rain and the sound of wet drops pounding on the cobbles. It gives him the chance to admire the kitchen. The open space, well apportioned appliances, and spotless organisation are something he might like to emulate, if he and Durge ever settle down somewhere. It’s lovely, really, if you’re going to act as a servant . Or a devoted partner, he supposes. He chuckles, rolling his eyes at himself. Too soft.

He gathers a plate and takes it to the oven, opening it quickly and using a pair of tongs to pile pastries high atop it. He’s prepared all of Durge’s favourites today. Extra honey in his tea. Today needs to be perfect . 

“That’s a lot of pastry.” Another grumble from Roveer, his tone testy. It’s that kind of evening then.

“It’s a big day , Red, I swear, you never listen to me.” He claims to hate it when Astarion calls him anything other than Chef Roveer, but he never sharply corrects Astarion like he does with the kitchen staff. 

A harrumph is all he gets in answer, but when Astarion looks he’s sure a smirk is hidden under that wiry red beard. They’ve got something of a working relationship now, where Astarion is free to collect the supplies he needs so long as he works for a few hours making pastry every week. He must be good at it (and he knows he is), because over the weeks he’s been learning, Red has cleared a spot just for him to do his preparations, and indulged his ideas for flavours to try.

Astarion sets the plate on the serving tray, grabbing a set of silver and laying it neatly next to the plate. He turns his head to the side, appraising the tray. It’s lovely and decadent, but something is missing. When he turns to look around the kitchen, it seems Red has solved the problem. On the tray is a small vase, an intricate porcelain thing of blue and white, with a few springs of lavender poking out of the top.

“It’s perfect,” Astarion praises, gracing Roveer with a winning smile. He gets a raised, bushy eyebrow in return. Ah, friendship .

Astarion lifts up the tray, easily keeping the items atop it balanced, and darts out of the kitchen. He nods to Alan as he turns the corner to the stairs, not stopping for their usual chat. The tap room is buzzing, people drawn inside by the poor weather. He loves the energy in the room, and any other day, he might stay and sip a wine. 

But not today. It’s a big day. 

He darts up the stairs, slowing his ascent when the tray clatters dangerously. A sense of excitement rushes through him . It’s happening. They are finally doing it. 

He holds the tray against a hip to open the door to their room, rolling his eyes at himself as he does. It seems he’s becoming quite domestic . He slides into the room quietly, latching the door gently. Durge’s breath floats toward him, soft and quiet from the bed. 

The room is still dark, but Astarion doesn’t need the light to see. For him, their room is washed in a scale of greys and blacks, all texture and shadow. Some deep part of his instinct prefers it this way, knows that he’s safest when shrouded in darkness. He pads his way over to Durge’s side of the bed, placing the tray gently on the nightstand. 

Durge is sleeping on his stomach, an arm extended toward Astarion’s side of the bed. His scales are pristine, the crest on the top of his head extending the regal lines of his face.

Gods , he is beautiful. There’s the twisting of the softest knife inside him, a sweet, turning feeling. Astarion isn’t sure he could pinpoint when their relationship shifted for him, from arousal to friendship and back, but he is sure that this is what love feels like. Sometimes it hits him like a charging owlbear, stealing his breath away. 

If he had a breath to steal away, that is. He imagines the feeling is much the same whether he needed to breathe or not. It’s just another way Durge makes him feel alive.

Astarion unshutters the lamp just a fraction, letting enough light out to pull colour back into the room. The deep red scales of Durge’s neck come into view, and it’s the most beautiful shade of vermillion. The line where his scales shift to white appears stark, but there’s just the lightest tinge of pale pink, almost imperceptible, that reminds him of a peony. 

Comparing a Bhaalspawn to springtime blooms? Good gods.

“Good evening, darling,” Astarion says softly, planting kisses on that beating pulse in Durge’s neck. A smile spreads over his face as Durge shifts beneath him. It reminds him of that first night Astarion had a taste of Durge, and all his little flutters and twitches. He’s grown to like it when Astarion drinks from him.  

“Good evening, sunshine,” Durge rumbles sleepily, turning onto his side and wrapping his arms around Astarion’s waist. Astarion is struck with a deep sense of safety, the casual touch sparking his arousal. Durge’s grip tightens, and with a shocked gasp Astarion finds himself pulled down on the bed, tucked in Durge’s warm embrace. 

He feels Durge’s hot breath on his neck, his hands roving over the planes of Astarion’s back, gently pulling up the back of his shirt to touch his skin. The contact is electric. 

“Darling, you need to break your fast,” Astarion does his best to sound stern, but a claw is lightly tracing down to the waistband of his trousers, and his mind is starting to go blank at the touch, “We have a busy day.”

“There’s only one thing I want to eat, Astarion,” Durge’s voice rumbles through him and he shivers. Durge is insatiable when he wakes. Astarion might feed Durge pastries every day, but Durge would feed Astarion orgasm after orgasm, all night, if he could. And Astarion is far from starving, these days. 

But today is a big day. No distractions.

“We hardly have time for whatever depravity you have in mind, Durge,” Astarion sighs, wrapping his arms around Durge’s neck, stretching himself out fully against the length of him. Astarion feels a line of kisses down his neck, and a wet flick as Durge licks the scars on his neck. 

He sinks into the heady arousal, letting it consume him.

Just one little distraction, then.

“This is mad, isn’t it?” Durge asks, sucking a breath through his teeth as he appraises them in the mirror. As he appraises himself .  Astarion’s reflection, of course, is devastatingly absent , although he knows they make a smart match.  

He was able to see himself for the first time in nearly two centuries, thanks to Durge - and the illithid parasites, Astarion supposes. The connection given to them by the tadpoles made them only the second worst life-ending curse he’s had to deal with.

He sighs. It would be nice to preen in the mirror a bit, even if it were just once in a while. Instead he looks to Durge. He’s wearing his freshly embroidered spellcasting robes, the dark blue throwing his gleaming scales into sharp relief. Quite a handsome figure, indeed. “Nonsense, darling, you look amazing,” Astarion reassures him, kissing him on the neck. He has to lift himself up on his toes to reach that delicious spot by the corner of his jaw. 

“I meant what we’re about to do, Astarion, not how I look,” Durge chortles, the humour in his voice forced. Astarion can see the tension in him - his shoulders are high and tight. His scent is tart and sharp with nerves. Precious Bhaal-babe . 

A knock at the door interrupts them. It’s time. He feels a thrill of anticipation run through him. It’s been too long since they had a good fight.

“Our plans for the night? That’s what has you worried?” Astarion says as he opens the door to find Jaheira. He waves her in as he continues, “Oh yes, it’s completely deranged. We are absolutely mad to think we could destroy the Temple of Bhaal,” He nods casually at Jaheria’s glare before he grins widely at Durge, “But even if we fail, we’ll look fabulous doing it.” He tosses a playful wink at Durge, and can tell he doesn’t quite crack that anxious exterior. 

Astarion busies himself with lacing his boots while Durge and Jaheira exchange pleasantries. He is trying to keep the mood light, but there is tension in the air. Astarion understands, better than most, he imagines, how difficult it would be to confront the place of your captivity. He's not sure if he wants to claim Cazador's palace for his own, or raze it to the ground. 

“Wouldn’t the two of you rather be at the festival?” Jaheira asks as she appraises their room, inspecting all of Astarion’s various scents and oils on the vanity. 

She picks one bottle out of the lineup, shaking it at Astarion with a cocked eyebrow in question. Drow poison. “The bottle is pretty,” He says with a shrug. Auntie Ethel had some good ideas when it came to displaying lotions and potions. It’s really all about aesthetics. 

“We can’t visit the festival when it’s raining,” Durge says, sitting down next to Astarion to slip on his shoes, “Running water, and all that. We’ll have to hope the storm clears before the end of the tenday. This is what Astarion has planned for our day, instead.”

Jaheira hums noncommittally. 

A booming knock ripples the door, but before Astarion can answer it, Minsc charges in. Rude.

“I hear we are all skipping the festival for vandalism instead?” Boo squeaks indignantly from Minsc’s shoulder, “Sorry, Boo is right. For some well-deserved, overdue revenge against a despicable, immortal, undeniably evil and also yet divine parent?” 

Durge and Astarion share a look. He catches the smallest wince behind Durge’s eyes, like Minsc’s casual description of Bhaal hit just a little too hard.

“Who invited you?” Astarion asks, a little coldly. Boo looks offended from his perch. 

“I did, of course,” Jaheria says, “We will need a full complement of talents to get us all through today safely.” 

“Minsc and Boo together make up a full complement of talents, do we not? Are we going now?” Minsc turns to the door, opening it and stepping out, gesturing for everyone to follow him. 

“Astarion,” Durge says seriously as he stands to face him, “If things go poorly today, I want you to know that I -”

Astarion stands as well, and places a finger on Durge’s lips. Durge is prone to getting himself wound around a point, and they really need to be moving if they plan to be back before sunrise. 

“Is this going to be one of those rooftop-sunrise-speeches about how much you’ve come to care for me?” Astarion asks with an eyebrow raised. Durge smirks from under his fingers, and rolls his eyes, only looking the slightest bit put out. 

“Durge, my darling,” Astarion says as he straightens the collar of Durge’s robes, “I love you. And you love me. As you should. Obviously ,” he tries to stay playful, so he tosses out a smile, “Everything will be fine, because we’ll be together. And if we don’t hurry up, some other heroes will steal our glory. ” He pats Durge’s ass with finality, drawing a chuckle out of Durge.

“All I wanted to say was that I love you. I’m sure everything will work out fine.” He’s lying through those sharp teeth, but he is trying. Durge plants a firm kiss into his curls, and then turns out the door after Minsc and Boo, grabbing their pack as he does. 

He jostles it carefully onto his shoulders, considerate of the runepowder bomb nestled inside. Durge is going to crumble his father’s temple into ash today, and for a depraved moment Astarion hopes they’ll make love on the rubble. It will be almost as much fun as the festival, he’s sure. 

