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Tension thrummed in the air like an unspoken threat. Danger pulsed in his veins with every step along this cursed, wretched path. He was a violin tuned too tight, a bowstring strung too taut, skin stretched across too much muscle, a mousetrap set to snap.
The whispers were unceasing.
It had started on the beach, where the sunlight had bounced off every surface and carved fissures deep into the back of his brain. That was the day they had gathered—the day it had taken every ounce of focus to not brutalize the unconscious cleric, and not ripping that tantalizing hand from its limb had wrought a headache that lasted clear till the next morning. The only good part of that day had been when they had slaughtered the looters at the temple.
And maybe when Astarion had held a knife to his throat—the pain and fear was enough to quiet his bruised, screaming mind for a moment.
The journey since then had been a torturous grind. Daylight only shined a spotlight on the wounds in his mind, exacerbating the ache in his skull and lending a clipped tone to his speech. Sleep wasn’t a relief, either. He woke each morning too early, with a jaw sore from grinding, his back aching and legs throbbing.
Blood, blood was the only release. He knew from the beach, but he didn’t want to believe it then. The bard had forced him to accept it. The others had found him bathing in her blood, completely out of his mind, soaking in her gore—and at peace for the first time since the nautiloid. At peace, until he realized what he had done.
He found small ways to manage it. Half a bottle of wine to start the day, another at lunch, a brutal training session with Lae’zel in the evening, letting Astarion drink him half-dry after the others were asleep. He knew the others didn’t trust him—they saw the drinking as reckless, indulging Astarion as dangerous, and were unnerved when he squirmed in his skin for no discernible reason. But they didn’t understand. Everything that dulled his senses dulled the urge; and everything else either fed it or rebelled against it, and he balanced the two desperately, clinging to whatever brought some relief.
He knew one thing to be true—something was terribly wrong with him.
And so, Durge should have known better. The goblin camp reeked of the delicious scents of blood and offal, but just the sight of the lesser beings roaming the grounds made the whispers roar in his ears and set his teeth grinding. He hadn’t invited Astarion to drink the night before—he wanted to be at full strength for this, and surely the urge wouldn’t cloud his judgement too badly?—and now regretted it, as he felt the screws in his head turning tighter with every beat of his rotten heart.
Inside the sanctum, the same goblins that disgusted him brought him some release. Priestess Gut branding him was a strange relief, and the priest of Loviatar was delightful agony. But in the kennels, after ripping the worgs limb from limb and soaking the air sanguine, speaking with the druid Halsin was making his teeth grind once more.
“Altered parasites? A cure at Moonrise Towers, maybe?” Durge was getting loud, and he knew he was being an asshole, but he couldn’t help it. “Guesswork at best. Another wasted effort.” He spat on the ground near Halsin’s feet, furious.
Gale stepped forward. “I think what our friend means to say is, thank you for the information, however frustrating it is to not have a solution.” He glanced pointedly at Durge. “I think it may be best if we take a break before continuing.”
Durge glared at Gale, opening his mouth to protest, but shut it as Karlach clapped a boiling hand on his shoulder. “He’s right, soldier. Take a breather. You’re being an asshole.”
He ducked away from her hand. “Fine,” he spat, “rest if you want, but I can’t sit still knowing worms are tunneling holes in our brains.” He grimaced at his own comment and turned to stalk up the stairs leading out of the kennels, tossing over his shoulder, “Come find me when you're ready to continue this farce.” He ducked into one of the side rooms near the entrance.
Blessedly alone, he held his face in both hands. This was all going tits up. The druid was useless, his apprentice even more so, the old woman a fucking hag, and now today yet another voice in his head had screamed at him about chosen and mindflayers and whatever else bullshit and that fucking whisper in the back of his brain would not shut the fuck up—
A foot scuffing on the stone outside the room pulled him out of his spiral. He straightened, his knife-hand twitching. He sighed. “Yes, Astarion?”
A shadow moving across the floor was the only indication of Astarion entering the doorway. “How did you know?”
“Anyone else would have been louder. That was you letting me know you were here.” Durge turned to see him. Astarion was beautiful under normal circumstances, and here, with blood speckled across his face and the torchlight turning his curls into a halo, he was ethereal. Durge lowered his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. Not here, at least.
Astarion stepped forward, dabbing a cloth at the blood on his face. “Correct as always, my dear.” He held the cloth out to Durge. “You’ve got a little something…”
Durge took the cloth and ran it over his muzzle. He handed it back to Astarion, but the elf pouted.
“Allow me.” Astarion took the cloth and stepped closer. He dabbed at Durge’s face. This close, Durge could smell him—blood, brandy, and that sickly-sweet scent of undeath that only surfaced after a particularly long day of adventuring. The scent was intoxicating. Durge caught himself before he could press his muzzle to Astarion’s neck and inhale, instead angling his snout to the roof to inspect the cobwebs hanging from the rafters.
He realized he was holding his breath at the same time he realized Astarion had stopped dabbing. He looked down. Astarion was staring at his neck, and as Durge looked at him, his eyes flicked up to gaze at Durge from under his eyelashes. Durge’s breath caught again.
