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Nausea.
It came every morning like clockwork: nausea, vertigo, and a low, relentless throb pressing just behind his eyes. Since escaping the nautiloid, Durge had known no other way to wake. It had become a part of him, as constant as the blood pulsing in his veins and the worm nestled behind his eye. At first, he thought it was sickness. Now, he knew better.
It was hunger.
A hollow gnawing that demanded pain—infliction, not endurance. Without violence, his body soured like spoiled meat. There were mornings he’d lie in his tent, curled tight in the cool dark, stomach clenching with the need to rend, to tear, to gut. He imagined sometimes, almost tenderly: a body laid out for him like breakfast in bed, still twitching, fresh. Blood steaming in the air. The first scream of the day would undoubtedly feel like a cleansing tonic poured down his throat.
He had felt that satisfaction only once before, and he prayed to any god who would listen that he never would again.
Alfira.
He remembered exactly how he’d felt that morning after killing the poor tiefling girl—too intimately, in fact. There had been a terrifying sense of satisfaction, a grim and heavy fullness in his chest, like something ravenous inside him had finally been fed. For one brief, surreal moment, it felt right. As though he’d uncovered some hidden truth about himself—that this, this, was his purpose. That the violence wasn’t just natural, but necessary. The world seemed quieter in the aftermath, as if everything had finally clicked into place.
Beneath that euphoria, however, a feeling of horror had already begun to stir. Faint, uneasy—like a whisper he could ignore if he just focused hard enough on the warmth of the blood still drying on his hands. Revulsion was there too, just beneath the surface, but it was easier than he ever imagined to shove it aside.
It wasn’t until the others found him—standing over her lifeless body, drenched in crimson—that the trance shattered. Their shock, their betrayal, their disbelief cracked something in him wide open. And then the shame hit. Hard. Cold. The full weight of what he had done settled in his bones, and terror rose in its place. Not just of their judgment, but of himself. Of what it meant that he’d liked it. That he could so easily go back to that place if he let himself. So he clung to the guilt. Welcomed it. Because the alternative… the numb, delighted silence. That was far worse.
And still even now he craved for something to sink his claws into… anything. It seemed as if that would be the only thing that helped. And gods what a terrible way to live if that were so.
But more often than not, there was no body. Just the stale scent of leather and sweat, and the gradual heat of the sun bleeding through the seams of his tent. No feast. No fight. No release.
Durge stirred as the sensation of hair brushed across his bare chest. He blinked slowly, the dull ache in his skull eased slightly as a different sort of tension began to coil low in his gut.
Astarion.
The pale elf slowly began to emerge from his not-quite-sleep as he shifted against Durge’s scaly chest. His urge took a backseat as the memory of last night flooded back into the dragonborn as he peered down at his partner.
It was their first night staying at “real lodgings” as Astarion had called it. Private rooms, easy access to food, clean water and most importantly wine that didn’t hold the taste of vinegar. And to top it off a decently sized bed that they both immediately passed out upon. The long walk from the shadow cursed lands had drained their strength almost entirely. So much so they had both been too exhausted to indulge Astarion with his nightly taste of blood. Durge realised the lapse in routine instantly as Astarion’s jaw unconsciously began to flex against his scales. His mouth didn’t open but an inch, yet still Durge could tell that sanguine thirst was pulling his jaws of their own accord.
Astarion fully awoke from his trance with a sharp inhale through his nose. Ruby red eyes darted around the room before settling on a near twin pair of blood red ones.
“Good morning, my sweet.” Astarion purred, his voice soft and silk-smooth, already wide awake and far too alert thanks to that maddeningly efficient elven rest cycle.
“Mmm… mornin’.” Durge grumbled, voice rough with sleep as he fully stirred beneath him. One clawed hand reached up, lazily brushing through Astarion’s silken ivory hair. “We forgot to feed you.”
Astarion let out a quiet laugh, amused and touched. “Oh, please. I’m not some crying infant in constant need of a bottle. I can survive a missed snack or two.” His crimson eyes sparkled with amusement. “Did you really think a few hours would unmake me?”
Durge smiled. “In that case,” he said with mock seriousness, shifting as if to sit up, “you should be just fine waiting until tonight.”
Astarion’s hand on his chest stopped him with a gentle but insistent pressure.
