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The giant with whom Astarion was, successfully and regularly, pursuing a tactical alliance carried him bodily back to shore.
He seemed to enjoy doing that, so Astarion allowed it, despite how hideously vulnerable it made him. There were worse things he had done and would do for protection. Guilt and shame were not emotions he troubled himself with, these days.
When they arrived back on shore, the now-cold corpse of the goblin lay distastefully close to his meager nest of blankets.
“Absolutely not, darling, I'm not sleeping with you with that thing lying nearby,” Astarion said, imperiously, conveniently ignoring the fact that he already had done so and would again if forced.
Convenient ignorance was one of his better skills.
He was rather enjoying this new role as imperator, making demands, watching this massive slab of meat and desolation jump to obey. He should have remembered how biddable heats made alphas. Being a rut-toy for so many alpha's had skewed his opinions of the gender somewhat. But now that he was a walking pheromone dispenser, this alpha was tripping over himself to attend to his every need. Adorable.
Obligingly, the Dark Urge set about cleaning their nest while Astarion lounged artfully. That was another one of Astarion's skills - resting, attractively, while other people did the dirty work. He hadn't had much time to practice it over the years, but he’d always been a natural talent.
“Wash your hands as well,” Astarion ordered.
The Durge huffed, annoyed, but did as he was told.
Astarion rolled against the blanket luxuriously, savouring the pleasant stretch in his limbs. He couldn't remember the last time a fuck had left him feeling this satisfied, this deliciously worn out. He might even sleep, if the Durge and the light permitted it.
Although, rolling his hips again, Astarion found he wasn't quite satisfied after all. His body clenched, needy, wanting, yearning for its alpha to come back and breed it full. How troublesome.
He yawned, mildly annoyed, weighing the chances of the Durge knotting him again without his having to ask.
Calculating the direction the Durge was most likely to return at, Astarion positioned himself as alluringly as possible. On his stomach, Astarion arched his back - classic alpha bait - canting his hips up just enough that he could slip a hand underneath. Fucking his fist, even performatively, was enough to stoke that light arousal into something properly ravenous.
Losing himself to desire had never been an advisable option, not for over a century, and it certainly wasn't safe to do so now, but. He was starting to get a sense of the Durge and the shape of his desires and he was - not safe, certainly, but he seemed manageable. Predictable enough that lying there, fully naked, with what he could only assume were the Absolute’s weird new goblins sniffing around for them, didn’t feel like such a ludicrously bad idea.
“Miss me?” The Durge laughed, though not unkindly, from much closer than he should have been.
Astarion hadn't even heard him - gods, this was getting out of hand. He could smell the alpha from here, he just hadn't noticed, his brain content enough to trust the Durge even where he didn't.
“Of course I missed you, my love.” He purred, presenting himself.
He could practically feel the Durge swell with pride at his words. Gods, this was too easy.
The man went to his knees behind Astarion, bending over to cover him completely. The weight of a heavy, warm body pressed into his back, setting every omega nerve alight with pleasure.
“My love,” the Durge echoed, tasting the words with obvious relish.
Astarion could feel the heavy cock slapped up against his pussy. An unflattering noise escaped his throat. Thoughts swirled murkily in his head - if he arched his back just right, he could catch the head of the Durge's cock..
“Trust me,” The Durge kissed his neck leisurely. “I'm going to take care of you.”
And because Astarion’s body was its own biological imperative, he did.
But all things – good, bad and inconveniently sticky - had to come to an end. As dawn rose on the second day, Astarion could feel that his heat was over. All things considered, he’d come out of it rather well. No one had tortured him or raped him or forced him to beg for relief. And with an alpha there to knot him tight, it hadn’t lasted more than what - two days?
Maybe luck was finally on Astarion’s side. The Dark Urge had even claimed to love him, which was a very promising development - he hadn’t even batted an eye when he realized Astarion was a vampire.
If Astarion could just keep the man’s interest for the next little while, just while they sorted out what to do about these parasites, he wouldn’t need to worry about being murdered in his sleep anymore. If.
Astarion wasn't sure what one did with a lover, when you had both survived the night. Stay close by? Laugh at their jokes? Remaining sexually available and desirable seemed like an obvious first priority, but there was surely the issue of diminishing returns. The Durge had already had him in every possible way an alpha could conceive of having an omega - the novelty would wear off soon, surely.
Astarion wasn’t sure he had any more left in him right then. He’d rested well enough, but gods, he was sore. He wasn't convinced he could conjure the energy to do anything more alluring than continue to lie limply against the Dark Urge’s warm chest at the moment.
As the sun rose higher, the gentle, seismic rhythm of the Durge’s breath changed - a sure sign of waking - and then the whole massive construction beneath him stretched itself out with a grumbling sigh.
“Mm, g’morning” the mountain said, squinting fondly at him.
There was an adorably sleep-rumpled quality to his whole person that Astarion found unexpectedly charming. Something softer than desire stirred in his chest, something dangerously like affection.
No, he must be honest - the feeling certainly was affection. He supposed it was only to be expected. The monster beneath him had, with only a few minor lapses of etiquette, cared for him well. He’d been obliging, kind. Hells, the man had even fed him his blood. Astarion was more than grateful - he had genuinely grown quite attached.
It hurt, to remind himself that the alpha was almost certainly never going to be that kind to him again.
The Durge yawned with the easy, unselfconsciousness of a child, and Astarion's dead heart twisted in his chest. Could you have a crush on a man whose cock had been in you more often than not over the past few days?
Gods, maybe the mating bite had taken after all.
Focus. He told himself. Reprioritize. Remember days in the dark. Remember that nothing good lasts. Remember that no one else is going to save you. Remember that no one else is worth suffering for.
The Dark Urge rolled them over into a sideways cuddle. The warm, sleep-softened bulk of him made an unspeakably pleasant weight. Astarion gave into the urge to curl into that heat with his heart in his throat.
“You smell - different.” The Durge scented him closely, sounding fractionally more awake.
Astarion closed his eyes, burying his face against the Durge's skin while he summoned the fortitude to end their impromptu honeymoon.