“That’s not what he was going to say,” Jaheira prods quietly. Astarion rolls his eyes. He loves this old crone, in his way, but she can be pushy. 

“Oh? Well, if you know him so well , what was he going to say?” He bites. They’ve been living together for months, and all their time travelling with their party before that: he’s certain Durge was about to give him a long-winded profession of love. 

“He was going to tell you that you have something in your teeth,” Jaheira says, matter-of-factly as she turns to follow Durge out the door. 

Astarion turns to the mirror, ready to inspect his teeth and sees nothing. He rounds on Jaheira, levelling a furious glare on her, “That’s cruel , darling.”

The closer they get to the temple, the more tense Durge becomes. The tart, pale green of his scent is fully forward, like an unripe, sour apple. His heartbeat remains steady, though, and his fingers are still gently laced with Astarion’s. 

He’s alright. He’s free. 

He thought this might be cathartic for Durge. Not just to have denied his father: he did that months ago, before the Elder Brain and he died for it. But to destroy his father’s temple, where he was made to commit so many terrible crimes, might help him find some kind of peace.

If Astarion wanted to have that kind of catharsis, he would have to burn this whole city down. 

A bridge extends toward the large slabs that serve as entrance to the temple. The doors have the symbol of Bhaal carved into the stone, a gaping skull with hollow eyes, surrounded by droplets of blood. It’s garish, really. No sense of style at all. 

The door speaks to them as they approach. 

“You hold proof of faith - but to hold and deserve are different. How have you proven yourself in the Dread Lord’s eyes?”

“I slaughtered the murder tribunal,” Durge repeats the phrase that granted them entry when they were last here. It was true, of course. They killed Sarevok and his council, and every single Bhaalist in that temple. Just like they’ll kill every Bhaalist in this temple. 

For a moment, Astarion wonders what kind of life they could live if they travelled Faerun and killed every Bhaal worshipper along the Sword Coast. He’ll probably have to give up his dreams of a nice kitchen, but it would be fulfilling in other ways. Jaheira’s practically made an entire career out of it. 

“This deed has already been claimed.” The voice from the door is chipped and dull, like rust on a sword. 

Astarion looks at Durge. There’s a fiery rage behind his eyes, some kind of emotion Astarion can’t place burning up within him. Astarion squeezes his hand twice, but gets no pulses in return. 

A pang of concern runs through him, and for the first time he wonders if this is a mistake. They could plant the bomb right here and achieve the same result. 

He doesn’t have a chance to suggest it. 

“I will slaughter everyone in that temple if you open your doors,” Durge says it with purpose, with venom, and Astarion believes it. The door must, as well, because it creaks open, the slabs of stone dragging loudly on the floor. 

“Well, that was a bit ominous,” Astarion says, letting go of Durge’s hand and darting in front of him, leading the way to check for traps. Nothing. There are sounds coming from deeper in the temple, footsteps and voices. A fight is coming their way.

“Astarion. Something feels wrong .” Durge’s voice is quaking, like a shiver in the cold, instead of its usual rumbling storm. Astarion hears the chime of Durge turning his warding ring around his finger, over and over, “We should leave.” 

“We’re already here, darling,” Astarion says as he turns to Durge, rubbing his hands across Durge’s chest, feeling his beating heart thundering, “We can do this. That miserable bastard has no power over you, not anymore. You are your own person,” He presses his hand a little harder into Durge’s chest as he says it, savouring the warmth soaking into his fingers, “And a little bit of mine.” He flashes Durge a winning smile, and Durge graces him with a chuckle. There he is. 

“This work should be done. No one should worship the reeking evil of Bhaal, and you should be the one to destroy his temple,” Jaheira insists as she steps up to join them. She looks at Minsc, and he nods his agreement. 

“And we will help,” Minsc says, as Boo squeaks in affirmation. 

Astarion watches as Durge takes a breath and holds it, exhaling as he brings Astarion’s hand up to his lips to kiss the warding bond ring on his finger. 

He nods, and incants, “ Amplexus”, and a shower of light engulfs both him and Astarion, setting the warding bond into place. Anything that happens to Astarion, any injury he takes, will be taken by Durge too: they’ll face it together. 

And just in time: six cultists, all wearing Bhaalist robes and carrying crude tools and implements round the corner to the entrance of the temple. All of them track bloody footprints onto the stone floor as they rush toward the party. 

The combat is a mess, chaotic and unclean. Jaheira pulls vines from the ground to hold two cultists in place while Minsc shouts, “Go for the eyes, Boo!”, launching himself into the fray. 

Next to him Durge fights with rage, blasting magic from his hands so fast Astarion can hardly keep up with the spells he’s casting. It’s just flashes of colour and temperature to him. They both grew more powerful after killing the Elder Brain, but this kind of magic is astonishing to see. His power is undeniable.

Astarion is a flurry of blades, using Durge’s power and Minsc and Jaheira’s chaotic methods to hide behind, taking every opportunity to land a finishing blow and end the fight as quickly as possible, but as they finish the first group, another arrives.

The four of them rip through the cultists; blasting, slicing, smashing, tearing their way to the altar of the temple, the place where Durge reclaimed his life from his despicable father. Astarion thinks he’ll have to send Withers a bouquet of flowers or something in thanks. Does he like pastry? Does he even eat? The thought is distracting, between blows of his daggers.

Through a fine mist of blood, Astarion catches Durge’s eye and smiles at him. I’ve missed this. Durge blasts a magic missile over Astarion’s shoulder, the cultist rushing up behind Astarion stopped in his tracks. Durge cocks his head to the side with a smirk, before turning to the two other cultists engaged in combat with him. Showoff. 

By the time they finish, all four of them are breathing heavily, but wholly intact. Astarion has a few surface level scrapes and cuts, but they are all cosmetic and will heal quickly. He wore red today to keep any blood on his clothes from distracting them. 

Durge is resplendent, the fight having drawn some new strength out of him. Astarion watches as he breathes deeply, his shoulders finally relaxing from their tense position. Durge inspects his hands, flexing them, as he often does when confronting newfound power. 

Astarion feels it, too, the familiar tingle of experience firing through his limbs. He is stronger even now than when they defeated the Elder Brain: his reflexes primed and ready for the next fight. It’s exhilarating. 

He walks up to Durge, laying his hands on Durge’s sharp jaw, searching his expression. His mouth is set in a hard, grim line, and there are droplets of bloodspray marring his pristine white scales. Astarion pulls Durge in, their lips crashing together. Durge returns it with passion, wrapping his arms around Astarion and pulling him close. 

It’s a kiss to end all other kisses for him, lighting a hot line of fire straight into his soul. 

The sharpness of Durge’s scent has dulled, leaving behind the dark blue of determination, hot and firm like folded steel. When Astarion pulls back and smiles wide, Durge returns his smile fully. 

Durge pulls him into an embrace, holding their bodies close, squeezing Astarion so tightly in his arms that Astarion is grateful he doesn’t need to breathe. He’d never breathe again if it meant he could be held like this forever.  He feels a whisper in his ear, his breath soft and warm, “Thank you, Astarion.” A shudder runs through him at the sound.  

When Astarion pulls back to look at that handsome face, there’s a tear falling from one of those bright, flaming eyes. He leans up onto his toes to kiss the tear away, the taste of salt on his tongue. It shocks him - he can’t remember tasting anything so good. He had forgotten the flavour of salt like this, and he’s overcome with the magic of it. 

“I love you,” he says, his voice ragged with emotion.

“I love you, too,” Durge replies softly, kissing Astarion softly once more before pulling away, taking a deep breath and turning to smile at Jaheira and Minsc, “Let’s blow this place to pieces,” Durge thunders. 

They set the bomb on the altar in the centre of the room, the central column of the temple its weakest structural point, Jaheira assures them. Astarion doesn’t know enough to argue, and it seems poetic enough for him. His mind has turned to the atop-the-rubble-lovemaking for which he’s hoping. 

They ascend the stairs to the upper balcony, which offers a perfect view of the bomb atop the altar. Despite the bloodshed, the temple looks much the same. There were already corpses and pools of blood all over the place. Astarion will feel glad to see the last of this place. 

“Step back while I ignite the bomb, I don’t want you stealing my glory,” Durge teases. 

“I hardly need to steal your glory when I’ve already stolen your heart,” Astarion quips, flicking his hair dramatically, knowing how Durge loves it when he does that. 

“I’ve half a mind to punish you for that,” Durge rumbles, his eyes fixated on Astarion’s fingers as they thread through his silver curls.  

“Promises, promises,” Astarion purrs and then shrieks, his demure seduction ruined by a sharp pinch on his ass. That damn mage hand . Durge shoos Astarion away playfully, chasing him with the mage hand out over the threshold of the temple door as he chuckles. He joins Jaheira and Minsc, shrugging casually at Jaheira’s rolling eyes. 

“What? I’m in love, ” He says in explanation, a flutter in his gut affirming it as he looks at Durge. 

He stands there powerfully in his blue robes, every inch the noble, divine, perfect promise of a person that he is. For the first time, Astarion thinks that the messy mix of affection, desire, pride and love swirling in him might make the two hundred years of torture he suffered worth it.  

Durge smiles at Astarion over his shoulder before he turns, looking down at the runepowder bomb as he incants, “ Igni-”

The stone doors to the temple slam shut, cutting off Durge’s words and separating them. 

“Shit,” Jaheria curses, slamming magic into the door. Minsc slams his shoulder against the stone, pressing with his might against it, unable to make it budge. Astarion hears his own voice shouting orders to smash the door, lift it, do anything. 

Jaheira is pulling at his shoulders, shouting his name, but he can’t leave. His love is in there, his life. He jams the blade of a dagger in the seam of the door, pressing hard against it to prise the stone open. 

His blade shatters, the handle slipping from his grip and clattering to the stone floor below him. 