“W-well, let’s not be hasty,” he said with a flicker of nervous mirth, his trademark smirk faltering ever so slightly. He straddled Durge’s waist with practiced ease, his voice dropping to a lower, more persuasive tone. “We’re both here, already so comfortable… and if memory serves, Minthara isn’t scheduled to come hammering down our door for at least another hour.” He leaned in, lips ghosting over Durge’s jaw. “There’s no time like the present, darling. We might even have time for… other amusements, if we’re quick about it.”
Durge huffed a short breath of laughter, though the smile he gave was faint. He was a little surprised at Astarion’s offer; they hadn’t attempted intimacy since that last night in the emerald grove. Astarion’s admittance of his past had made it clear that he needed time to heal. So Durge respected it, waiting for Astarion to be the one to offer. Despite his mild surprise, he tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck — scaled and thick, yet still sensitive enough for Astarion to find what he needed. The vampire fit perfectly against him, like a puzzle piece.
“Go ahead,” Durge murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “Have your fill… but just that. I’m still tired.”
It wasn’t a full lie, he was tired. That bone-deep fatigue that came with his usual morning nausea and the quiet throb behind his eyes. The thought of anything more than laying there — even something as lovely as Astarion’s touch — made his stomach twist.
If Astarion sensed the half-truth, he gave no sign. His expression was unreadable as he whispered, “Of course.” and leaned in.
There was a pause, a beat of reverent silence and then the sharp, familiar sting as fangs pierced scale and flesh. Durge exhaled slowly, relaxing beneath the weight of him. The sensation was sharply painful before mellowing out until something more manageable.
Astarion drank with a practiced rhythm, his hand rested gently over Durge’s heart as if to reassure, or perhaps to steady himself. And for the moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, locked together in this small act of need and trust.
After a few lingering moments, Astarion finally drew back with a quiet sigh, the last of his kisses trailing into gentle kitten licks along the puncture wounds. He lapped up the stray droplets of blood with practiced ease—no sense in letting it go to waste. Durge remained still beneath him, eyes shut, though a wave of wooziness began to settle in alongside the ever-present nausea. Stars prickled at the edges of his vision.
Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea.
He swallowed hard, trying to will away the churning in his belly. Maybe filling his own stomach would help. But breakfast suddenly felt like an impossible challenge, the tavern’s porridge hadn’t been anything to write home about anyway. Lukewarm, lumpy, and slightly over-salted. Still, compared to the stale heels of bread and mold-flecked cheese they’d survived on in the shadow-cursed lands, it had been a kind of comfort. A marker of better days, however modest.
Astarion’s voice broke into his thoughts like a flaming arrow loosed in the dark.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Durge cracked open one eye and tilted his head to look up at him, confused by the break in tone. “Hmm? Oh… nothing out of the ordinary. Why?”
That’s when he noticed that Astarion’s usual smug half-smile had slipped entirely. In its place was a furrowed brow and a tightness around his eyes, a rare look of genuine worry creasing his face.
“Your blood,” he said quietly. “It tastes… strange today.”
Durge blinked. “Strange?”
Astarion nodded, his gaze dropping to the faint marks on Durge’s neck, now clotting over. “There’s a tang to it that isn’t usually there. Like wine that’s on the edge of turning sour..”
Durge was quietly grateful that his dragonborn blood rendered blushing an impossibility—if it didn’t, he’d surely be glowing crimson from snout to tail tip.
“Oh! I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, shifting as if to sit up, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and exposed. But Astarion’s cool, steady hand once more came to rest against his chest, guiding him back down with gentle insistence.
“Stop that.” Astarion said softly, voice low and deliberate. “There's nothing to be embarrassed about.”
He leaned in close, eyes glinting with a heady mix of mischief and reverence. “Your blood…” he murmured, voice low and velvety, “It tastes like mulled spiced wine—rich and warm, steeped with cinnamon bark and slices of ripe apple. There's a subtle bite of white pepper at the end too... a mark of your white dragon lineage, no doubt.”
Astarion let out a soft, indulgent chuckle as he traced a fingertip along the bite mark, collecting a final bead of crimson welling up. He brought it to his lips and savored it before continuing.
“Ever since I began proper feeding, yours remains unmatched.”
Durge groaned and turned his head, scales scraping against the pillow. “You need not dress it up with poetic words just to soothe my feelings.”
Astarion huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh please. I’m not trying to coddle you. I meant what I said, even now you’re still perfectly palatable.” He grinned, fangs flashing. “Delicious, even.”
Despite himself, Durge gave a weak smile. It faded almost as quickly as it came when another wave of nausea hit. Astarion’s expression shifted too, turning watchful.