Astarion moved a half-step backwards, tucking the cloth into a back pocket. “There, all better.”
Durge forced a calming breath. “Astarion, why are you here?”
Astarion cocked his head, always coy. “I thought it unwise to let our fearless leader go off alone in the middle of an enemy encampment.”
Durge resisted the urge to growl. “I’ll be fine. Just need some time alone.”
Astarion smiled, small enough to still hide his fangs. “Will you? You seem a bit…” he waved a hand in the air, “tense.”
He really did growl, now. “I’ll be fine. You can leave.”
Astarion stepped back into his space, not touching, just…invading. “Perhaps I can help alleviate some tension?”
Durge narrowed his eyes. He had thought about it, sure, ever since the first night the vampire had sunk his fangs into his neck. The bite was enticing each time, a sharp pain that sent heat rushing to Durge’s cock. And perhaps too he considered it when the sunlight caught his hair just right, or when he really laughed and his fangs came out on full display. Considered it, but never acted on the impulse; the loss of control was too terrifying to consider.
But maybe that wasn’t what he meant. “You’re hungry?”
Astarion’s gaze ran a circle from his eyes, his neck, his mouth, and back again. “I'm always hungry. But I think your need is greater than mine, right now.”
Durge frowned. He didn’t have the time or the patience right now to figure out what Astarion meant. But the thought of Astarion draining some of this relentless tension out of him was too appealing to ignore. He undid the first clasp of his armor with one hand, pulled the neck down just enough, and settled back on the table behind him to close the height difference. “Drink, Astarion.”
Astarion closed the distance. They shared breath now, though Astarion still hesitated. One hand came up to rest at Durge’s waist. “Not quite what I meant, darling,” he breathed. His eyes had finished their circuit, dropping to his neck and staying there. “But if you insist.” His other hand came up to grip Durge’s neck as he leaned into him. His breath was cool against Durge’s scales, sweeping over the marks he had left the nights before.
Durge shivered, more than he liked.
Astarion kissed the marks, soft lips on scaled skin sending little flutters of heat to Durge’s stomach. Durge bit his lip in anticipation.
“First, though,” Astarion’s voice reverberated through him and made the scales on the back of his neck prickle, “it’s time to repay the favors you’ve granted me.” The hand at Durge’s waist dropped, and Astarion slipped his hand underneath Durge’s armor to grind the heel of his palm against the dragonborn’s cock.
Durge’s vision flickered, and his heartbeat roared in his ears. That perpetual tension, that never-ending thread of anxiety, that coiled line that gripped his heart, wore his patience thin, and made the blood pound a cruel rhythm in his head suddenly flipped upside down and mutated into mad, roaring desire. His cock was all at once too thick for his armor, straining at the restrictive leather, as all the blood that terrorized him rushed south.
Someone moaned. A beat later, he realized it was him.
Astarion tittered against his neck. “Just as I thought.” Dexterous fingers caressed his cock through his smallclothes, teasing his length to fullness all too quickly. Astarion kissed at his neck as he worked Durge through his clothes, his tongue setting Durge’s skin alight, his fangs sparking small fires as they scraped against the sensitive scales.
Durge heard wood splintering—the sound of his claws sinking into the table behind him.
Astarion dropped the hand from his neck and somehow got his armor undone and to the side in one motion. Durge hissed as sweet, delicious pressure finally wrapped around his shaft. Astarion drew long fingers up his length, slowly, teasingly, and as he reached Durge’s cockhead, he squeezed, drawing a whine from the dragonborn.
Durge cursed under his breath. This was not what he’d had in mind when he had stepped away, and certainly not the impression he’d wanted to make on Astarion. But he’d be godsdamned if he was going to push the elf off him now.
Astarion finally pulled his cock out of his trousers, tucking the waistband of his smallclothes under his privates so that Durge’s cock and balls stood in stark relief to his dark armor. One hand wrapped around and began working his shaft, and the other came underneath to gently caress his balls. Astarion drew his thumb over the slit, swiped the gathered precum there, and smeared it down the shaft to slick the way.
Durge bucked helplessly in Astarion’s grip, desperate under his attention.
Astarion worked him quickly, one hand squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, the other massaging his balls tenderly. Durge moaned, low and urgent, and Astarion shushed him.
“Quiet, darling,” he breathed. “We don’t want the others joining in too, do we?”
Durge clapped one hand over his mouth, the other locked in an iron grip on the table behind him. Heat was building too quickly between his legs. Astarion’s breath ghosted over the small, red scales on his neck. He dropped his gaze, focusing on the task at hand. As Durge watched, Astarion sank to his knees, his mouth opening—
Durge gripped Astarion’s curls. “Drink,” he commanded, and pulled Astarion back up to his neck.
Astarion’s rhythm faltered for a moment as Durge manhandled him. Durge’s other arm wrapped around Astarion, settling on the small of his back and drawing him closer still. Recovering, Astarion licked once, twice, then bit.