In quick succession, the warding bond fails, the golden light embracing him gutters into nothing. Fear grips his heart with an iron fist. Behind the stone door, a loud boom rattles the foundations of the temple, shaking up through the floor and into his feet. 

There’s a roaring in his ears, his vision going dark around the edges. He can’t breathe, there’s no air in his lungs. He tries to press his fingers into the gap in the door, to claw his way through the stone to get to Durge, but his fingernails split and crack, leaving bloody fingerprints.

The door is grinning at him, smiling at his fury, at his desperation. Bhaal is watching through those sunken stone eyes, he’s sure of it. He screams at that mocking face, shouting curses and promises of vengeance. 

Suddenly he’s in the air, hoisted over Minsc’s shoulder and dragged across the bridge. There are boulders and rocks tumbling from the ceiling, crashing down just behind them. The bridge begins to crack and crumble, but Minsc is hauling Astarion onto an adjacent path, Jaheira holding it together just enough with magical vines for them to get across. 

Jaheira lets her magic go as Astarion turns back toward the temple, falling hard to his knees as tears stream down his face.  

Astarion weeps as the path before him crumbles into dust.

Chapter Text

In two hundred years of torture, Astarion has never felt an agony like this. 

Minsc has stepped back after gently depositing Astarion onto the walkway adjacent to the destroyed bridge. The aftershocks of the explosion are still rumbling through the stone, but the slabs of the temple doors across the chasm stand resolute, as if totally undisturbed. The sunken eyes and bony smile of Bhaal still mock him in his grief. 

This was supposed to be simple: go down to the temple, blow it up, make love atop the rubble. A clear plan, if lacking detail. An easy, fun night of slaughter and destruction to give Durge some cathartic retribution against his captor and father. 

Astarion’s thoughts are a jumble of regrets and denials. 

His gaze falls to his hands. He spins the warding bond ring around his finger once, his heart aching as he does. He feels raw, like every inch of him is flayed. And he knows the feeling; he had nearly forgotten it. 

Slowly, the pain in his chest fades to numbness. His mind has gone blank, but tears he cannot stop are still burning down his cheeks, turning cold as they drip off his jaw. Eventually, Jaheira kneels next to him, placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“We need to leave. We do not know the extent of the damage.” 

Astarion can’t turn his head to look at her. The damage is obvious.

“Astarion,” she insists, tightening her grip on his shoulder. Hearing his name pains him. There’s no magic in her voice, no love or desire or playfulness. He’ll never hear his name like that again. 

He tries to turn away from Jaheira’s touch, but his body doesn’t move. He opens his mouth to say something, anything to express that he can’t leave , but the words get caught in his throat. 

She smells of juniper and - what is that - pine? Gods , it’s so boring , he sheds another tear. He’ll never smell him again, never taste him . Another tear wends its way down his cheek. He’ll starve, weeping, withering away into dust right here on this spot.

He hears Jaheira sigh. The drama is enough that he finally turns to look at her, dragging his eyes away from the temple doors. Her expression is hard, lips pursed into a thin line and brow furrowed. She opens her mouth and snaps it closed, swallowing hard. He sees the column of her throat bob, her pulse fluttering, and is repulsed by it. He never wants to taste anyone else.  

Gods, his luck is shit. Pure shit.

“It has been over a hundred years since my Khalid was taken from me,” Jaheira says softly, “I miss him, all the time.” A sob wracks through Astarion. In a thousand years, when he’s remembered how to love again, maybe these words will come as a comfort. Now they just hurt . Jaheira continues, “I still think of our wedding every time it rains. But what I’ve learned - ”

A tremendously loud booming interrupts her, rattling Astarion’s teeth in his clenched jaw. He whips his head around to see that the temple doors have fallen, the rubble beyond them fading into darkness. Boo is squeaking madly, pulling on Minsc’s earlobe and gesturing to it. 

Astarion scrambles to his feet, searching for a path to the temple. Nothing clear, or easy. He curses. His daggers are good for shit all here. Why didn’t he insist that Astarion keep any of the supplies on him, anything to help? 

Suddenly, there’s a lightness to his body. He looks to see Jaheira incanting a spell, sending him flying across the chasm. He lands lightly on the steps leading to the crumbled doors, turning to see Jaheira and Minsc following. 

Most of the temple has collapsed into the chasm below - the central column and the staircases leading to it completely gone. The railing where he cast the spell that lit the bomb has crumbled, and Astarion moves to shift the rubble aside to see if he can find any piece of him. 

He hisses at the pain, his raw broken fingernails tender against the rough hewn stone, but he persists. Boo joins him, moving a tiny piece of cracked rock to the side, squeaking sadly. 

There’s nothing. Not a body, no spot on the floor, nothing of his love left behind. Nothing but wreckage to mourn. The hollow ache in his heart pangs, but his tears have stopped. He turns to Jaheira, arms outstretched in question. Minsc and Boo share a glance between them, and Astarion can’t possibly imagine what it means. 

“Isn’t there anything you can do? Any magic? I - “ he chokes on his own words as he turns to inspect the rubble. There’s a scroll of revivify in their pack - their - but he had it. He always has it. Gods. But there’s nothing he could cast it on anyway, no body for him to call a soul back into. 

Astarion runs his fingers through his hair, grimacing. Fuck this fate. He has half a mind to tear down into whatever pit of eternal damnation Bhaal has sunk into and rip him into pieces. 

“I am not sure what can be done. This was surely some interference from Bhaal himself,” Jaheira says, “We should leave before more of this place crumbles apart.” 

“Please. Anything,” Astarion croaks out. He cannot possibly live forever with this question hanging over him. He would rather go back up and stand in the rain, burning into ash, than face this for eternity.

Jaheira considers him for a few moments. They have never seen eye to eye, and Astarion thinks her expression must be full of pity. But he doesn’t care. He’ll take anything she gives.

“I can attempt to scry, in case this was some trickery of Bhaal and he is elsewhere,” Jaheira says, “But you must prepare yourself, Astarion.” 

“For what?” He scoffs at her, his frustration and rage and grief starting to rise within him again. This constant flickering between feeling nothing and feeling everything overwhelms him. 

“That he is gone. That he is dead. ” Her tone is stony. It stings , like salt in a thousand cuts. He nods curtly, fuming, and she begins to prepare the spell. 

The wait is agonising. He’s been alive - or near enough - for centuries, but the ten minutes it takes Jaheira to cast the scrying spell might be among the worst of it. Astarion clings to the last shreds of hope, something precious he didn’t know existed until now, turning his sunrise spell on and off, over and over, just to feel something warm.

Jaheira opens her eyes with a gasp, “We need to leave, now.” Her expression and scent are confused and muddled, and all he can get from it is the ice-white of shock. It infuriates him. 

“Why?,” Astarion paces like a wildcat, clenching his fists. He can feel his lips peeling back over his fangs, and he bites out, “Jaheira, you witch, tell me why!” 

“I saw him in your room,” She spits it at him, her patience clearly waning like a sullen moon, “Standing there pacing, muttering to himself. I cannot be sure if this is some trick of Bhaal’s.” 

Astarion stops in his tracks, his hands falling limply from his hips. He gapes at her, a lance of surprise and hope and fury piercing through him. 

“What the fuck ?”

Jaheira and Minsc discuss theories for how it would be possible for Durge to have survived as they work their way back to the tavern. Astarion cannot bring himself to focus on their conversation. He needs to see for himself. 

There’s a sick throbbing in his gut, the anticipation of the unknown tapping in him like an impatient foot. It’s only now, after months of stability with him , that Astarion realises how much has changed. 

He was numb for so long: it was the only way to survive with Cazador’s bootheal driving into his neck. But with his freedom has come this swell of softness, a part of himself he thought had been well and truly buried. He feels more alive than ever, maybe even more than when he was actually alive. He’ll be damned - well, further so - to let this part of himself go now. 

He storms through the sewers, and up into the Emperor’s hideout beneath the tavern. His steps falter when he sees the cracked stone table there: a relic of when they were here months ago, after the victory party. In a moment of passion, he accidentally sundered the table in half. Then he tried to leave, claiming it was safer for Astarion if they parted ways. 

In the end, leaving may have been safer for him . 

Astarion runs his hands through his hair, as if it could clear the mess from his mind. It doesn’t matter what could have been. It matters what is. He needs to get home .

Astarion bursts through the basement doors that lead into the kitchen, his pace becoming frantic. Roveer calls out to him, but Astarion waves him off. The storm is raging outside, and he is pelted with a few raindrops that the wind blows in through the open windows. He takes off at a run, racing up the stairs and down the hall. 

Astarion rips open the door to their room and Durge is standing there. Alive . 

Durge’s dark blue robes are still splattered in blood, there are bits of rubble and dust coating his head and shoulders. There’s a gash through one of his flickering eyes, but he appears otherwise intact.

A sob rends out of Astarion, and he hears Durge exhale. The relief that pours through him is more torrential than the storm outside, the deep wrongness of the last hour suddenly shifting to rightness , and there are too many feelings in him bubbling to the surface. 

“Astarion.” It’s his voice. He is rushing forward, taking Astarion in those strong arms. He’s real. Corporeal. He smells like him , the affection, the worry, the doubt, the love , it’s all there. Oh gods. That precious heart is beating, thundering wildly, and Astarion presses his ear to it, soaking in the warmth from his broad chest. 

Astarion is overwhelmed. The dead part of him, the part that aches for life, clings to the feeling.

“How is this possible?” He breathes out the question, unable to reconcile his bitter grief with the reality standing before him. He looks over Durge’s shoulder at Jaheira, and he sees a silver tear fall down her cheek. Boo is sitting on Minsc’s shoulder, and Astarion could swear he passes a paw over an eye. 

Durge - Durge - draws back, bringing a knuckle down Astarion’s cheek in a gesture so tender and familiar it steals his breath away, drawing out tears he didn’t know he had left. Durge kisses them from his face, and it’s all Astarion can do to not collapse into his arms completely. 