Pathetic, honestly.
He allowed himself this small bit of hope only - if he was feeling this maudlin, this soppy, this romantic, surely the Durge was similarly affected, to some degree. Though he'd been high on lust and pheromones, The Durge had said he loved him. Astarion only said that when he really wanted to use someone. That was a foundation. He could work from that.
“My heat’s nearly over,” he admitted.
“Thank the gods for that,” the Durge sighed, drawing away. “My groin’s killing me. And we probably need to go deal with the worms.”
Astarion's stomach sank. The cold chill of morning air rushed to fill the man's absence.
“You must be hungry - do you want breakfast?” The Durge asked, pulling on his trousers.
He was hungry, actually. The feverish delirium of a heat was a potent appetite suppressant. The Durge’s blood had been a generous indulgence, but he'd been hesitant to overly weaken the one man he was counting on to fuck him out of that mess.
But now that the air felt comfortable again and his limbs were protesting the overexertion of the past days, he felt the hunger with all its old strength.
“Why, are you offering more of your delicious blood?” Astarion purred with a hint of his usual charm. If he was being honest with himself, he mostly just sounded pathetically hopeful.
A spark of interest reignited in the Durge's dark eyes, despite his earlier protestations, and something like hope bloomed in Astarion's chest. It seemed his appeal hadn't completely worn out yet.
“Oh, alright - just a bit more,” the alpha said, leaning back on his elbows, his powerful, half-dressed body on full display.
One last taste, Astarion thought.
Astarion straddled his lap and pushed him down further, more forceful now that his heat wasn’t screaming at him to submit submit submit.
The Durge went easily, hunger of his own spreading across his face and body. Insatiable man. The slow stirring of the Durge's heavy cock beneath him had a complementary effect on Astarion, but he batted his own desire aside to focus on picking a blood vessel to drink from.
Neck? Thigh? Wrist? He shouldn’t let the marks be too visible, tempting as it was..
Neck, he decided - the Durge’s collared shirt should be protection enough. It was a vampiric classic he'd always wanted to try - nothing to do with the fact that it brought Astarion chest to chest with the sturdy, warm trunk of his alpha. The alpha. Fuck. The hot, sweaty, hairy bulk of his bare chest pressed against Astarion's own, unreasonably comforting. The thin skin of the Durge’s neck was warm and faintly salty beneath his lips. He bit deep.
Bliss. Warm blood filled his mouth, then his throat, his belly. His alpha - the alpha - shuddered beneath him somewhere between ecstasy and agony, but his strong arms were gentle as they held Astarion close.
Knowing that might be his last chance for a while, Astarion drank deep. His stomach, for the first time in days, almost felt full. The small aches and pains in his body began to fade, healed by the power of this blood.
But Astarion knew by now, all too well - there was never any ‘being full’, not in this form. He was eternally one swallow away from true satiety.
Even knowing that, summoning the self control to draw away when the Durge pushed at him to stop was a near thing; Astarion was tremendously proud of himself for managing it.
It was done.
But, strangely, the Durge's arms didn’t release him.
“I love you too,” the Durge smiled.
.. Perhaps Astarion had taken too much blood. That didn't seem like a normal response
He pulled back as far as he could, with the Durge’s arms around him. He still looked fine - perhaps a bit sunken. Was he dehydrated now? How much water were mortals supposed to consume? It had been so long since he'd had to keep one alive.
The Dark Urge smiled crookedly up at him.
“You smell like a graveyard,” the Durge grinned, dreamily.
In the cold sobriety of day, Astarion wondered what in the actual hells he’d tangled himself up in. This had all seemed much simpler a few hours ago.
Astarion stretched, beginning the slow process of stretching and rising and pulling away. The Durge caught one of his hand and brought it sweetly to his lips and pressed chastely kisses over his knuckles. Astarion, despite himself, melted a little at the affection.
“Now that your heat’s done, can I have one of your fingers?” the alpha asked, looking up at him through his eyelashes.
A chill ran through Astarion’s gut. It was probably a joke, but just in case..
“..No.” Astarion said, politely but firmly, quickly withdrawing from the Durge's reach entirely.
“Why not,” he frowned.
“Why n- because they're my fingers! What do you mean “why not?”” Astarion snapped.
“Fine.” He frowned, sulky.
Astarion eyed him warily. He was aware that caring for an omega in heat was challenging. Though not without its own rewards, it was an experience for which one might reasonably expect to be compensated. Usually with lover's tokens, or perhaps an expensive bottle of wine and promises of assistance during their next rut. Astarion was keenly aware that he had very little to offer.
But he hadn’t escaped Cazador’s clutches to go chopping off bits of himself for trophies.
He dressed quickly, eager to return to the relative safety of the group.
“You really should eat something solid though,” the alpha rumbled eventually, still a little cross. “Blood is pretty nutritionally weak, actually.”
“Maybe for you,” Astarion smiled without meaning it. “Vampires have neither the pleasure nor the necessity of eating food.”
“The fuck is a vampire?” The Durge paused in bundling their blankets.
Astarion blinked at the Durge's open face, lips parted in surprise. He was too taken aback to come up with something better to say than, “What?”
“You know I don’t remember anything,” The Dark Urge said, impatient. “What’s a vampire?”
“I'm a vampire.” Astarion had been prepared to defend himself against accusations of being a monster, but he'd never had to actually explain what a vampire was. He thinks, wildly, of some way he can turn this to his advantage - some lie he can tell that won't get him staked by the Dark Urge or one of the others.
“And that means..?”
“I stalk the shadows? Drink blood? Burn in Lathandar's light?” Had the Durge just thought he liked drinking blood? Was that normal for him?
His request for one of Astarion's fingers took on a new, more ominous context.
“I'll let you drink more of my blood if you tell me,” the Dark Urge said, eyes glittering with opportunity.
Hunger rose up in Astarion's throat anew and he realized with sinking dread that he’d failed to account for another danger, another leash he didn't think to slip. The Durge wouldn’t need to threaten him or trap him in a heat to get Astarion to do what he liked - he could just offer up his wrist, and let Astarion’s hunger choose for him.