“But be honest, please. Are you feeling unwell? My big bad dragonborn can’t keep me safe if he’s feeling under the weather now can he?” Astarion said, his concern still clear under his honeyed words.
“I…” Durge hesitated, his throat tightening. He stared at the ceiling, as if the answer might be carved into the woodgrain. “It’s the urge. It’s always there, but in the mornings it’s worse. Overwhelming. Like I’m rotting from the inside out. The nausea, the disorientation… it doesn’t ease until…”
He trailed off, shame curling his tongue, leaving the words to die in his throat.
“Until you kill.” Astarion finished for him, voice quiet but steady.
Durge said nothing, but the way his jaw clenched and his brow creased said enough.
Astarion didn’t look disgusted. Didn’t recoil. He simply nodded, as if Durge had confessed nothing more than an inconvenient bodily function. And perhaps, in some twisted way, it was exactly that.
A heavy silence settled between them. Neither man seemed eager to break it at first, both lost in the tangled thickets of their own thoughts. Finally, Astarion spoke—his voice calm, almost casual, though his words were anything but.
“That night… after we freed Dame Aylin,” he said quietly. “You had me tie you down to keep you from killing me. How did that feel? For you, I mean.”
Durge blinked, caught off guard by both the abruptness and the direction of the question. His mind reeled, unbidden memories rising like bile. He could still feel the echoes of the bloodlust from that night—wild, consuming. The image of Astarion standing before him, unafraid, while he’d snarled and fought against the ropes, was carved into his memory with agonizing clarity.
“Gods, that night…” Durge breathed, voice rough. “It was awful. I—I wanted nothing more than to tear you apart. To… to rend the flesh from your bones and—”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” Astarion cut in, gently but firmly. “You were quite vocal about your murderous intentions at the time. No, I’m asking how it felt… letting me restrain you.”
Durge hesitated. His claws flexed unconsciously against his thigh.
“I hated that I needed it,” he admitted after a pause, voice low. “But it helped. Being tied down… it was grounding. Gave me something real to focus on. The pressure of the ropes, the way they held me still—it pulled me back, just a bit. Like I could anchor myself in that pain instead of getting swept up in the madness.”
He glanced at Astarion, expression raw. “But it was mostly you. You… you were the only thing keeping me from losing myself completely. Trusting you to keep me down when I couldn’t trust myself. That mattered more than I was even capable of saying.”
Astarion’s features softened, a flicker of earnest emotion dancing behind his crimson eyes. But he said nothing—for once letting silence speak on his behalf.
A sharp, insistent knock shattered the quiet.
“Boys!” came Minthara’s clipped, commanding voice from beyond the door. “I should not have to wake you every morning. The Absolute’s armies will not be sleeping in—why should you?”
Both Astarion and Durge jolted, the sudden interruption slicing through the cocoon of warmth they’d built. Astarion let out a long-suffering sigh, the tips of his fingers momentarily tightening against Durge’s chest as if reluctant to let go. Then, slowly, he rested his forehead against the Dragonborn’s collarbone for a lingering second before moving away.
“Well,” he murmured wryly, lifting his head with visible reluctance. “Time waits for no tyrannical drow.”
He peeled himself away and swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a theatrical groan, beginning the familiar process of dressing himself—tight leather armor, buckles, belts. Each movement precise, practiced, almost ritualistic. Durge stayed where he was, watching the vampire in the muted early light filtering through the shutters. He didn’t move until he felt the wooziness beginning to rise again like a wave crashing too soon on shore. With effort, he sat up, a clawed hand coming up to rub his temples as if to press his headache back into submission.
He finally found his voice.
“Astarion… why did you bring up what happened that night? What were you getting at?”
Astarion paused, halfway through adjusting a gauntlet, his eyes unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, considering the question. For a moment, it looked like he might deflect with a joke or a quip—but then he simply turned back toward Durge, voice quieter, more measured.
“ I think… there might be something we can try. Something that could help you,” he said, his tone gentle, but edged with careful purpose. “It’s only a theory, but if it works—it might ease that chaos you carry in your big head. Even if only for a little while.”
Durge squinted at him. “What sort of something?”
Astarion shook his head with a faint smile, already tightening the last strap on his bracer.
“Tomorrow,” he said firmly. “We’ll have to rise early. I’ll wake you.”
“You?” Durge let out a dry chuckle. “For an elf you somehow manage to sleep in more than I do.”