He took long, urgent pulls—Durge dimly remembered a goblin arrow sticking out of Astarion’s thigh earlier—but kept up his pace on Durge’s cock. Durge couldn’t help the moan that escaped him as the cold shock morphed into a pleasant numbness that seeped down into his chest and shoulder.
Astarion shushed him again, blood bubbling up from his latch.
Intertwined as they were, Astarion’s scent was inescapable. No longer tethered by the pretense of appropriate behavior, Durge breathed him in deep, muzzle buried in the curls by his ear. The sickly-sweet smell made his mouth water, and his great jaws opened. He licked Astarion’s neck, tasting him. Astarion groaned, still drinking, and Durge took that as a sign to keep going. His thick, blue tongue was big enough to pass fully over Astarion’s neck and dip down to graze his collarbone, and with each pass he picked up errant drops of goblin blood and Astarion's sweat.
But tasting wasn't enough. He wanted to consume. His jaws opened of their own accord, big fangs emerging slowly, and he settled his maw on Astarion’s armored shoulder. Astarion paused his pulls, and a little shiver of tension ran through him. Durge ran a soothing hand down his back. He wouldn’t bite—not Astarion. He just needed—needed—some pressure against his fangs. His tongue lolled out, laving over Astarion’s armor, tasting the blood and guts of the fight before.
Astarion bit down harder for a moment, and it was a good thing Durge had muffled himself on Astarion’s shoulder, because the stifled moan was downright filthy. Some wire, some connection, something in him had crossed at some point, and the pain that should have made him recoil instead sent a bolt of lightning straight to his cock.
Astarion’s hand began to wander across his chest. Durge could barely feel it through his armor, but he shivered as Astarion snuck his hand underneath the breast plate and his cool hand grazed his chest scales. The hand caressed, and crept lower, until Astarion drew it around to the lash wounds on Durge’s back. He dipped one finger into the biggest cut, reopening the wound, and Durge groaned again. As pain lanced across his back, it evolved into pure, ferocious desire that set fire to his veins and coiled the tension between his legs even tighter.
Astarion, encouraged by Durge's sounds, pressed deeper, digging his thumb into the cut and dragging it along the gash.
Durge felt like he was floating. Somehow the burning pain at his back was casting a soothing fog over his mind that drowned out the screaming agony of the urge and the tadpole and everything else wrong with him.
He flexed his jaws on Astarion’s armor, pressing just enough for his fangs to sing, and Astarion responded in kind, biting down until blood ran in a river down Durge’s neck. Durge swallowed a howl. His hands trembled with effort—how he longed to grip and squeeze and tear, but the thought of Astarion wounded by his touch kept him still, even disoriented as he was.
Astarion pushed his nails into the gash on Durge’s back, in and out, fucking Durge's wound with his hand.
Durge’s hips moved on their own, thrusting into Astarion’s hand. It was too much. Pressure built, heat raced through his veins, and his vision narrowed to only what he could see of Astarion. The electrifying pain at his back, Astarion’s hand on his cock, his lips on his neck, his scent and his taste flooding his senses—
He spilled into Astarion’s hand. Astarion worked him through his climax, dragging his slick down the shaft and squeezing cruelly on each upstroke. As he calmed, Astarion slowed his pace, until he just leaned against Durge’s chest, one hand full of softening cock and the other buried in the wound on Durge’s back. Durge’s chest heaved, Astarion moving along with it.
Durge watched him quietly as his breathing slowed, observing. The elf was still as death for a long moment, but stirred as he returned to himself, as if a mask slipped back into place. He straightened, wiping his hand on Durge’s trousers. He brought the bloodied hand to his mouth, and, looking up at Durge through long, dark, lashes, began licking his fingers clean of the blood.
“Simply delicious, darling.”
Durge simply drank in the sight for a time—Astarion as the cat that ate the canary, licking long, bloodied fingers, his eyes narrowed to slits in pleasure, the corners of his mouth curled slightly in a satisfied smile—and his eyes landed on the outline of Astarion's cock stiff in his trousers.
He could make this sight even better, he thought.
He listened. Nothing on the stairs—yet. “We still have some time. Allow me…?”
To Durge’s dismay, it broke the spell. Astarion stepped back, eyes darting away. “I won’t deny you affect me, darling, but we really should be getting back. Besides, you’ve already given me so much. I’d hate to owe another favor.”
As he watched Astarion’s eyes, something finally fell into place in the back of Durge’s mind. He seized Astarion’s wrist. Astarion’s eyes whipped back to his. Durge held his gaze for a long beat before murmuring, “You owe me nothing, Astarion. You may drink from me anytime, and you owe me nothing in return.”
Astarion was on the back foot. It took a little too long for him to speak. “I—”
“I mean it.” Durge pulled him back by his wrist and kissed his fingers. “It would be my pleasure.”
The faintest hint of pink dusted Astarion’s cheeks, and his eyes roamed Durge’s face. A long moment passed before he murmured, “We’d better clean up. The others will be heading this way soon.”
Astarion waited at the door as Durge cleaned himself up. As he did, something else fell into place for Durge. Those whispers, constant from the moment he set foot on Toril, were silent.