“Keep it,” Astarion forced himself to say, though he couldn't tear his gaze away from the Durge's neck. “I’ve had enough, and you need your strength.”
“Tonight, then.”
“A vampire is a kind of undead monster,” Astarion says, the words pulled from him almost unwillingly.
He tried imagine what Cazador would say, to this wide-eyed mountain of an alpha, and nearly laughed. It was difficult to believe in the inherent superiority of vampire kind in the face of such brawn.
If he didn’t answer, the Durge would just ask one of the others. He'd be letting an opportunity go to waste for nothing. Right?
“They can only feed on the blood of living creatures.” He continued, ad-libbing uncomfortably. “Can’t walk in the sunlight, can’t enter houses without permission, can’t cross running water.”
“But you can do all of those things.”
“Yes, well.” Astarion laughed, a little hysterically. “It seems our little friends have only made me stronger. Though I’d have preferred a chance to read the fine print this time, as well.”
“Were you always a vampire?”
“No.”
“What were you before?”
“An elf,” Astarion shrugged; it wasn’t important anymore. “A magistrate.”
“Who didn't want to drink blood.” The Dark Urge clarified.
“Yes.”
A moment, while the Durge paused to consider this. He looked oddly bereft.
“Is being a vampire like Shar-worship?”
“No? Clerics and the undead tend not to get along famously.”
“Hm. I meant, is this like, a secret thing that the others are going to be mad about?”
Astarion made a considering noise in his throat. “I mean. I don't see why we'd need to tell everyone.”
He’d been waiting for this, frankly. Blackmail was hardly new to him. He wondered how much he would need to pay, to keep this quiet. How much the others would care. He hadn’t been particularly useful of late.
“Might save us on supplies. Not a lot to eat out there, right now.” The Dark Urge mused, raising the as-yet unspecified price further.
“How about I just give you my portion of our meals, and we'll call it a day?” Astarion opened.
“Oh, yeah, that works.” The Durge agreed.
Astarion blinked. Well, that was easy.
But then, “Wait - you said clerics hate the undead. Is Shadowheart going to want to kill you?”
“Mm,” Astarion said, uncertainly.
The Durge sighed. “She's the only one of us that knows how to heal right now. I still don't get why Gale can't.”
Astarion could feel the price creeping up even higher. He needed to change the direction of these negotiations now. He tangled his fingers with the Durge’s own, the seductive mask slipping easily into place.
“As long as I keep to my side of the camp, I'm sure it won't be an issue,” Astarion said with more confidence than he felt. “And if it is, I have you - we’re monsters together, right?”
The Durge responded to his subtle threat with another fawning kiss.
“Monsters together,” he repeated with a grin.
And then things were back to normal. Or whatever passed for it, in the moment. They fought and killed things - some that were trying to kill them first, and some that weren’t. They planned, with increasing desperation, as cure after promised cure slipped through their fingers. They endured as the dream visitor threatened and cajoled and manipulated, and ceremorphosis continued not to take them.
And the Durge did not lose interest, nor did he turn his cruelty on Astarion. He was distractible, certainly - Astarion had about as much success directing the man's attention towards a coherent goal as the dream visitor did - but he never got so violent or pushy that Astarion was able to talk him down. The other shoe hung, suspended tauntingly in the air, just waiting for Astarion to let his guard down.
Keeping a monopoly on the Durge's bed - well, bedroll - was easy enough, in these limited circles. Lae'zel’s attentions dried up more or less exactly the same time that the Dark Urge started spending his evenings preening Astarion's hair and nibbling his ears, and Gale simply couldn't compete with Astarion on bloodlust or shamelessness.
But when the Durge got an idea in his head, it was to get him to let it go.
For example, tonight: the Durge curled around him, affectionately toying with the ruffles on his evening shirt while Astarion read and asked, “Can I eat one of your fingers now?”
Astarion looked at him, thoroughly unimpressed. This was the fifth time he’d mentioned it in as many days, and he was running out of patience.
“Just one of the little ones.” the Durge clarified, hopefully.
“No. Go eat some of that dwarf we found, if you're so hungry for people.”
“I'm not hungry, I just - I want to have a piece of you, safe and inside me forever.”
“It certainly wouldn't be in you forever. I was mortal once, I know about your latrine pits.”
“I guess not. Still though. What about just the tip of your pinky? You don't need that for anything.”
“Darling, there are other ways I can stick my fingers in you if that’s what you're trying to ask for,” Astarion purred, trying a new tactic.
Nothing made alphas back down faster than the implication that they wanted to play the receptive partner.
“What do you mean - oh.” The Durge blanched, then flushed.
“There's a hot spring nearby.” Astarion continued, hungrily, placing a hand on the Durge's thigh. “I could take you down there, get you all relaxed, spend some time opening you up for me. If you're very good, I might even fuck you.”
The Durge’s eyes widened, an adorable blush spreading across his cheeks, and Astarion braced himself for the Durge to shove his hands away.
Instead, the Durge frowned, eyebrows beetling together with genuine surprise, and asked “You can do that?”
Of course. Fucking alphas.
“It's all the same equipment, more or less.” Astarion said, a touch impatient. “I might not have a knot, but I can take you the same way I can take any other man. You might even enjoy it.”
“Oh.”
His strategy didn't seem to be working as planned. He'd meant for the Durge to be offended, maybe stomp off in a masculine huff.
“Would you?” The Durge breathed, eyes eager, and Astarion had to reassess his strategy.
He'd forgotten he was speaking to the weirdest alpha he’d ever met. But his plan was a roaring success on one front - the Durge did seem thoroughly distracted from his cannibalistic inquiry.
“Well, you'll - it's a lot to get used to,” Astarion said, trying to recover the flow of his thoughts. “It's probably something you should try by yourself, first.”
“How?”
Astarion didn't particularly want to deliver a treatise on bottoming that evening, but he could tell already that this wasn't something the Durge would just drop.