Astarion turned then, fully dressed and looking every bit the poised predator he was. But there was something in his eyes—an earnest flicker beneath the usual veneer of charm.
“For you? I think I can sacrifice some beauty sleep.” he said simply, before stepping toward the door and slinking out into the hall.
Durge remained seated on the edge of the bed, still battling the dizziness. A smile forced its way on his lips as he heard muffled bickering between Minthara and Astarion already. Despite the ever-present nausea and the low hum of dread that clung to him like a second skin, something unfamiliar flickered in his chest. He didn’t have a name for it, but it pulled his lips open even wider—unbidden. Paradoxically it also made his jaw clench with the urge to bite something… hard. Whatever it was, it was enough to drag him out of bed and start getting dressed.
The day had passed in a frustrating blur of oddities and near-misses. They’d stumbled across a stash of teddy bears stuffed with smokepowder—clearly someone’s idea of either a cruel terror act or an art project that had gotten terribly misplaced. Later, they finally completed a long-lingering task: returning the spirit bound within an amulet to his long-lost granddaughter. Unfortunately she had already passed. What would have been a morose moment turned to chaos when the spirit violently possessed the woman’s corpse, forcing the group into a grisly close quarters brawl against the undead. And then there was the mindflayer hiding in the mill. It had taken them by surprise and nearly ripped Wyll’s horns right off his skull when it tried to access the brain underneath.
Despite their efforts, they’d made little headway toward entering Baldur’s Gate proper. The city’s gates still loomed ahead, a maddening reminder of stalled progress. Thankfully, Gale had the foresight to extend their rooms at the inn for another night, sparing them the trouble of finding shelter in the cold night or camping together in the abandoned stables.
As dusk settled over the village and the inn’s hearths roared to life, warmth and amber light spilled across the worn floorboards. The group eased into their usual nighttime rhythms—boots were shed, armor unbuckled, and quiet conversations bloomed in corners. Astarion slipped away for a time, presumably vanishing into the surrounding woods to fully sate himself on the blood of beasts as he often did. When he returned, his eyes were clearer, his movements languid and unhurried.
He joined Karlach and Durge at the bar, where the three of them lingered long after the others had retired. Bottles of wine stood half-drained between them, and the room echoed with laughter—full-bodied and unrestrained. Stories were told, some exaggerated beyond recognition; jabs were thrown with fondness and the occasional bite, sharp-edged but never cruel.
By midnight, the fire had burned low and the tavern had grown still. The trio’s laughter softened to murmurs. With a final toast and lingering smiles, Astarion and Durge rose from their stools and slipped away together, leaving Karlach to finish the last dregs of wine alone at the bar.
Back in the privacy of their room, Astarion fed from Durge again, the presence of alcohol in the dragonborn’s bloodstream making the experience all the more sweeter. After that it wasn’t long until exhaustion finally pulled them both under.
Durge had long forgotten the conversation they’d shared that morning until he felt a cool hand gently press against his shoulder.
A soft shake.
His heavy eyes fluttered open to the dark, quiet room. Moonlight slivered in through the window, casting faint lines across the wooden floorboards. Astarion sat on the edge of the bed, next to him, his body half lit silver in the pale light. His gaze was fixed on the dragonborn.
Durge shifted, blinking away sleep. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice still gravelly with rest. Being woken in the middle of the night rarely boded well; the past few weeks had taught him to associate it with danger.
Astarion immediately lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, voice low and smooth. “No enemies, no emergencies.”
Durge let out a sharp breath. “Then why wake me?” He said a little too harshly. Giving in just slightly to that constant ugly wrath that was ever present in the back of his throat like bile.
Astarion was unaffected by this. “You remember our conversation yesterday morning? I said I wanted to try something.”
Durge blinked. His memory waded back through the haze of sleep and wine, eventually recalling the prior morning's encounter.
“It’s almost dawn,” Astarion said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “How are you feeling?”
Durge shifted under the covers, stretching slightly before letting his head fall back against the pillow with a weary sigh. “Headache’s already started. And I’m a bit nauseous,” he muttered. “So… nothing out of the ordinary.”
Astarion gave a small nod. “Right. As expected.”
Durge narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the elf’s silhouette in the dim light. “What are you scheming?"
Rather than answering immediately, Astarion rose from the edge of the bed and moved with practiced grace to sit fully on the mattress beside him. In his pale hands, a glint of red caught Durge’s eye.
Corded rope, crimson and carefully wound.