Durge clears his throat, and says, “I think I’ve worked out how to teleport,” Jaheira lets out a surprised chuckle, and Durge continues, “Although I have not figured out how to cast any spells to send a message to my beloved when I do,” He plants a kiss into Astarion’s curls, and Astarion wraps his arms around Durge’s waist, holding him tightly, “I’ll work on that. I’m sorry for worrying you.” 

Durge shifts Astarion in his arms slightly to turn to Minsc and Jaheira, “Thank you, for your hel-,” Durge’s gratitude is cut short when Minsc barrels into the pair of them, gripping both Durge and Astarion in his large arms and lifting them into an embrace. 

“Please, spare me any further torture tonight, thank you.” Astarion grunts. 

“Oh gods ,” Durge groans, as he makes an attempt to shield Astarion from the worst of the pressure. Something about the way he cups Astarion’s head and neck gives him a deep sense of safety. He presses the tip of his nose into the crook of Durge’s shoulder and inhales deeply. He smells real .  

Jaheira rushes forward and shoos Minsc away, “Let me heal you, Durge, and then we will leave the two of you to the rest of your evening . ” 

She gestures for Durge to sit, and he does, bringing Astarion with him, settling him into his lap in a surprising show of intimacy. Astarion understands, though: they won’t be parted again, not anytime soon. The closer they are, the safer they are. 

Jaheira begins her healing magics, and Astarion curls closer against Durge’s side, tucking himself under a heavy arm. He puts a hand where Durge’s heart is beating, savouring the feeling of it pulsing through his fingers. Durge sets his hand on Astarion’s hip, tracing small circles with his claws. It’s familiar and comforting, soothing the rawness of his emotions. He breathes deeply. 

While she works, Jaheira asks, “How did you do it?” She raises an eyebrow at Astarion. He’s not sure what is supposed to be implied in her look: it misses him completely. 

Durge tells them that when the temple doors slammed shut, he had already cast the spell that would ignite the bomb. He pauses, taking his free hand and lacing their fingers together, squeezing once. Astarion squeezes twice in return, his heart aching, and Durge continues. 

“I knew - I knew I wouldn’t have time to escape. I assume it was some trickery of Bhaal’s, set to trap me in the temple if I returned. So I -'' he clears his throat, and then turns to Astarion, “I closed my eyes and thought of you. Of us, and our time together here. I felt the call of my magic, like a loose thread floating in the wind, and I pulled on it. When I opened my eyes, I was here.” 

Minsc claps Durge on the shoulder while Jaheira continues to cast healing spells, “Minsc and Boo are so happy to see that you are alive and well. We thought for sure you were brutally crushed beneath the rubble -” 

“That’s enough, Minsc,” Jaheira interrupts. It’s not enough, apparently. 

“- or that you were falling to the centre of the planet to be burned in hot bubbling tar -”

“Minsc,” Astarion warns, fangs bared. He knows Minsc is not the sharpest throwing knife in the bandoleer, but to speak like this so soon after Durge was gone is too foolish.

“- or that your soul had been ripped from your very body and dragged down to whatever hell awaits you when you - ack!” 

Boo bites Minsc on the ear, squeaking in outrage. Astarion tries to stand, ready to rip out Minsc’s throat to get him to quiet, but Durge holds him against his side. When their eyes meet, Durge shakes his head the barest amount. Astarion pouts just a little, and his heart soars when Durge chuckles, rolling his eyes. 

“I cannot heal this wound,” Jaheira says, taking a step away from Durge, the last of her healing spells guttering out, “Are you able to see?”

“Yes,” Durge says cautiously, bringing his hand up to feel the wound, wincing at the tenderness, “What’s wrong with it?” 

“It’s resisting my healing, but I cannot identify any infections that would explain it. I will prepare a poultice, and consider other spells that may work.” Jaheira rubs her temples as she considers. 

“Is it too unsightly, sunshine?” Durge asks, turning his face for Astarion’s appraisal. It is gruesome, the thin red line cutting down the side of his face, marring his otherwise perfectly symmetrical visage. He’s still handsome. Striking, perhaps moreso. But all Astarion can think is that he hopes it isn’t painful. 

Astarion reaches up and passes a thumb over Durge’s cheek, his scales warm. He traces the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones, over his brow and down to his lips. His fingers linger there, drawing a smirk out of Durge. He’s real. He’s alive. 

The ache in Astarion’s chest has turned to something saccharine, a sweet, gentle tug pulling him in Durge’s direction. He plants a kiss on Durge’s snout, and presses his forehead against the flat plane of Durge’s head, breathing him in. 

He hears Jaheira say to Minsc and Boo, “We should be going.” 

Astarion stands from Durge’s lap, separating them for a moment to say their goodbyes to their party. Durge tugs on Astarion’s hand as he moves to unlace their fingers, standing with him so they stay connected. Astarion feels a squeeze of his hand, and he pulses back in return.  

“Fate has given you an incredible gift,” Jaheira whispers to him as he sees her out the door, “Try not to waste it.” 

“You’re quiet, Astarion.” 

They are still standing in the centre of the room, Durge having turned to wrap his arms around Astarion as soon as the door closed behind Jaheira, Minsc and Boo. Astarion is letting Durge’s beating heart serve as a balm for his tender emotions. Whenever they part, it will be too soon. 

“You’re here.” His voice is a little hoarse from all the weeping. Ridiculous. Even as he thinks it, he swallows hard, his throat still thick. 

“I’m here.” Durge says simply. Gods, Astarion could listen to that voice forever. All his senses are telling him that Durge is here, that all his worry was for nothing, but his fear is not so easily dispelled. 

Astarion pulls his face away from Durge’s chest, looking up into his flaming eyes, “Tell me this is real.” 

“You tell me this is real,” Durge murmurs as he passes a kiss over Astarion’s cheek, his warm breath a comfort and a promise. 

“Stop just copying everything I say, or I won’t believe you,” Astarion admonishes breathily, running his hands over Durge’s broad chest. 

“Stop copying every -” Durge starts cheekily, but Astarion pulls him in for a kiss. They crash together in a fury of tongues and teeth, a desperate mess of desire and love and need. A flash of emotion rips through Astarion like a bolt of lightning, setting his already tormented nerves on edge. 

He is overcome with the dark and desperate urge to be as close to Durge as possible. 

Astarion pulls at Durge’s clothes, ripping the ornamental closures, tearing at the fabric. Durge chuckles at his ferocity, and with their chests pressing together it feels like Astarion’s own heart could be started by the reverberations.

Astarion runs his palms down Durge’s chest and stomach, marvelling at how warm his scales are, how the heat passes into his palms so freely. Against the shocking white of Durge’s scales, Astarions hands look less pale. 

When Astarion pulls Durge’s face down to his, their lips colliding, he can feel the flame between them surge. Durge begins to undress him, the rough texture of his scaled fingers burning on Astarion’s sensitive skin. 

It’s all too slow. He tears Durge’s clothing off, ripping it at the seams, and Durge’s laugh closes the worst of the wounds from earlier today. 

“You’ll mend it later,” Astarion insists, kicking his shoes off violently. He feels a smile stretch across his face, and he bites his lip with a fang, shaking his head at himself. He’s gone too soft, and he fucking loves it . 

They’re finally bared to each other, and Durge rushes forward to kiss the smile off Astarion’s face.

*****

He crouches for a moment, wrapping his arms around Astarion’s ass and lifting him up, holding him there while they kiss. He can feel himself hardening against the scales on Durge’s stomach, and Durge’s stiffening length is pressing against the inside of his knee, and it hits Astarion so hard that they are here, alive, together and this is what he’s been waiting for. 

Slowly, Durge carries him to their bed, their gazes not leaving each other's faces. 

Durge lays him down gently on the bed, kissing his way down Astarion’s face and chest. He lingers on Astarion’s nipples while his claws scrape lightly down the backs of Astarion’s legs. Durge has learned exactly what he likes, or perhaps, has taught him exactly what he likes. 

He’s so skillful that Astarion is finishing on Durge’s tongue in no time at all, writhing on the two fingers in his ass to a shocking, throbbing end.

Durge is too gentle with him, too kind, too sweet. Astarion wants him unravelled. Once the bliss is gone and he settles back into his body, he draws Durge back up into his lips. While they kiss, Astarion presses against Durge’s shoulder, and they trade places, Durge settling back against the plush bedlinens.

Astarion’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Durge’s weeping cock, his arousal sliding in beads down the soft, red scales there. He’s so beautiful . Astarion takes a fingertip, spreading the gossamer of Durge’s lust around the tip of his length. 

He brings his finger to his lips as he moves to straddle Durge, watching those flaming eyes as he licks the musky, salty, ashen flavour. 

Durge whispers, “Stay with me. Please.” 

Astarion answers, “Yes,” and Durge nods his consent.

Astarion lowers himself slowly onto Durge’s cock, taking a moment to adjust to his girth. Durge is frozen but for his thumbs, which are drawing small circles on Astarion’s thighs. They both groan when Astarion finally seats himself to the hilt. 

Astarion rolls his hips, and Durge hisses, his claws digging into Astarion’s thighs. He looks so fucking good under Astarion, the crown of horns atop his head pressing into the pillows, his scales gleaming in the light of the lanterns.

The pace Astarion takes is slow, agonising, as he savours every inch of Durge’s length. The fullness of him, the texture , is unlike anything Astarion can remember. It’s ecstasy on the edge of overwhelming.

Durge sits up to meet him, drawing him in for a kiss as he thrusts his hips, pulling a gasp from Astarion. He starts to increase their pace, and Astarion digs his fingers into those broad shoulders. 

Astarion feels himself nearly ready to finish again, the firm, slick feeling of Durge’s cock inside him bringing to bear so many feelings. Durge turns his head to the side, extending his neck, and Astarion can see his pulse throbbing. 