He considered, briefly, telling the Durge to go ask one of the others. Maybe Gale, he seemed like he'd turn interesting colours at the idea of an alpha taking it in the ass.
Although.. The more Astarion considered it, the more he rather liked the idea of everyone knowing that this massive alpha would be taking it from him.
“Start with your fingers on your own - borrow some oil from Gale, he's got all the cooking supplies. If you want to explore further, we can talk.”
“It's your fingers I want, though. I’ll let you drink my blood, if you show me.”
Astarion clenched his jaw. Eventually the Durge was going to realize that he had to actually withhold something first to use it as a carrot, and then they’d learn together just how much degradation Astarion would endure for a mouthful of his blood.
“If you really loved me, you'd let me drink your blood regardless,” he countered, pouting, doing his level best to hide how weak his hand was.
As he had done every time thus far, the Durge folded.
His large hand came to rest supplicatingly on Astarion's chest. The Durge pressed soft kisses to the corner of Astarion's jaw.
“Please?” The Durge asked, mouth moving along Astarion's ear the way he'd learned Astarion likes.
Damn him, Astarion thought, struggling to remember why he was saying no to this in the first place. He actually did quite enjoy topping. It just seemed ill-advised, to give the Durge something he wanted for free.
The Durge's kiss was all earnest, eager want. Astarion let it turn hungry, losing himself in the moment. The Durge only pressed against him harder, drawing himself close by the hand tangled in Astarion’s shirtfront.
Someone nearby coughed uncomfortably, and Astarion reveled in the sight they must make, at how needy and debased the alpha must look in Astarion's lap, craning upward to reach Astarion's mouth.
Fortunately, the Durge’s other hand fluttered up to towards Astarion's throat, unable even now to fully suppress the instinct to press into his mating bite. Icy resolve flooded Astarion’s veins.
“Some day. Soon. But not tonight.” He promised, pushing the Durge away. “I need to hunt.”
Kiss and slap, keep him guessing, keep him dancing for Astarion's approval. He knew the routine like he knew how to fake being alive, but it didn’t come naturally.
Remember days in the dark. Remember that nothing good lasts. Remember that no one else is going to save you. Remember that no one else is worth suffering for.
The Durge watched him go like an abandoned puppy. Astarion ignored him. He was, as ever, of two minds - delighted at the power handed to him, and miserable over causing the fool pain. The dichotomy haunted him as stalked into the forest, spine straight.
“You're more alpha than he is, I swear,” Lae’zel said as he left, and Astarion chose to take it as a compliment.
“Well that’s - something.” The Durge said, turning the book over in his hands.
Something indeed. The book is clearly bound in human skin, which wasn't exactly normal even in the circles Astarion ran in. It had also been guarded by skeletons and a fortune’s worth of traps. Besides being certainly dangerous and probably valuable, it looked useful. Astarion might not have been a wizard, but even he recognized necromancy when it danced a jig in front of him. And what were vampires but a very advanced form of undead?
“I can carry that for you, if you like - it looks heavy,” Astarion said, as casually as he could manage.
All eyes turned to him and, alright fine, that wasn't his best work. It wasn’t his fault the Durge could carry the whole party at once.
“I meant bulky - I know you want to carry back all those skeletons we found, and your pack’s full enough as it is.”
“Fair enough.” The Durge offered him the book.
Easy. Almost too easy. Easy as taking candy from a big, stupid baby who was convinced he was in love with you.
So of course, Shadowheart chimed in before he got his hands on the book.
“You're not seriously going to just give him the book,” she said disdainfully.
“Why not?” The Durge paused with his hand outstretched. Damn her.
“Besides the fact that it's obviously cursed? He wants it too much. You've already given him every bit of loot he asks for for free - at least get something out of it.”
With an unchacteristically shrewd look, the Dark Urge pulled his hand back.
This was revenge for that Selunite treasure chest, it had to be. Astarion shot Shadowheart his fakest smile, silently vowing to unpick the seams on every tacky bit of clothing she owned.
“I was only trying to do you a favour, darling, but alright,” Astarion said in his best wounded tones, “Suppose I do want it. What do you want to bargain for it?”
“I'd rather like to eat you.” Of course.
Shadowheart's smile became rather fixed. “It has to be something you weren't already going to-”
“Oh no, he's being quite literal,” Astarion grimaced, pleased to see Shadowheart’s smile vanish entirely. “Fine. If I am killed by an enemy and if you promise to bring me back immediately after - you can cannibalize whatever part of me you want.”
Astarion held the Durge's gaze, praying he didn't realize that -
“I could do that anyways, though.” The Durge countered. “Once you're dead, you can't stop me from doing anything.”
Damn. Perhaps Astarion should simply be grateful he hadn't met with any untoward accidents already.
“But if you did, I would be very, very cross with you. Shadowheart will tell me if you steal any body parts from me before bring me back otherwise, isn’t that right dear?” He looked to the cleric, who was clearly, pleasingly, regretting her decision to get involved. “This is me, giving you permission - if I can have that book. To keep, not just to carry.”
“Deal.” the Durge agreed, happily.
“Hang on,” Shadowheart interjected, unhappily. “Astarion, if you get cursed, I'm not helping.”
“I wouldn't expect otherwise,” Astarion sneered, quickly packing the tome in his bag before anyone else tried to interfere.
He didn't try to not look smug. He had every right to be proud of himself. Shadowheart could look at him with mixed pity and disgust all she wanted.
Astarion’s victory was not lessened when, on cracking open the tome’s ancient and quite literal spine, a legion of spirits rose up and clamoured for his attention. The more protections a thing had, after all, the more secrets it held.
After a few hours of fruitless effort, however, he was starting to question his decision.
The hand-written Thayan script was difficult to read and the subject matter was heavily technical. There was almost certainly some serious magic in there, but Astarion was starting to suspect it was too advanced for him. Cazador had always said he was stupid.
The coterie of ghosts whispering dark temptations didn't help him focus. It only got more difficult, as the night wore on and his hunger grew.
Eventually, the morning dawned, as bright and golden as ever and Astarion flinched at the first warm rays of light, as he did every day. Another reminder of how deeply the scars of the past centuries ran, of how much he had to lose.