“I was thinking…” Astarion began, his tone measured but gentle. “We could try this again. Like we did that night.”
He paused, gauging Durge’s reaction before continuing. “You said being restrained helped you—it gave you something solid to focus on. A way to stay present. Grounded. I thought… if it helped once, perhaps it might again. Especially now that our circumstances aren't so urgent”
Durge blinked, uncertain whether to nervously laugh or question the fact that he was being offered rope in place of tea or a poultice. He glanced at the rope, then back at Astarion, raising a skeptical brow.
“Is this going to turn into something a little more… fun?” he asked, quirking a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The tone was light, playful even—but only on the surface.
It was a deflection. Confidence as armor. Humor as an emotional parry.
Unfortunately, Astarion had built his entire life on those same tools. He saw through it immediately.
The vampire’s expression softened, eyes narrowing just slightly—not with suspicion, but with understanding.
“No.” Astarion said firmly, yet with care. “But I’m very open to trying it some other time in the future if you are. Right now this isn’t about pleasure. It’s more about… getting you in a different headspace.”
He let the rope rest in his lap, loose and unthreatening. “If the idea of this makes you uncomfortable, just say so. We can go back to sleep and pretend this never happened.”
Durge stared at him, the weight of the moment settling between them. It was always a little alarming whenever Astarion dropped his ever-present cavalier attitude entirely. But it wasn't just the rope or Astarion’s sudden earnest tone that unsettled Durge—it was the vulnerability it demanded. The same kind as that night, when his body had begged for violence against the person he grew to care for the most. And yet… through the blood red haze he remembered the stillness it brought. The strange sense of safety. The relief of control handed willingly to someone he trusted.
Durge glanced down at the coil of rope, its deep crimson hue was eye-catching even in the dim light. Then his eyes lifted to meet Astarion’s.
“I… yeah,” Durge said, voice quiet. “Let’s try it.”
Astarion’s face lit with a subtle satisfaction that made his sharp features all the more striking in the gloom. His eyes seemed to glow, not with supernatural force, but with intent. Focused. Devoted.
“Good,” he said, almost purring. “Sit up. Cross your legs.”
The dragonborn obeyed, adjusting his posture with a slight wince as the headache began to gnaw at him. He watched as Astarion began uncoiling the rope with practiced fingers, each motion deliberate and elegant. The coils unwound in smooth loops, and the vampire crawled forward on the bed, graceful even on all fours.
Durge held still, arms relaxed at his sides, letting Astarion move them into place. The first pass of the rope was a simple X across his broad chest. As it tightened, Durge blinked in mild surprise. This wasn’t the coarse, scratchy twine rope he’d expected. It was silk. The texture was luxurious, cool and supple, and it kissed his scales without catching on the rougher ridges or leaving behind irritation.
“This isn’t… where did you get this?” Durge asked, flexing against the restraint slightly, testing its give.
Astarion’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “Oh, you know. Just a little something I picked up from Sharess’ Caress.”
Durge’s brow furrowed. “What? That’s on Wyrm’s crossing—we couldn’t even get in yesterday.”
“I know,” Astarion replied breezily. “But I was hungry, the refugees have already gobbled up every animal on this side of the crossing. So I was looking around the cliffs and… let’s just say I found a rather scenic little ledge along the cliffside. Just wide enough to Misty Step across to the bridge.” He gave Durge a conspiratorial wink.
“Sadly, I cannot teleport the whole party on my back, so we still need to find a more conventional route. But that can wait.”
He gently tapped Durge’s forearm. “For now, let’s focus on you. Left arm up, darling.”
Durge hesitated, thoughts still snagged on logistics, on the problem-solving itch the crossing presented. But at Astarion’s touch, he let the thought drift away and raised his arm.
Rope slithered across his scales in smooth loops, coiling and cinching with an artistry that was almost ceremonial. Astarion’s hands were firm but reverent, guiding the silk through careful patterns that traced Durge’s shoulders, down across his biceps, and around his waist before finally looping his forearms behind his back in a snug, secure hold. Each knot was tightened with intent to restrain, of course but also to anchor. To focus. The remainder of the rope wound in elegant lines across his body, symmetrical, pleasing, decorative more than functional. But the ritual of it… the slowness… it grounded him.
At first, Durge’s mind wandered. He found himself calculating again—mapping out the logistics of getting the group over that damn crossing. Maybe Gale could manage a Dimension Door, or Karlach could find a way to brute-force a path through the Fist. The thoughts buzzed in his brain like insects, persistent and distracting.