It’s a clear invitation. Astarion leans in, kissing that perfect, precious heartbeat. He draws his tongue up Durge’s neck, relishing the shiver it sends through Durge. Astarion doesn’t bite, feeling full enough on this love between them.

They finish, together, Durge spurting hot inside Astarion as waves of pleasure wash over him. 

Astarion breathes into Durge’s shoulder, and he feels Durge’s hot breath against his chest, his thundering pulse a song in Astarion’s ears. 

*****

“You’re making me miss my festival,” Astarion murmurs between tired kisses. His lips are sore, swollen from constant use the last day. He’s immortal, built for strength and stamina, but gods he’s never felt more exhausted. 

But he’s not ready to rest. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll wake to discover this was all a dream. 

“I’m making you?” Durge is indignant, but he pulls Astarion closer, every inch of their bodies entangled together under the smooth silk sheets. When they are close like this, and Durge’s heartbeat is thundering in his chest, it almost feels like their two hearts are beating as one. Astarion sighs as Durge nuzzles into his hair, then traces a line of kisses down his face.

“Yes,” Astarion says as he stretches his arms around Durge’s neck, turning his head to offer Durge better access to his jaw, “It was a very tiresome, expensive endeavour to plan, and you and your sinful tongue are making me miss it.” 

“What you need is to stay right here with me, Astarion,” He shivers at his name. The sound of it could make him weep, but it also makes his cock twitch, which is enough to pull a rumble from Durge’s chest, “You don’t need to go to the festival.”

“Yes, I do. It’s mine ,” Astarion teases as Durge brings their hips together. Upon feeling Astarion’s hardness, Durge rolls over him, grinding the delicious texture of his cock against him. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Durge mutters into the crook of his neck.  Astarion tosses his head back and laughs. He feels Durge chuckle, the reverberations of it lighting up his soul. 

Durge pauses, pulling back from kissing the long-healed bite scars on Astarion’s neck to look at him, studying his face as if to memorise every inch of it. He brushes a lock of hair off Astarion’s forehead. 

“I love you,” Durge says, and Astarion feels so complete that, for a moment, it is almost as if Cazador had never stolen a moment of time from him. Right now, he is just a beautiful man, in the springtime of life, enjoying his dashing lover between silk sheets. 

“I love you,” Astarion says, and he hopes it makes Durge feel half alive as he does.

Chapter Text

***** 

“Oh Durge, yes!” 

Astarion is bent over the bench at the end of their bed, the wooden legs creaking as Durge pounds into him from behind. He’s already mended this bench once in the last two days, Astarion’s proclivity for roughness straining the poor thing to the brink. 

Astarion’s silver curls and porcelain ass are bouncing in time with Durge’s thrusts, and by the gods it’s the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen. 

Durge can feel his orgasm coming, the pleasant, tingling pressure spreading through him. But he’s not ready to be done yet, so he slows down, nestling himself deeply into Astarion and holding their hips together while licking a line up his spine. 

In the past few days, he’s learned so much about what Astarion wants: that he likes Durge to be fast and rough, that he loves Durge to be slow and gentle. He enjoys marking Durge with his fangs during their coupling, and Durge can bring Astarion to completion without ever touching his cock. 

The dam holding them back has shattered, and they are both caught in the floodwaters. It’s the sweetest drowning. 

Astarion growls at him - actually growls - throwing his head over his shoulder to glare at Durge with a furious look, fangs bared. Durge runs his hands along Astarion’s sides down to his hips, trying to steady his own breathing. He brings one of his hands around to Astarion’s hard cock, gripping it tightly while rubbing the tip in slow circles.

“Don’t you dare ,” Astarion whines, rocking himself onto Durge’s length while pressing against his hand, “I’ll kill you if you stop.” His red eyes flash behind an errant silver curl. 

Durge chuckles, and something about it drives Astarion wild, because he’s completely taken control, driving himself back onto Durge’s shaft at a furious pace. A hiss escapes him as his breath is taken away, the pressure of his oncoming orgasm shocking him.

“ Fuck,” Durge huffs out in surprise, but he feels Astarion finish against his palm and that’s enough to push him over the edge. He finishes so hard his arousal starts leaking out of Astarion, dripping out of him and down his shaking thighs. 

Astarion collapses onto the bench, moaning in pleasure, while Durge brings his fingers to his mouth to taste the mess of Astarion’s arousal.

*****

Durge lets his weight fall onto Astarion’s back, his mind blank with bliss, and the bench collapses beneath them, pulling surprised gasps out of them both as Durge’s softening cock slips out from between Astarion’s cheeks. 

They lay in the rubble of their lovemaking, breathing heavily, and Astarion reaches out and laces their fingers together. Once Durge’s heartbeat has slowed to a normal pace, he turns his head to find Astarion already watching him, a wicked grin curling at the corners of his mouth. Durge flicks his wrist to clean them both of his mess. 

“Three days ago you were devastated by the possibility of my death,” Durge teases to Astarion’s rolling crimson eyes, “And now you threaten to kill me?”

“I have priorities , darling,” Astarion purrs, “Your livelihood is near the top of the list.” 

“I’m ranked just under your orgasms, then?” Durge quips, tilting his head to the side. The wound on his face stings as a bead of sweat rolls into it, and he winces. It’s still unhealed, fresh as the day earned it, and he cannot quite recall how it came to be. A piece of falling rubble he assumes. 

“Oh no , darling,” Astarion drawls as he gestures to Durge’s body vaguely, “You’re ranked after my orgasms and my appetite.” Durge looks down to see that his thighs, forearms, and even a spot on his ankle have fang marks from Astarion. He’s sure his neck must be littered with them too. 

He loves it, in truth. Even more than he enjoys the small twinges of pain during their coupling, he loves that Astarion trusts him enough to mark him like this. It’s a sign of their bond. And, he loves to nourish Astarion, if in some small way. After all he’s been through, it’s a joy to deliver happiness to him. 

“I think I can live with being your third priority,” Durge sighs as he stretches against the soft rug on the floor. He’s sore, but it’s a sweet ache. He pauses before saying, “We should get dressed.” 

A laugh bursts out of him when Astarion hisses at the suggestion. He rolls onto his side, admiring Astarion’s lean frame. Astarion has moved himself closer to Durge, off the shards of the bench, his foot brushing against Durge’s calf and hand splayed over his chest. 

Durge continues, “It’s closing night tonight, Astarion. We need to leave soon if we’re to make it.” 

Astarion pouts, but rolls himself to straddle Durge, kissing him passionately. It’s enough to get Durge’s blood pumping again. He turns his head to deepen the kiss and groans when Astarion takes his lip between those dangerous teeth. 

Suddenly, Astarion has parted from him, and is wrapping himself in his red silk robe. Durge hums, curling a hand around Astarion’s pale ankle as he walks by, intent on pulling him back down to the floor for more kisses, but he manoeuvres away quickly. 

“Oh no no no,” Astarion sneers at him, a pale finger wagging, “ We should get dressed.” His imitation of Durge’s deep voice is equally insulting and hilarious. He’s never heard Astarion make an impression before. It’s quite charming. 

Durge sighs, and then turns to lift himself off the floor. As he does, he draws his palms together, mending the bench for the second time. He might need to ask Alan if he can buy the bench whenever they leave - it’s the perfect height for reaching that spot Astarion likes, if it’s a bit unstable. 

He pads to the wardrobe while Astarion takes a seat on the bench to put on his socks. He debates between wearing the white embroidered sleeveless jerkin, or if it would simply be safer to wear his spellcasting robes. He’s not anticipating trouble, but he doesn’t want to put Astarion through another ordeal. The robes are safer.

“When is the closing ceremony?” Astarion asks innocently from behind him. 

Durge knows that tone. It’s the one Astarion uses when he’s about to ask for something. Not that he ever really asks: he just suggests. It’s the tone he uses right before he’s about to suggest that they have time for just one more orgasm before starting their day. He knew Astarion was a hungry creature, but since their mishap in the temple of Bhaal he has been ravenous.  

But, admittedly, so has Durge. There have been moments where Durge felt such a strong pull to Astarion’s lips he could have torn apart everything standing between them just to close the distance. He’s not sure he could put out the fire between them if he tried. 

He has no intention of trying. 

Keeping his tone mild, Durge replies, “The sun has just set, so I’d say we have about an hour and half again before it begins.” He pulls out the white linen jerkin and trousers. Tonight should be safe enough. And Astarion always compliments his arms when he wears this. 

Durge turns, and of course , Astarion is slowly rolling a red silk sock up over one ankle, the colour contrasting beautifully against his pale skin. 

“When exactly is the ceremony?” Astarion asks while coquettishly uncrossing his legs, revealing his already stiffening cock. He crosses his legs the other way, running his long fingers down to his ankle to roll on his other sock. The silk robe is short enough that Durge can see the curve of his ass beneath it, and he feels a growl starting in his chest. 

His heart is already pounding, the sweet tug of desire hooking into him and pulling hard. Durge finds himself on his knees before Astarion, dragging a claw to pull the sock back down over Astarion’s pale foot, his tongue following the path. He feels Astarion shiver. 

Durge uncrosses Astarion’s legs slowly, and as he does, Astarion leans himself back on the bench, his silver curls splaying handsomely around his face. Durge places one of Astarion’s knees over his shoulder, kissing his way down the other to the remaining silk sock. He pulls the sock off with his tongue.

“What do you want, sunshine?” Durge asks between long sweeps of his tongue along Astarion’s inner knee, his claws scratching gently on the back of Astarion’s thighs. He knows what Astarion wants, but he loves to hear him say it. 

“Taste me,” Astarion commands, and Durge is all too happy to obey.

He dives forward, burying his face in Astarion’s ass and delighting in the groan of satisfaction from Astarion. He hears the legs of the bench creak loudly.

It doesn’t matter. He can mend the bench a third time. 