He needed this goddamned book to work.
But the day had begun. So it was with a headache, an empty stomach, and absolutely nothing to show for it that he rose.
A perfectly foul mood hung over him as he watched the others drowsily go about the business of decamping.
Look at them all. So soft. So trusting. They've never had to fight for survival, not like you have - killing them would be easy.
The book was shut firmly, its gemstone key hidden in the opposite corner of his pack - but still, its ghosts whispered to him.
…Probably not a great sign, he thought.
After dressing - in front of everyone, as usual, an utterly shameless display of rippling muscle and miles of scarred skin - the Durge swept up behind Astarion and engulfed him in a still body-warm blanket. Astarion stiffened in irritation.
The Durge was tall enough that he could rest his chin on Astarion's head only by hunching forward, which he did. Astarion's frigid glare had been enough to dampen most attempts at morning greetings or further conversation, but the Dark Urge had always been singularly unaffected by it.
You could kill him easily, the ghosts hissed. Take his power for your own. Take his place take his blood take his birthright.
“Gotta warm you up,” the Durge said by way of an explanation, chafing his arms.
“I'm not a lizard,” Astarion hissed in protest. “I can move perfectly well at any temperature.”
“Hm,” the Durge considered this but made no move to release him.
In spite of his protests, Astarion found himself relaxing in the warmth of the Durge's embrace. The heat was nice; the warm cloud of the alpha's scent enveloping him was better. The permanent tension in Astarion's shoulders unwound a fraction.
“I was dreaming about you last night,” the Dark Urge yawned, sleepily rubbing his face against the back of Astarion's head.
That wasn't all he was rubbing against Astarion. An unmistakable erection pressed into his lower back, somewhat ruining the chaste affection of a morning cuddle.
“Oh?” Astarion prompted flirtatiously, slipping easily into the seductive role he'd inhabited for so long. He was, frankly, exhausted, but he could indulge dirty memories of a naughty dream for a bit.
“We were the last ones left under a blood-red sky, in a beautiful, endless field of gore.” The Dark Urge murmured, voice sleep-rich and reverent.
“Ah.” Astarion said.
“I can't explain it, but it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And I looked at you, and you were perfect.”
“Well that's certainly more interesting.” Astarion said, trying to steer the anecdote towards safer waters. “Tell me love, did you ravish me on this battlefield, or was my dream-self playing coy?”
“We devoured each other, down to the bone.” The Dark Urge growled, mouth hot against Astarion's neck.
“Filthy,” Astarion admonished with a smirk. His tone was light, but he pushed the Durge's arms away with resolute coldness.
Quite enough of that. Time and past to start the day, he rather thought.
He's going to kill you, the voices whispered. He's too dangerous to be left alive.
“I'm well aware.” Astarion muttered, walking briskly to the river’s edge to wash. “He's no good to me dead, however. Do you have any actually useful suggestions?”
Shadows flickered in the peripheral of his vision.
Kill him and take his power.
Astarion rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what else I expected.”
The day did not improve substantially from there. A pack of gnolls interrupted their charitable devil hunt, and once again Astarion found himself sprawled in the dirt, staring up at an unnecessarily large barbarian.
The difference this time was that he wasn't just winded - he was fully impaled on a spear. It was nice to know that a stake through the chest didn't paralyze him anymore, though he doubted that made the injury any more survivable
“Come to see if the meat’s been spoiled?” Astarion asked, with some difficulty. Talking wasn't easy with a length of wood through his respiratory system. At least he only needed to inhale in order to speak. “I think most of it’s still good.”
The Dark Urge stared down at him, expression unreadable.
“You're not dead.”
“Not yet. Give it-” Astarion groaned as a wave of pain crested over him. “Give it a few minutes.” Already the edges of his vision were going dark.
The shades danced gleefully about. Too late, too late! they hissed.
Hopefully they couldn't trap his soul before Withers brought it back. Hopefully vampires were among the creatures Withers could bring back. Hopefully Astarion had been likeable enough that the Dark Urge would spend the 200 gold it would take to try.
He looked around, taking stock of what might be his last view. Some corpses, some dirt, some comparatively lovely trees. At least the sun was shining. His last death bed had been considerably less panoramic.
“Don't be stupid,” the Dark Urge muttered, and then the relative peace of his second death was interrupted by a hideous wrenching pain as the spear was ripped free of Astarion's body.
Sudden dis-impalement was never pleasant. He would have screamed if he had the air in him to do it. He tried to inhale, but he couldn't go far - the Durge pinned him back and poured the contents of a very potent healing potion directly onto his chest.
His nerves fizzed oddly, confused by the sudden loss of pain.
“Thanks,” Astarion said, blinking away the last tears that had sprung up in his eyes at some point.
The Durge said nothing.
“I suppose that was still cheaper than a trip to the old bag of bones,” Astarion said with a small laugh, trying to understand why he was still alive.
“Sure.” The Durge said, brows knit in consternation.
His hand, Astarion noticed, was clenched tight around the torn edge of Astarion's armour, where he'd had to pry it back to reach the wound.
The sliver of skin revealed was pale and unscarred, as if it had never met the business end of a spear. The only clue as to its prior failure as a protective barrier between his organs and the world was a slick layer of blood, quickly drying in the open air.
It occurred to Astarion that he'd never seen the Durge administer a healing potion to anyone before.
“You didn’t dodge fast enough,” the Dark Urge stated, his face still utterly unreadable. “You always dodge fast enough.”
“Yes, well.” Astarion snapped, still somewhat rattled himself. “I was.. Distracted.”
The Dark Urge waited for him to elaborate further in silence, which was not the same thing as patience. The air felt taut, like a drawn bowstring that might snap at any moment.
“It’s nothing, really,” Astarion hastened to reassure, wishing he hadn’t said anything.
No luck. The silence, if possible, grew even more impatient than before.
“I’ve just been a bit,” Astarion wobbled his head in an all-communicating gesture. “A bit haunted, since I picked up that book.”
“You mean the book cursed you.”