Then another knot tightened over his chest.
And the thoughts were interrupted.
Another loop encircled his forearm, firm and careful.
And the noise dulled further.
It was like a rider gently tugging a horse’s reins, guiding it without force—just presence, suggestion. Each time the silk pulled taut against his scales, it stole him further from his anxieties and drew him deeper into his body, into the moment.
The nausea lingered, a gnawing thing in the pit of his stomach, but it felt distant now. Manageable. As if someone had thrown a heavy quilt over it. The shame, the discomfort of the hunger twisting inside him, was still there too but each pass of the rope gently hushed it.
Time lost its shape, blurring at the edges, overshadowed by sensation. The dim hush of the room, the scratchy drag of worn sheets against his skin, the persistent, rhythmic pull of silk between his wrists… all of it swallowed him. Durge drifted somewhere between dreaming and waking, between awareness and oblivion. His breath deepened. His limbs loosened. He wasn’t resisting, and he wasn’t surrendering either. He simply existed—weightless, quiet.
If he had to compare the feeling to anything, it was most akin to the one time he’d fallen prey to a warlock’s hypnotic pattern. That same dissociation, the way thought was impossible and the mind floated adrift in a syrupy stillness. But where the spell had felt like being forcibly drowned in the sensation instantly, this… this was different. This was like wading into a gentle tide, the ocean gradually rising around his body, inch by inch. There was always the option to retreat, to walk back to solid, dry ground. But he didn’t. The pull of the current was soft, seductive. The tide crept higher, until eventually the water rose to his neck, his ears. Then it closed over his head entirely—quiet, warm, and all-encompassing.
Time passed, but how much, Durge couldn’t say. Minutes? Hours? Like everything else, time felt syrup-thick and sluggish, a blurred thing beyond the reach of his awareness. He remained adrift, cradled in the taut embrace of the ropes and under the constant weight of Astarion’s gaze. Suspended between lucidity and oblivion, he lingered in that quiet liminal place where breath, heartbeat, and the warmth of skin against silk seemed to be all that existed.
Gradually, sensation began to return. A slow, tingling awareness crept into his limbs, starting with the dull ache of pressure where the ropes had more tightly held him. Then came the ghost of cool fingers brushing over his shoulder, moving in slow, deliberate circles. Soothing. Reassuring.
Durge stirred. His head felt impossibly heavy, like it had been filled with molten lead, and when he managed to turn it—just barely—it was to follow the trail of that hand.
“There you are,” came a familiar voice, soft and full of amusement. “Can you hear me now, darling?”
Astarion.
Durge blinked slowly, forcing his vision to focus. It was difficult—like trying to peer through misted glass—but he managed to make out the elf’s face, sharp and pale, haloed by the faint silver glow of his white hair. Light was starting to creep in through the lone window, turning the shadows gray. Durge still had no idea how long he’d been under.
He swallowed, his mouth dry and sticky.
“Hey, ’Star,” he rasped, voice little more than a breath.
Astarion’s eyes flickered with exasperation at the nickname, but a smile tugged at his lips nonetheless.
“Hello there,” he said with mock formality. “Back with us, are you?”
Durge hummed softly. “Think so.”
“And how do you feel?” Astarion’s tone shifted slightly—still light, but lined with genuine concern.
“Good. Thirsty,” Durge murmured, each word slow and careful, like he had to dig it up from somewhere deep inside.
Astarion gave a satisfied nod and leaned briefly out of sight. The moment Durge lost visual contact, a strange vertigo swept through him, a disorienting sense of absence. But it passed quickly, fading as soon as Astarion returned to his field of view, with a tin cup in hand.
“Here,” he said, pressing the rim gently to Durge’s lips. “Drink.”
Durge obeyed, taking a few tentative sips. The water was cool, a shock to his mouth and throat, it tasted faintly metallic from the tin. But with each swallow, the dryness ebbed away. He drank greedily, water trickling past the corners of his mouth and down his chest in thin streams.
“Ah—slowly,” Astarion warned, pulling the cup back just enough to interrupt the flow.
Durge nodded faintly, chastened, and resumed at a more controlled pace. The cup still emptied quickly. He licked the remaining drops from his lips, then slouched in the grip of the rope with a small, grateful sigh.
“Do you feel your urge?” Astarion asked softly.
Durge blinked, the question tugging him further out of the fading fog that still lingered around his mind. Ah—right. The real reason they’d done this. The experiment, the rope. It hadn’t been for pleasure. It had been for control.