They walk hand in hand out of the tavern and into the clear night. The storm has finally broken, and the night air is far less humid than it had been at the beginning of the tenday.

Astarion asks as they walk, “Do you prefer shoes or boots?”

Durge hums as he considers. They have continued playing the game of asking questions since their afternoon organising his hoard, and have yet to run out of things to learn about each other. 

“Shoes in the city, boots in the wilderness, I think,” Durge answers, “You?”

“Oh boots, of course, always,” Astarion says, waving his hand as if there couldn’t be another choice, “Your turn.” 

“How did the Emperor appear to you, when he would visit you in dreams?” Durge asks, and he immediately regrets the question. He’ll have to reciprocate an answer. He tries to deflect, “Actually, I have a better -” 

“Oh no, darling, I like this one,” Astarion says cheekily. He knows Durge too well, and Durge almost groans with embarrassment. 

Astarion describes a winsome female elf. Tall and elegant, with flowing blonde hair and rippling muscles but - as Astarion puts it - poetic breasts. It gives Durge an out. 

“Do you ever miss breasts?” he asks innocently, “We’re the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, my love, I am sure we could find a female willing to let us delight in her, if it suited your taste?”

“ No deflecting,” Astarion warns, squeezing Durge’s hand. Durge sighs. There will be no living this down. The absolute agony of Astarion’s arrogance might put him in an early grave. 

“He came to me - gods I can’t believe I’m telling you this - he came to me as a - “ Durge groans, rolling his neck and shaking his head. He hears Astarion huff out a laugh. 

Durge stops walking, tugging on Astarion’s cool hand to slow him. They’re already nearly to the square. There is music wafting on the warm breeze, the smell of salt and cinnamon on the air. 

“It cannot be that bad,” Astarion teases, “Get on with it. I might be immortal, darling,  but I don’t have forever.” He flicks his hair just so, an eyebrow arched. 

“He came to me as a fair-skinned elf -“ Astarion’s mouth drops open the barest amount, a fang peeking out from between his full lips. Durge continues, “- with red eyes and cloudy hair.” He tucks one of Astarion’s curls into place as he says it, “I must have been terribly obvious in my affection for you, even then.” 

Durge sighs again before shrugging, “He was handsome, but a pale imitation, really. And, perhaps regrettably now that I hear of his talent for it, no breasts.” Astarion throws his head back and laughs loudly. It’s a beautiful sight. 

“Darling, you are too sweet, truly,” Astarion grabs him by the chin and pulls Durge in for a chaste kiss, and when they part a wide smile still lingers on his face. His voice is the slightest bit thick when he says, “You really love me, don’t you?” 

“More than anything,” Durge says simply.

They regard each other for a moment, but then Astarion lets out a customary huff. “Good,” he says, his voice full of mock haughtiness, “Now take me to my festival.” 

Durge leads him to the square, the raucous music growing louder. It is as if the entire city is abuzz, the lifting storm making way for a bright, clear evening. The moon is full and bright: a perfect midsummer. 

They stop at Dammon’s stall so that Astarion can pick out a replacement dagger for the one he broke, Dammon aghast at the damage already done to such a fine instrument. Astarion chooses a flashy, spindly thing, remarking seriously, “A shame it will be to break this one too.” Dammon gapes at them, but is too polite to say anything. 

They weave their way through the rest of the shops, Astarion shopping with abandon. He buys countless potions, soaps, oils and many other such luxuries, and still Durge encourages him to buy more. They have plenty of money leftover from selling part of their hoard, and from defeating the Elder Brain. Hero’s work is quite lucrative. 

Astarion chooses for Durge a series of smelling oils and salts that he says compliments his scent. Amber, salt, and citrus, a compliment to Astarion’s own bouquet. Durge never would have chosen it for himself, but admits it is an artful choice. 

The music breaks into something slow and sweet, and Durge turns Astarion into his arms. They, and many others in the crowd, dance together gently, weaving together through the square. 

“Gods, this is all too twee , darling,” Astarion says, “Where’s the danger? Where’s the chaos? ” His fangs gleam in light of the coloured lanterns. 

“You are safe, Astarion. And you are loved. Perhaps you could try to enjoy being contented, for once,” Durge teases to a scoff from Astarion. But those cool fingers are toying with the soft scales at Durge’s neck, and Astarion presses their chests closer together, laying an ear against Durge’s heartbeat while they sway gently. 

He brings forward his chill breath, the feature of his kind, blowing a cold line across Astarion’s neck and shoulder as he whispers, “But perhaps I can think of a way to introduce some danger later tonight, Astarion.” Astarion shivers against him. 

Suddenly, the coloured lanterns dim, and the square is dark. There are surprised murmurs from the crowd, but the music continues gently. Durge wraps his arms a little tighter around Astarion’s waist, stabilising him for the surprise that comes next. 

With a loud boom, the colours of springtime flowers burst in the air, artfully timed and spaced to resemble a bouquet. There are showers of sparks, pinks, yellows and blues that sizzle through the air before fading. Soft gasps and cheers rumble through the crowd, and many people stop dancing to turn and watch the dancing lights above the river.

The fireworks show continues along with the music, crackling through the dark sky and reflecting in the river below. Spring flowers turn to summer fruits, and as the music ends, to falling leaves. It is a beautiful tribute to the seasons, and an impressive feat of magic.

Durge watches Astarion’s face, painted by light with every colour he can imagine, red eyes gleaming and smile wide. He wonders if he can commission an artist to paint this moment if he recreates it with an illusion. He’d have to buy them a house to hang it in.

The fireworks end to cheers and applause from the assembled cityfolk. Durge finds himself feeling proud of it all, and not just to have organised this for Astarion. He did it to prove to himself that his mind is his own. The creative outlet for his magic was wholly his , and the dark pit inside him is still and calm like the river below.

The crowd slowly begins to dissipate, and Durge turns to Astarion, “What now, sunshine? Shall we walk through town for a while before sunrise?”

Astarion seems to consider for a moment, then takes Durge by the chin, pulling their lips together. Durge feels Astarion flick his cool tongue against his lips, and he almost moans at the rush. 

His voice heavy with promises, Astarion whispers, “Take me to bed.”

Durge considers teleporting them, but the night is beautiful, and he’d rather not risk any mishaps. He’d rather be laid than waylaid, and his instincts tell him there’s a risk the spell could fail, and they could end up somewhere unwanted.

He feels a smile spread across his face as Astarion tucks himself under Durge’s heavy arm, snaking a hand around his waist. He winces for a moment, the wound on his face still unhealed, sending a sharp spike of pain through him. 

Durge feels a cool hand flirting with his scales under the seam of his jerkin. Astarion is tracing light circles along the back of his hip, the sensation a welcome reprieve from the hot summer air. He plants a kiss into Astarion’s curls, inhaling his fresh herbal scent. 

Things are better now than they have ever been, he thinks. If he had the heart to believe any of the gods were truly good, he might think, on a night like tonight, that the two of them were made for each other. But before he can say it, Astarion stops short, his hand tightening at Durge’s waist. 

“I smell blood,” he says, and when their eyes meet, Durge sees Astarion’s pupils have dilated.

“ Amplexus,” Durge incants quickly, setting the warding bond into place between them. He considers teleporting them back to their room, but Astarion is already leading him in the direction of the scent. 

They are far down by the docks now, away from the dwindling noise from the closing of the festival. It’s quiet down here, silent but for the waves lapping gently upon the tidewall. 

When they turn a corner, Durge is struck with a moment of recognition. This is where he and Astarion hid from the sun after the defeat of the Elder Brain. Something lingers in the back of his mind, a whisper of a thought, but it is gone before he can hold onto it.

Suddenly, there is a flurry of motion. The pounding of heavy feet. A flash of silver and a hiss of pain. It happens so quickly that it takes Durge a moment to catch up. From the gardener’s shed has darted a red-robed man wielding a long, curved knife, and Astarion has darted forward, pinning him against the ground with a dagger to his throat. 

The man has the shroud of Myrkul, the hand of Bane and skull of Bhaal emblazoned on his robes. When Durge’s gaze lands on the sunken eyesockets of Bhaal, there’s a stinging in his injured eye and his vision blurs for a moment. 

“Hmm, I thought we killed you all,” Astarion snarls while grinding the heel of his boot down on the wrist of the man, until he squeals and drops his knife, “How disappointing to have missed a spot.” 

He quickly casts a spell to hold the man in place against the stone. He casts another to shoot a red flare to mark this spot, a symbol to the Flaming Fist to come to his aid, established after the Elder Brain’s defeat. He hopes it isn’t mistaken for another firework, as he still hasn’t worked out how to send a message of another sort. 

From beyond the door to the shed, a pool of blood is spilling out slowly, spreading along the cobbles like rot on a corpse. Shit.  

Durge is struck with surprise. He, too, thought they had killed the last of the Bhaal cultists, but a sick feeling churns in his gut, at least here in Baldur’s Gate. Some instinct tells him that this is something more , and that he should run . With a climbing sense of dread, he approaches the shed, and pushes the door open.

A horrific display of dismembered body parts adorn the walls and floor. There are at least three deaths here, but recognising the individuals would be nearly impossible. The viscera, bones and blood have all been arranged into a macabre mirror of the same symbols on the man’s robes

The pit in Durge’s gut churns with bile as he sees written in blood along the stone wall,

THE DEAD THREE WILL RISE AGAIN.

Chapter Text

Suffocating darkness. Stale air. Gnawing hunger. Raw wounds. 

It’s too quiet. Even with the darkness, he should hear his own heartbeat. His own breath.

He coughs, and a clot of blood falls into his pale hand. He blinks, his eyes dry and scratching. His hands are grey, his blood is grey, the wood around him is grey. He can hardly move his arms enough to wipe the blood he can feel dribbling from his lips. 

His back is aching, so sore against the hard surface behind him. There are stings and throbs, and he’s certain there are massive wounds there. In a rush, it comes back to him: Cazador’s poem.