“In broad terms - yes, probably.”
Astarion tensed for the tirade, refusing to grovel of his own volition. How stupid was he, to insist on reading a book that was so obviously cursed? How irresponsible, how careless, to go into a fight knowing he was compromised? Did he not care how his weakness affected the others? Or was he just a stupid, pointless slut reaching, once again, beyond his station?
But the Dark Urge said none of that. If anything, his broad shoulders seemed more relaxed. Astarion chanced a look up at the alpha’s face and saw nothing beyond his usual focused demeanor.
“Shadowheart will fix that,” he said, rising to go.
Astarion caught his sleeve on instinct, and then retroactively had to justify the motion.
“You heard her. She's not going to just do that for free.”
“No, she's going to do it because I’ll tell her to,” the Durge said, looking at him like it was obvious.
And then he left, and Astarion could only pour over the interaction from every angle to try and figure out what pressure point he’d leveraged so successfully, and how he could do it again.
As promised, Shadowheart begrudgingly cleansed him of the curse on the Durge's orders. Astarion didn't even think it was an alpha thing - the Durge just issued commands with such an obvious expectation of obedience that it seemed impossible to do otherwise.
Remember days in the dark. Remember that nothing good lasts. Remember that no one else is going to save you. Remember that no one else is worth suffering for.
But the Durge had saved him, hadn’t he?
Astarion made sure to pull the Durge aside and go to his knees that evening, just in case a blowjob was what he’d been after. And even then, the alpha was so insistent about returning the favour that Astarion very nearly failed to even the score.
It didn't come up again though, so Astarion was forced to conclude that that was it - sex and a little flattery, and the Dark Urge would do whatever he wanted him to. The perfect arrangement.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to get the illusion back,” Astarion mused, shaking a loose bit of stinking muck off of his boot.
“You complain a great deal,” Lae’zel observed.
The Gur was - well, what did he expect? They probably loved places like this. “Itinerant monster hunters”; what a nice way of saying “self-righteous mercenaries.” Cazador would remember how much he hated them.
Cazador never missed a chance to remind them how unsafe they were without him.
Fortunately, it seemed that Astarion had found a much more tractable source of protection. He didn't even need to ask; he just shot the Dark Urge an alarmed look when the hunter mentioned his name, and the alpha tore the man apart like it made a difference, how many pieces they left him in.
Astarion shivered pleasantly. All that violence, just for him. The Durge hadn’t even waited to hear the terms of Cazador’s offer. He’d seen a potential threat to Astarion’s well-being, and simply destroyed it without further prompting. Astarion felt valuable. Cared for. Important.
Remember days in the dark. Remember that nothing good lasts. Remember that no one else is going to save you. Remember that no one else is worth suffering for.
But was that true, still? Hadn’t the rules changed?
Astarion picked up the man's crossbow and didn't bother trying to hide his smug smile from the others.
When the Dark Urge was finished tearing the corpse into confetti, Astarion was there waiting for him - hip cocked, bottom lip between his teeth, throat subtly bared. Sex was an easy thing to offer, in exchange for this kind of loyalty.
You could almost see the gears shifting in the Durge's head as he took Astarion in, bloodlust mutating seamlessly into regular lust. The slightly feral glint in his eye remained, but his attention was wholly Astarion’s.
“Magnificent work, darling.” Astarion purred, drawing him in for a deep, sensual kiss.
He tasted like blood, like Astarion’s, and when his fingers brushed over Astarion's bonding site, the omega let his body melt into the Durge's. It wasn’t a decision so much as it was a fact: he trusted the Durge. Pleasure coursed through his veins, so warm and secure and perfect he felt weak at the knees.
“I would never have let him hurt you,” The Durge promised, tucking his face against Astarion's neck.
“Of course you wouldn't,” Astarion agreed, slightly drunk on it. “I can always count on you. You'd kill anyone for me, wouldn't you?”
“Anyone,” he agreed mindlessly, catching Astarion's mouth in another searing kiss.
When they broke apart again, the alpha already looked half-way undone. His face was flushed, eyes bright and swallowed up by pupil, lips parted as he panted for breath.
Astarion held him by the chin and wiped the speckled diet and blood from his face with the soft edge of his sleeve.
“Tonight,” He said, a promise of his own. “I want you. I want to show you how grateful I am.”
“Yes,” the Durge breathed.
“Will you let me have you?” Astarion asked. It only seemed fair - the Durge had certainly earned it now.
The Durge's face grew rapt, breath shallow.
“Breathe, pet.” Astarion admonished him, his smirk curling all the way through the words. “Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
Astarion didn't think he was entirely to credit for the Durge's enthusiasm to get them out of the swamp, but there was a certain freneticity to every sweeping blow of his warhammer that was impossible to credit to his usual bellicism.
Fortunately for their plans, the hag went down easily - or at least, easily enough that there were no major injuries to complicate matters.
They even made it back to camp with enough time to bathe in the river while the sun was still up. However much he missed the dorm bathtub with its heated water and quality soap, this was the superior luxury for the simple fact that Cazador couldn't ever have it.
It was easy, to slink away to the forest and wait for the Durge to find him there.
Violet cut herself. Dalyria danced about anxiously, eager to pacify any angry man ready to hurl abuse at her. Astarion slept with people he probably shouldn't have. They all had ways to cope with the things they did, the things that were done to them.
This was not that, not exactly.
Astarion didn't simply want to lose himself in the game of lust and satisfaction tonight. He wasn't trying to disappear inside hands and mouths and hungry promises, in the race to the moment when his bed would be cold and dark and utterly barren again.
This wasn't just another stranger, falling into his arms for one last night of pleasure before the trap closed tight forever.
This was the Dark Urge, the man who had saved his life more times than he wanted to enumerate for nothing more than this: Astarion’s body and all the beautiful lies it could tell, pressed willingly against his.
So he had some incentive, to make it good.
No, scratch that, better than good - he had to make it perfect, out of sheer possessive impulse. He had to ruin the Dark Urge for all other lovers.