He took a slow, measured breath, checking in with himself. The nausea still gnawed at the edges of his gut, and the dull throb in his temples hadn’t gone anywhere. But something had shifted. The clawing desperation, the bone-deep need that usually roared through him like wildfire—it was muted now. Pushed back behind a heavy curtain.
“Still there,” Durge admitted, his voice hoarse but steady. “But more… numbed. Not as bad.”
A hint of surprise colored his tone, as if he’d expected to come out of it the same as always—coiled too tightly, half-sick with restraint. Instead, he felt… grounded.
Astarion nodded, knowingly.
He turned his attention to the knots. With practiced ease, he began untying them—each loop and twist undone with reverent care. The ropes slid free one by one, leaving behind shallow indentations in Durge’s scales. Red marks bloomed across his wrists, chest, and thighs, but they didn’t hurt; if anything, they tingled pleasantly, reminders of sensation and presence.
“There.” Astarion murmured. “Free again.”
Durge laid back and let his limbs fall open, heavy with afterglow. He was no longer floating, no longer bound to that blissful nothingness, but the descent was gentle. Astarion laid down next to him, his hands never leaving the dragonborn—rubbing circulation back into his arms, running soft hands along rough horns so he wouldn’t feel lost. So he’d feel safe.
“You did beautifully,” Astarion murmured, his voice a velvet whisper. “I’m proud of you.”
“How did you know this would help?” Durge asked, eyes flicking up to meet Astarion’s.
The vampire smiled, that familiar mix of smugness and genuine affection dancing in his expression. His fangs glinted faintly in the shifting light.
“Darling, I’ve been alive for centuries and spent a rather significant portion of that time in bed with pretty little things like yourself.” He leaned in slightly, voice lilting with a practiced ease. “You pick up a few unconventional techniques along the way. Not every high has to come from blood or powders. The mind is a far stranger and more pliable thing than most give it credit for.”
Durge quirked a brow, not entirely satisfied. “Sure, I figured that as much. But how did you know it would help me with my urges?”
That smile, so confident just a moment ago, now wavered. A flicker of something passed through Astarion’s eyes, and he sat up, leaning back on his hands as he looked down at the dragonborn.
“I… didn’t know for sure,” he said at last. “But I had a feeling. A memory.”
He stared past Durge and out the window as he spoke, eyes distant, voice softer than before.
“It was decades ago now, sixty years, maybe more. I met a woman—a dragonborn, like yourself— in the lower city. Her name was Pyrrha. Or maybe Petra… oh, it hardly matters.”
He gave a humorless chuckle, one shoulder lifting in a half-shrug as though trying to downplay the gravity of what followed.
“I was out hunting, like always. Scouring the streets for something pretty enough to please Cazador. I’d gone too long without bringing him anything and the hunger was… was beginning to become unbearable.”
His gaze dropped again, still avoiding Durge’s eyes.
“I found her in one of my usual hunting grounds, a tavern. She was stunning. Golden scales that caught the torchlight like glittering coins, eyes so green you could mistake them for emeralds. I knew she’d make the perfect prey. So I did what I always do… charmed her, flattered her, told her whatever she wanted to hear. It wasn't long before we ended up in a rented room not too different from this one.”
Astarion’s fingers twitched slightly against the sheets.
“She told me she was soon to work in a brothel, one that catered to… specific tastes. Ropework, restraint. Said she needed someone to practice on, just to get her knots right. I agreed, of course. I’d have agreed to anything if it meant getting her back to Cazador so I could finally sate myself with a rat.”
He hesitated for a moment before continuing, his voice quieter now.
“But something strange happened. As she began tying me up, I felt myself slowly… slip away. The more restrained I became, the quieter my mind grew… and with it my hunger.”
Astarion met Durge’s eyes for the briefest moment, only to drop his gaze to the sheets once more as he continued.
“And then she sat with me, whispering in my ear like I was something precious to her… it wasn’t just the hunger that left me. It was everything. The fear, the constant pressure to obey. The ache of… of his blood in my veins.”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“We didn’t even have sex, in the end. I think… she sensed something was wrong with me. Or maybe she just pitied me. She held me there through the night. And in those hours, It felt—just for a while—like I was free.”
A long silence followed, heavy and unbroken..
“But of course, it didn’t last,” he said bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “Not long after the ropes were off, my hunger returned, and with it Cazador’s call. I left her without a word, too out of it to try and lure her back with me. I barely managed to slip into the sewers before first light. I went back empty-handed, and was punished for my failure.”