“How sweet your screams are, my pet. I think I will pen another verse just to honour them.”

Astarion sobs. Why is he here? What happened? Another clot of blood works its way out of him with a cough. Fear stabs through him, twisting like so many sharp knives. 

He did something terrible, something worth this punishment. Yes. Yes. He ran . He tried to run. But Cazador compelled him back with a mere thought. It’s so easy for him to exercise his power, and Astarion cannot resist. 

He begins to panic, but there’s no heartbeat thundering in him. He’s trapped, trapped in a coffin, nailed shut, starving, starving, starving . What day is it? His fingernails are ripped, bloody. His jaw is aching with thirst, stomach roiling and burning WHAT is he? 

Astarion wakes with a gasp. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his temple, and his whole body is stiff and clammy. It takes him a moment to realise where he is: in his bed, at the Elfsong Tavern. He takes a breath, hoping it will calm the panic he feels in his chest. 

He reaches over, searching for Durge’s warmth, and finds the sheets empty. His throat tightens with fear. He’s sure that if he had a pulse, it would be thundering. A shudder runs through him.  

It’s been ages since he’s had a nightmare. He has been sleeping more lately: and until now, it’s been very luxurious. He’ll finish his meditation, and he’ll either get up and head to the kitchens or turn into Durge’s waiting embrace and let sleep take him. 

He looks down at his hands, and although all his wounds from the temple are long healed, his fingers still feel raw, and bruised. Before he can collapse into panic, the door opens, and a shaft of light from the hall spills the room with momentary colour. 

“Astarion?” Durge’s voice floats toward him. A sob rends out of Astarion, and the panic in him releases in a sudden wave of tears. Durge closes the door behind him, and before Astarion can blink he’s wrapped in Durge’s arms.

The relief is incredibly intense, spilling through Astarion and melting him from within. He tucks his nose into Durge’s neck, breathing deeply, and the soft-white affection and rust-red worry are a comfort. 

“What is it?” Durge asks him quietly, “Did I - ?” he hears Durge swallow hard before he continues, “- do you want to talk about it?” Astarion shakes his head against Durge’s shoulder. He’d rather not relive it. Again. 

“Distract me,” Astarion hears himself whisper, “please.”

“Okay,” Durge murmurs, “Alright”. Durge’s large hand begins to stroke Astarion’s back, dragging gently over his scars, and it makes Astarion tense. He can feel Durge pause, his touch lightening until it’s barely there, and when Astarion forces himself to relax, he resumes. Astarion leans into the touch. 

They sit like that for a moment, until Durge parts from him to lean back against the headboard, gesturing for Astarion to follow. He quickly does, not wanting them to be parted even for a moment. Durge opens his arms, and Astarion crawls into them, wrapping a leg over Durge’s thigh and nestling his head in the crook of Durge’s shoulder. 

“Are you comfortable closing your eyes?” Durge asks. His voice is so gentle, so calm. Astarion shakes his head, and Durge continues, “That’s okay, sunshine. I’m going to cast a couple of spells. I can stop at any time, just tell me.” There’s a soft kiss on the top of his head, and he settles in a little further against Durge’s side. 

He hears the whisper of Durge’s breath, and feels him lean over to his nightstand. He returns with his spell component pouch, and removes a few small items. Astarion gasps. Their room has disappeared. 

Their bed has been replaced by a large rock, and they’re overlooking the banks of a fork in a river. To his right, there’s a small waterfall. Beyond it, a decrepit temple on the other side of a small creek that feeds the river. 

He knows this place well. It’s their first camp. He spent his first nights free of Cazador here. 

This rock is just above where his tent was set. Durge has recreated it faithfully in the illusion. The firepit is just ahead, and beyond that the rocky outcropping that served as a very convenient barrier between himself and Gale. 

There are birds chirping. He can hear the flow of the river sloshing along the banks. There is sunlight filtering through the leaves on the trees, casting dancing shadows on the sandy ground. He hadn’t realised these sights and sounds were something he missed. All the colours and shapes, and not a shade of grey to be found. 

Just across that river and over that rise is where Astarion first seduced Durge. And this is where he realised there was more than just attraction between them. 

When Durge finishes casting, he laces his fingers in Astarion’s. Astarion watches as Durge taps the black stone on his middle finger, beginning his sunrise spell. So slowly, the feeling of sunshine begins to spread across Astarion’s skin, warming him gently. 

They watch the sun rise over the river together. It feels so normal, so much like the morning they fought the Elder Brain. It’s beautiful. More beautiful than he would have appreciated back then, he thinks.

Not for the first time, Astarion finds himself feeling awed by Durge’s power. The magic is incredibly convincing. Between the ring and the illusions, it feels almost real. It is as if he could stand up and swim in the river, or bask in the sunlight all afternoon. 

After a few minutes, Durge casts another spell and the chirping of birds begins anew. Astarion hadn’t even noticed it had stopped, but it does help. Durge must have spent countless hours practising this illusion, and surely just for Astarion’s benefit. 

They haven’t found a cure for his vampirism. But Durge has found the cure for so many other things broken in Astarion that he hardly feels cursed anymore. This kind of devotion has him awestruck, and humbled. As humbled as he can be, of course. He obviously paid his price to be here. 

Astarion isn’t sure how long they lay there together, with Durge softly stroking his hair, occasionally planting a kiss along his brow. But eventually the tightness in his chest releases. 

Slowly, the scene spills away, like blood through fingertips. They’re back in their room, curled together on their bed, and the world is grey once more. The feeling of comfort is still there, though, and so is the relief.

When Durge asks if he wants him to start the illusion again, Astarion whispers, “Yes.” 

After another round of the illusion, they dress, and Astarion leads Durge down to the taproom for breakfast. It’s dinnertime, of course, for everyone else: they have long settled into the schedule where their mornings begin at sunset. But they spend their evenings in the city, walking the parks or visiting with Jaheira, sometimes finding a dark street corner in which to ravage each other. 

They settle into their booth, and it seems like hardly seconds later that Alan has a pastry and cup of tea set in front of Durge. He tilts his head to Astarion in question, and Astarion shakes his head. Sometimes he’ll take a cup of water or a glass of wine, but he’s not in the mood. 

Durge is watching him patiently through his one good eye. The other is wrapped up behind an eyepatch at the moment, the wound he received in the temple being terribly stubborn to heal. Astarion has become increasingly worried about it, but Durge has insisted everything is fine. He's annoyingly stubborn.

“Thank you for last night,” Astarion says, “It was -, well, it was exactly what I needed.” Astarion wouldn’t have been able to articulate it, but the combination of freedom and devotion present in the illusion gave him incredible relief.

Durge hums through a bite of pastry, “I wasn’t sure if that would be the right kind of distraction. I considered trying to recreate the dance hall, in truth.” 

“Why didn’t you?” An illusory dance hall? That could be fun . That way he could take Durge right on the floor without having to worry about getting banned from his favourite places for indecent behaviour. 

Without missing a beat, Durge says, “Well, I haven’t yet made you a ring that you can tap to turn your outfit into something slutty.” Astarion laughs, and Durge chuckles. 

Durge sips his tea, and Astarion admires him. He’s so striking, with his ruby and pearl scales. Astarion loves the sharp lines of his snout, and how they transition starkly to the soft red skin on his neck. He has one wonky scale by his right nostril that’s something of a secret joy for Astarion, a tiny imperfection on an otherwise perfect partner. He is a genuine treasure. And even moreso for all his strength and resilience. 

Astarion stretches his legs out under the booth, tucking his toes under Durge’s thigh, watching him nosh his breakfast greedily. It’s not the first time he’s wished to be a pastry. He teases a lip between his fangs, drawing out a sceptical tilt of Durge’s head. 

“What are you thinking, Astarion?” Durge rumbles, inviting him to express what Durge must assume is his usual debauched sweet talk. 

“I think that if I had to suffer two hundred years of torture just to have these last six months with you,” Astarion says to a surprised look from Durge, “Then it was worth it. You have made it so.” 

The silence that falls between them is heavy with emotion, until Astarion purrs, “And I think you should take me to bed.”

Chapter Text

BALDUR’S MOUTH
Baldur’s Gate Printing & Publishing Company
Issue #238

BHAALSPAWN RESPONSIBLE FOR DEADLY FESTIVAL

Sources close to the planning of the Midsummer Nights Festival have revealed that one of the individuals responsible for organising the event is a Bhaalspawn. 

Seven people were killed in the shocking attack on Midsummer’s Eve, spread over three macabre displays of worship to the gods Bhaal, Bane and Myrkul. 

While the identity of this individual has so far been withheld, there have been calls for justice from the families of the victims. This attack comes mere days after the Flaming Fist, led by Lead Investigator Valeria, cleared out and destroyed what had been reported as the last bastion of the Cult of Bhaal. 

“It seems likely that these individuals were working in concert with the Bhaalspawn in question,” Valeria stated, “There is no better explanation for how the perpetrators were able to escape the culling of their temple.” 

When asked if an official investigation would be opened into the conspiring individuals, Valeria insisted that “it sounded like a lot of work.” Further inquiries to city officials have resulted in no additional comment.

Baldur’s Gate has experienced multiple violent incidents of consequence from Bhaalspawn over the last few centuries. This most recent case of this comes a mere six months after the attack from an illithid Elder Brain under the subjugation of the same Dead Three, - 

Durge crumples the paper in his fist, jaw grinding with frustration. Incidents of consequence? He’s surprised to find himself so angry. He’s not sure why he cares, but something about this stings. Nevermind that it was a Bhaalspawn who saved the city from the Elder Brain, apparently.  

For one dark moment, he considers burning down the Gazette building. And in another he considers turning himself in to the city authorities. He didn’t commit these murders, but he did commit many others, and he’s never really been held accountable. The pit of despair in his mind writhes, slithering darkly. 