He was no longer worried he'd end up strewn across the forest floor like that bard had. Arrogant perhaps, but Astarion trusted his intuition.
So it was with an unusual melange of enthusiasm, determination and nerves that he waited for the Dark Urge to find him.
The Dark Urge moved through the undergrowth with a fighter’s grace: with respect for sturdy foot placement, and none for discretion. Which is to say that his arrival was a deliberate and unmissable event.
Astarion slunk out from between the trees, his expression sultry, to lead the Dark Urge towards his extemporized bed (two bedrolls and a stray pillow).
“I've been waiting for you, since the moment I first laid eyes on you - waiting to have you,” He said.
His delivery was perfect, honed to a fine polish after years of repetition - so practiced he barely even heard the words leave his mouth. His focus was entirely on reading the Durge's body, and right now it said push.
“So take me,” the Dark Urge said, eyes raking over Astarion's body but lingering on his mouth.
Taking his cue, Astarion surged into him. He took the alpha's head in both hands, directing the kiss, making it as hungry and deep as he could make it. The Durge's hands settled on his hips with a slight deference that made him growl with pleasure.
Gods, it felt good to be in control, even just for the evening, even just for pretend.
Stripping a lover of their clothes without breaking the flow of a kiss was another of the many useless skills Astarion excelled at. But still, little things kept throwing him off. The hard planes of the Dark Urge's stomach distracted him from his mission to unfasten his trousers. The slow, deliberate stroke of a hand along his ear made him fumble like a drunkard over a row of buttons. And when Astarion slid a hand into the Durge's trousers and the man thrust into his grip with an eager moan - well.
Astarion pushed back from the Durge with a hand on his chest, needing to see his handiwork. All things considered, he'd done fairly well. The Durge was shirtless, at least, and his trousers were half-addressed, held up only by the thick circumference of his thighs. Most importantly, his cock hung out, heavy with arousal and beautifully proportioned.
Astarion took it in hand again, relishing the firm heat, the familiar, mouth-watering weight of it.
“You're perfect,” He groaned and then, as that seemed like that was insufficiently alluring, added, “It's like the gods made you to tempt me.”
The Dark Urge hummed a pleased note. He kicked off his trousers, and then he was utterly bare. The heat rolling off his body seemed scorching.
Astarion, lightly peeved that he hadn't been the one to fully disrobe him, said, “On your knees.”
The Dark Urge obeyed. Astarion took a step back to appreciate the view.
There is something overwhelming about seeing the Durge naked. The mind rebelled against seeing so much force packed into the skin of a single man-shaped creature, as though it couldn't quite believe someone was allowed to grow so large. His body made no secret of the violence it promises, all hard muscle and thick scars.
And yet it was not violence the Dark Urge had come seeking. He'd gone to his knees willingly, his cock a thick, red testament to how badly he wanted Astarion inside him.
Astarion couldn't pretend that he wasn't equally eager for it.
He allowed the Dark Urge to draw him nearer by the back of his thighs. The alpha, always so touch-hungry, nuzzled his face against Astarion's slim stomach.
“My vicious guard dog,” Astarion cooed, running a hand through the Durge’s surprisingly soft hair.
He'd cried out at the first finger inserted in him, raw and unaffected. His body trembled faintly, as though this had never been asked of it and it didn't know how to respond. Astarion gave him a moment to adjust, only faintly bitter that someone could be so wholly unaccustomed to the idea of being fucked.
Eventually, with careful massaging and far more patience than Astarion knew he possessed, the Durge relaxed into it. With each finger added, the alpha unwound a touch more, until his head was pillowed on his arms as he rocked back into Astarion's hand, on hips canted at an obscene angle.
“Gods, fuck, Astarion. Please.”
“Very good pet - that was almost a full sentence.”
The Durge glared at him, the force of it somewhat undercut by the way he had to tip his head back to see him.
“Fuck me.” He insisted.
“What if I didn't?” Astarion mused, crooking his fingers just so, “What if I kept you like this, until you came on fingers?”
“Ah - then I'd,” the Durge paused.
For someone so well-versed in describing ways he'd take Astarion, he seemed unable to come up with a way that he could force Astarion’s cock into his own body.
“Can't think of a way to knot yourself out of this one? Try this: beg me to fuck you.”
The Durge ground his teeth, needy and furious about it. “Please.”
“You want an omega to fuck you?” He teased.
“I want you to fuck me. I want you, inside me. I want your cock inside me, your cum.” Gods, the mouth on him.
That was, apparently, the most Astarion could take. It didn't feel as much like victory as it did like desperation, greasing up his cock and sliding smoothly into the Durge's waiting body.
The utterly shameless moan it punched out of the Durge went a decent ways towards making him feel in control again
“It's you,” the alpha said, sounding almost drunk on having Astarion's cock inside him.
Astarion loved topping, though he rarely got the chance. Few people followed an omega home without intending to fuck him. Savouring the tight heat around his cock, Astarion ran a slow, possessive hand up the Durge's scarred back until he could hold the man firmly by the neck. You couldn't gentle an alpha, not the same way you can make an omega melt into submissive goo just by pressing a thumb against their bonding site, but you could sometimes short-circuit their brains a little bit.
It seemed to work well enough now - the Durge sucked in an overwhelmed little gasp as Astarion gripped his neck tightly and pulled him back onto Astarion's slim cock.
“Just like that.” He praised the alpha, “You're taking me so well.”
“It feels good,” the Durge marveled, his back curving into a mating arch on some long-buried instinct.
It took Astarion a few experimental thrusts, but he soon found his angle, the one that would have the Durge crying out for more.
Even laid out beneath him, The Durge was still twice his size and built like a deep rothe. He seems at risk of overbalancing Astarion with a too-eager thrust backwards, so Astarion nudged his legs wider and crowded forwards until the Durge could barely balance on his knees, let alone slam his meaty ass into Astarion's hips.
The trembling was back, as even the Durge's over-developped muscles start shaking from the pseudo-plank position
And then the noises dropped off, until the Durge was just breathing harshly. It felt like he was losing the Durge somewhat, like he was fading away some place else. The thought infuriated him. He was here fucking the Durge - it wasn’t not fair for the alpha to disappear somewhere else.