Astarion swallowed, his throat bobbing as he forced back emotion.
“I saw her at that tavern a few times after that,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “The first time she tried to ask why I ran off… said she was worried about me.”
He paused, staring through the bedsheets, lost in the memory for but a moment before clearing his throat and continuing.
“I had already found my quarry for the night so I pretended not to know her. She was, of course, offended and avoided me after that. Safer that way… she never knew how close she came to death. And never knew what she relieved me of, if only for that night.”
He let out a long, trembling sigh. Astarion finally fully looked at Durge again, his expression raw, stripped of performance.
“I remembered that feeling. And I thought if it helped me maybe… maybe it could help you too.”
“It did.” Durge said quickly. “Thank you for doing this for me, and for trusting me with your story.”
Astarion nodded as he began coiling the rope. Once finished, he tucked it beneath the bed with an air of finality. When he turned back to Durge, the dragonborn caught a flicker in his expression. Astarion’s crimson eyes glimmered in the low light, and for a moment, Durge could almost swear they were wet with emotion. Not quite tears, but near enough to stir something deep within him.
Astarion gave a theatrical yawn, rubbing at his eyes in a gesture far too performative to be out of genuine exhaustion. Without a word, he curled up against Durge once more, resting his cheek against the dragonborn’s chest.
Durge felt it a few seconds later— only one, maybe two droplets of moisture landing softly on his scales, slipping gently into and running along the spaces between. The dragonborn said nothing. No teasing. No questions. Just a silent acceptance.
Instead, he threaded his fingers through Astarion’s hair. He held him close, grounding the elf with his steady presence, just as Astarion had done for him. No words were needed. Just breath. Just closeness. Just the quiet proof that they were both in better times… for however long that might last.
After a few minutes Durge spoke sluggishly. “We should stay like this forever,” he murmured, his words thick with bliss but sincere.
“Mm. Tempting,” Astarion replied, his tone light once more but still fond. He crawled up to press a gentle kiss to Durge’s temple, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “But how do you propose you’d deal with food, water and my steadily deteriorating patience when you keep hogging the only blanket?”
Durge only shrugged. “You know I run cold, I suppose you’d just have to suffer.”
“I’ve killed people for inconveniencing me over less.” Astarion replied swiftly.
Durge huffed a laugh, Astarion did as well as he pointedly draped the thin sheet back over their bodies, being sure to leave himself with a generous amount.
“Thank you… again.” Durge said after a pause, quieter now, the weight of his sincerity settling between them.
“Of course.” Astarion answered simply, his fingers running languidly across ivory scales.
They didn’t move right away. The room was still cloaked in quiet shadow, but the edges of the sky beyond the window had begun to pale. Dawn was beginning to turn to morning with slow, inevitable grace. Neither man made a move to get up. Not yet.
Instead, they shifted closer, their limbs tangling again beneath the blanket, seeking warmth, seeking each other. Silence settled in again, not heavy, but thoughtful… tinged with the knowledge of what was coming.
Durge stared up at the ceiling, his brows drawn faintly. The dark urge still pulsed quietly beneath the surface of his mind, never fully gone. A serpent coiled in wait. He could feel it even now, whispering doubts into the stillness.
Surely you didn’t believe this little distraction would cure you? How long can you hold your birthright bay? How long before it claims you again? Will you be able to save those around you from yourself when the time comes?
He didn’t know. And that terrified him more than he dared admit aloud.
Beside him, Astarion was equally quiet, his gaze distant as it tracked the creeping light outside. As always the thought of Cazador loomed in his brain like a specter—hate and fear entwined. Soon he’d confront his master, end centuries of torment, and seize his power for himself. Soon he'd be free. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of. So why did the thought of it now make his stomach curl with dread?
Astarion turned his head, finding Durge’s gaze already on him. For a second, the rest of it—the blood, the fear, the impossible decisions ahead—faded into silence.
“I don’t want to get up,” Durge murmured.
“Me neither.” Astarion agreed, voice soft. “Let's just stay until Minthara drags us from the bed by our legs.”
Durge snorted, and leaned into Astarion’s touch further. Neither of them could truly know what awaited them beyond that damned crossing. But for now that was alright, because they were together. They did not vocalize the chaos swirling in their respective minds. There was no need, right at this moment it was enough to just lay there wrapped in each other's warmth… and something more that neither of them yet dared to say.