Durge has told himself countless times that when it mattered, when he was able to, he chose a better path. But his hands have done Bhaal’s work for two decades. That’s the reality. And if the pressure mounts from more stories like this, it’s only a matter of time until someone puts the pieces together and points a finger at him. 

Maybe it’s for the best that he be locked up for the safety of everyone else. What is the cost of one mortal life, after all? Not that he’s truly mortal, he supposes. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He couldn’t leave Astarion like that, not now. He might be a better person than he was under his father’s thumb, but he’s not that good. He wouldn’t allow himself to be kept from Astarion for any real length of time, or to face any life-or-death consequences. 

Sighing, he grabs a fresh copy of the paper for Astarion, piling it on the letters he’s picked up from the Postmaster. They’ll have to confront this, but they’ll do it together. He’s not sure if the news that his festival has become a murderous spectacle will annoy or thrill Astarion. He still delights in the macabre. They both do. 

For Durge’s part, his feelings are well past annoyance. There’s a burning resentment in him for his father, tearing through him like acid. He grimaces, and there’s a stinging in his eye. Jaheira has it wrapped in some kind of poultice under an eyepatch, and it’s been stinging worse than ever. Damn thing won’t heal. 

The sun has risen, the summer dawn sparkling on the water as he passes over the bridge from Wyrm’s Crossing. He pauses for a moment, leaning over the bridge, admiring the way the light flickers on the surface of the water, how the movement of the water precedes a gust of wind. 

As he turns to cross over to the bridge, he wonders what it would take to kill a god. 

Astarion is waiting for him in his usual booth, as has become his custom. In a dark corner, he’s well shaded from the early morning light. In moments like this, it can be so easy to forget that their lives are abnormal. They’ve adjusted so well to Astarion’s vampirism that it hardly requires any thought or planning, except for the occasional surprise.

The taproom is busy. Breakfast at the tavern has become a popular meal, due in no small part to word finally spreading through town about a new menu of available pastries. Durge feels a swelling of pride in his chest, and when he catches Astarion’s eye he feels a grin bloom across his face.

“Welcome back, darling,” Astarion says lazily as he pushes a pastry and glass of wine toward Durge as he sits. Durge passes the mail and paper to him in kind. He feels Astarion’s toes tuck under his thigh, and he absentmindedly reaches down to cup Astarion’s calf, drawing his thumb in circles around Astarion’s delicate ankle. 

Durge sips the wine, picking up the pastry with his free hand. It’s his current favourite: a bar of chocolate wrapped in flaky folds, buttery and soft and rich. Apparently it’s a luxury quite common in Amn. Maybe they should make for Athkatla if Durge is run out of the city by an angry mob. 

Astarion’s face as he reads the article would be comical if the subject matter wasn’t such a concern. He arches a brow curiously at Durge when he sees the headline, but his face turns down almost immediately, the wrinkles on his forehead becoming more prominent by the word. 

“This is slander,” Astarion snarls, pointing a pale, delicate finger angrily at the parchment, “Tying the festival murders to the crimes of other Bhaalspawn is outrageous. I would bet we could find a magistrate to take our case, we could have this rag shut down completely,” He pauses his rambling for a moment to sigh and then says brightly, “Or better, yet, we could go burn the building down right now.” 

Astarion moves to stand. Durge grips Astarion’s calf to keep him seated as he chuckles, “We can’t burn it down, Astarion.” It’s wildly amusing to Durge that both of them immediately considered arson. They really are a perfect pair.

“Don’t you dare try to claim some moral authority over me,” Astarion sneers, “If I want to burn it down, I will,” His frown has deepened to a scowl, and his fangs are bared. It’s sweet, almost, Durge thinks, to have this little predator ready to hunt for him. 

“I would never attempt to stop you,” Durge says diplomatically, “In fact, it would take very little convincing for me to help you. I only mean we can't burn it down right now .” He gestures a thumb over his shoulder, where the morning light is spilling in glistening shafts through the taproom. Astarion’s jaw drops for a moment, but he closes it quickly with a look of exasperation. 

“Well,” Astarion huffs, “That is a disappointment.” He settles back into his seat, tossing the paper away in disgust and pulling the other letters toward him. 

Durge hums his agreement while popping another bite of pastry into his mouth. Astarion fills him in on updates from Shadowheart. She and Scratch have travelled all over Faerun in the last six months, visiting their friends and various Selunite enclaves. He can’t help but wonder if she’s still looking for something to fill the space left behind by Lae’zel. He’s sure that’s what he would have done, if he and Astarion had parted ways. 

He looks around the taproom as his mind wanders to the rest of their party. Less than two months from now will mark a year since they were infected by the mind flayers.He feels a little melancholy that they’ve all gone their separate ways, but the last six months with Astarion have been nearly perfect, but for these threats to their safety.

“I don’t know, Astarion,” Durge mumbles, while he tears apart the last of the pastry, “Maybe it’s time for us to leave Baldur’s Gate. At least to lay low, for a while.”  

Astarion has perked up while reading the last letter. His ears are tipped back, eyes wide and gleaming, and a smile creeps across his face. He curls the letter between his fingers as he reads, and an errant silver curl falls over his brow. Even from here, Durge can see an elaborate but clear script across the page. 

“Oh, darling,” Astarion purrs, “There’s really only one reason I’d be willing to leave,” Astarion waves the letter between his fingers, red eyes twinkling, “A party .” 

There’s an immediate sense of relief when the eyepatch comes off, and further still when Astarion peels the poultice and bandage off. Astarion is standing in front of him, straddling one of Durge’s thighs as he sits on the vanity stool with his head tilted back. Durge blinks, and tears stream out of his eye as he adjusts to the light. He nods at Astarion’s tilted head. He can see.

He looks around, letting his eye adjust to the light. Their room at the Elfsong is as lush as it was the first night they stayed here: plush carpets, luxurious linens. They’ve collected a few trinkets, and Astarion has gone mad fleshing out their wardrobe. The rim of the bath is overflowing with soaps, lotions and oils, but everything is artfully arranged by Astarion. He’ll feel nostalgic for this place, when they leave. 

“It looks -” Astarion pauses while he appraises Durge’s face, “Well, it doesn’t look worse .” Durge grimaces. He was never as classically handsome as Astarion, and having a gash across his face certainly doesn’t help. At least he’ll be more imposing, he supposes, but he won’t be commissioning art of the two of them anytime soon. 

“I know that look,” Astarion admonishes, taking Durge by the chin and turning his face so their eyes meet. Astarion’s brow is furrowed with concern, but he cocks an eyebrow playfully. He pokes Durge right on the flat plane of his forehead when he says, “Stop that.”  

“Stop what?” Durge asks, a little annoyed. He can’t remember the last time someone poked him in the forehead. He is literally the divine spawn of a god. 

Astarion has a small smile turning up a cheek, his eyes glimmering with mischief. It’s the kind of look he gets when he wants to play a game. 

“You are thinking ‘ my incredibly sexy immortal partner is far too handsome for me’,” Astarion jests as he circles Durge, running a pale finger along his neck and shoulders as he goes, “And while I thrive on your adulation, darling , you are simply wrong.” 

His voice has a rattling purr, somewhere between a threat and a promise, when he whispers in Durge’s ear, “For such false thoughts, I think you should be punished .”

Durge’s mouth goes dry in an instant, just as blood rushes to his cock. Astarion is demanding during their lovemaking, and their fucking , but this is new. And appealing. 

Astarion moves to stand before him, leaning his weight into one hip. He teases with the ties at the ruffled collar of his shirt and says, “What do you think, my love? Do you deserve to be punished? Yes? Or no?” 

Durge’s voice shakes with wonder and apprehension as he shudders out, “Yes.” 

“Yes, you do. And you will be,” Astarion purrs, placing a pale foot on the stool right between Durge’s legs. He leans in until their lips are almost touching. His breath is a cold kiss when he says, “And then you will be loved, because you deserve that too, don’t you? Yes, or no?” That is a threat. 

Astarion’s words are ringing through him like a chorus of bells. Something is stirring in that dark corner of his mind, like the beast within him is yearning for this. Absolution at Astarion’s hands? That’s the kind of penance he can accept. He’ll worship at the church of Astarion’s body and soul until his dying day.

It takes him a moment to reply; the word gets stuck in his throat. But Astarion is patient, and the glimmer of desire in his red eyes finally coaxes out of Durge, “Yes.” 

“That is very good, darling,” Astarion hums, “Excellent.” The praise makes Durge feel as though he’s glowing. 

He is always eager to please Astarion, and this game is enchanting. 

Astarion continues, “First, you’ll watch me undress. Then you’ll undress, and you must give me a show, darling,” Astarion pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it at Durge with a flourish, “And then I’m going to take you until we’re both tired and spent and satisfied,” he says it so matter-of-factly, but Durge’s cock is throbbing with desire, “And then we’ll have a bath together. Yes, or no?” 

He turns, dropping his trousers and offering Durge a plentiful view of his delicious ass. Astarion looks over his shoulder, his silver curls bouncing just enough to tease Durge, wanting to see them bounce because of him.

Durge swallows hard.

When Astarion is finished, he perches at the end of the bench like a king on a throne, gesturing for Durge to answer. Durge snaps his fingers, and he magicks away his clothes in an instant. 

Astarion tosses his head back and laughs heartily. He’s so beautiful. 

Durge can’t help but smirk as he rumbles, “Yes.” 

Astarion saunters over, straddling him on the stool. Suddenly, a cool hand has wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging at a horn to draw his head back sharply. Durge hisses with surprise, but Astarion steals his breath away when their lips come together.

When Astarion kisses him it’s nothing short of filthy. He doesn’t just flirt his tongue with Durge’s, he penetrates Durge’s mouth, fucking his mouth in slow, wet thrusts wit his tongue. Durge’s blood is running hot and hard, and he melts into Astarion’s firm grip at the back of his neck. 

Astarion purrs, “Very good, indeed.”