So it was with more vehemence than was, perhaps, strictly wise that Astarion snarled, “Is this everything you thought it would be? Being my pretty little omega bitch?”
The Dark Urge seemed to have lost every word except curses, but those fell from his lips with a sort of free-form poetry, a parallel dialect that effectively communicated his utter contentment with the way events have unfolded.
This reaction was considerably more to Astarion's tastes, so he continued, “Want me to claim you? Want me to knot you and breed you full of my pups?”
“Fucking please. Make me yours, I want to be yours, only yours,”
Astarion pulled him upright by the shoulder, then held him in position by the throat
His body was a tapestry of the violence it had endured. Scars old and new covered his skin, weaving a tale of hard use and mortal peril. A thick divot, inches from the spinal column, where a knife bit deep but failed to sever the nerves. Pale dots in the curve of teeth around his forearm.
Astarion added a new set - puncture wounds, sunk deep into his neck, just edging over towards where a mating bite might sit. There's nothing to break but skin, no way to chemically bond the alpha to him and him alone, but even the idea of it is so hot Astarion finds himself coming unintentionally.
“Fuck,” he groaned through a mouthful of flesh and blood. His hips stuttered to a halt, just for a moment, so he could savour the exquisite feeling of being buried deep in the alpha as his pleasure found him.
“Did you just come?” The Durge asked, his hushed tone bordering on reverent.
“Yes,” Astarion slurred, body still thrumming with his climax.
“Oh,” the Durge said, like one receiving a holy anointing. “Don't pull out yet - I want to come like this, with you inside me”
“And your blood on my lips?”
The Durge swore again, voice breaking.
“Don't worry, I've got you.” Astarion said, with heady, possessive delight.
He finally reached an arm around the Durge's thick torso, fisting his cock in one hand in counterpoint to his short, perfectly calculated thrusts.
Astarion was over sensitive to the point of discomfort and his arm ached from reaching around, but that was nothing to the feel of the Dark Urge breathing hard below him. He shifted his hand on the the Durge’s throat, not to restrict his breath, but to dig his thumb hard enough against his quick drumming pulse to interfere with the blood flow. The Durge tightened around him, breath ragged, on the very edge of finishing.
And for all his growing discomforts Astarion nearly didn't want it to end. He wanted to stopper this moment forever. With the Dark Urge in his arms, half sobbing with new-learned pleasure, he felt like he could do anything. Like he'd never known fear or deprivation, like he'd never been anyone's victim.
His grip tightened almost without him realizing it.
“Please,” the Durge croaked, voice constricted by Astarion’s tight hold.
His face was a delicious shade of red, edging towards violet, and Astarion held him there a moment longer. The alpha shuddered, lip between his teeth, as close to passing out as he was to coming.
“Please,” he begged again, mindlessly, as though even he didn't know if he was begging to finish or to breathe or to die right there in Astarion's arms.
“You sound beautiful,” Astarion cooed possessively in his ear, unable to stop himself, “All broken for me.”
“Fuck,” the Durge sobbed, and from his bitten lips the soft curse was higher praise than any he'd ever received.
Astarion bit him again, savagely, higher on his neck where everyone would see and everyone would know who the Dark Urge belonged to. The burst of hot blood in his mouth gave him the strength of will to ease his grip, to let the alpha breathe, to put his hands to their proper use and bring the Durge to climax.
The Dark Urged finished with a half-choked cry, spilling hot and wet over Astarion's fist. Astarion stroked him through it. The Durge sagged back against him, thoroughly spent, every muscle trembling. His head tipped back against Astarion's shoulder, and Astarion felt the alpha laugh almost as much as he heard him.
“Fuck,” the Durge said again, with relaxed good humour, scrubbing his face with a massive hand. “You are good at that.”
“I told you so,” Astarion smirked. “When have I ever lied to you?”
Astarion pulled out gingerly, unable to stop himself from touching the Durge's entrance, where he'd just been. Hells.
"Almost seems a pity I can't knot you," he mused.
“We would make such beautiful children,” the Durge said, stretching languidly.
That startled a laugh out of Astarion. “I'm not sure you have the build for catching, but I'm happy to keep trying.”
Then began the tawdry business of tidying and redressing, truncated somewhat out of respect for the tremendously long day they'd had. It was well that he’d brought blankets enough to sleep on; he didn’t fancy a walk back to the camp, not yet. Astarion found himself on his back, the Durge's furnace of a body curled over and around his. It should have felt restrictive, but instead it just felt - correct.
He returned the embrace, possessively clutching the Durge to him.
Astarion should know, better than anyone, how meaningless claims of ownership based on any sex acts were. And yet.. He felt an unfamiliar degree of ownership now that he'd actually fucked the Dark Urge. Now that he'd deflowered the Dark Urge, properly, thoroughly, and wasn't that a pleasant thought.
“How do you feel?” Astarion asked, tracing the swollen flesh around the bite marks high on the Durge's neck with a cold finger.
They were inescapably vampire bites. There wasn't much chance of explaining them away. He still couldn't bring himself to regret his actions. He was going to have to do something come morning, but with the Durge onside he felt only a fraction of the fear he ought to. Astarion would play the victim, the Dark Urge would threaten everyone with physical violence if they complained, and it would all work out.
“Good. I feel like - I feel like I'm yours, you know?” The Dark Urge toyed with the marks as well with far less gentleness, pressing his fingers against the wounds hard enough to reopen them.
“Like I - oh.” He cut off as Astarion drew his bloody fingers to his lips, carefully sucking them clean.
“Yes?”
“Like I belong to you.”
“I like the sound of that,” Astarion smiled.
“I love you,” The Dark Urge said, as earnestly as ever.
You don't even know me, Astarion thought. He wanted so badly to be known.
“I love you too,” Astarion replied smoothly. He was not afraid of being caught out in the lie - he had spoken that line too many times to stumble over it now.
But for the first time in decades, it did cause him to feel an uncomfortable twist of guilt.