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todderwodders · 6 months

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Hello! I see so many bits about your Durge and they're so juicy. Changling? PARENT? Can you tell us more about them and their relationships to the other chosen and Orin?

Omg hiiiiiiiii

So. This durge was born from an idea that the Dark Urge could be anyone, would be anyone, and is inherently a faceless entity with no name nor creed beyond death. They are an interrogation of gender, intimacy, and what it looks like to be a child of a god who can peek into your brain at any given time. There’s a darkness inside of you that’s inside of me.

If you enjoy this very long breakdown, check out Libations, which will be updated soon!

Let’s start from the beginning, one more time.

I will clarify some things before hoping into lore: I use he/they in meta because the urge uses he/they pronouns personally, but they almost universally allow other people to assume their pronouns/refers to himself as ‘this one’ or ‘this child’. He appears, largely, as a tiefling male, an ambiguously gendered elven adolescent, and a human woman. All of them are pale, all of them black eyed, all of them closely tied to the urge’s identity. The Urge is roughly in his mid 40s by the time of bg3’s events.

The Urge, was not born, The Urge was planted, seeded in the flesh of a newly sculpted infant and made to bloom under the conditions of puberty and awareness and crushing expectation. The Urge was gifted, in the mysterious ways of gods, to a family of doctors within the Lower City, and raised as one of several adopted children. They were well educated. They were loved. They knew nothing of hunger but everything of the human body and it’s inner workings, and the way to breath through the decay and clinging stench of bloating corpses in the summer, when not even their false father’s cellar could delay rot for long. Even in youth, their genius and calm understanding of the raw, sinew stringy facts of life impressed and inspired their foster parents.

Their entire childhood and young adulthood was virtually a carefully constructed test to measure this ideal by Bhaal himself - or so he claims. This is an aspect of Dead Three lore I really want to play with - the gods are former men, and even if they weren’t, like many living creatures they are stupid and cruel and thoughtless. They just have enough power to make people think otherwise. Bhaal robs The Urge of their innocence in all things, slowly, and has convinced then he is all powerful in doing so.

Killing is easy. It’s hurting that’s hard. They come into their menstruation and their skin splits in ways yet unknown to them, spikes and open mouths. Something bloody slips from their body - they do not recognize it as a living thing until they find bloody foot prints where it fell. They are reminded viscerally of calves or colts or other animal things - which means they are that animal things mother, away backed filly bred too soon. The Urge culls their false family and makes it look like an accident later. Everyone thinks werewolf or beast, not child. They scrub the walls clean themselves. They find a new tutor for their medical training, and they carry on, and live next to the shadow of their new self.

The Urge was summoned for his true purpose years later, when they were more adult than child. They put down his old life’s name and the body and face that went along with it, and embraced The Urge. Primal, refined, savage and clinically precise - a knife in the dark and the hand that wields it.

The twist is is that The Urge is still mortal and still a person because he exists within the context and confines of a mortal world - he prefers his fluid body and murderous faces, but is a man at heart, he bathes in ritual blood and lives in dark places but still retains encyclopedic knowledge of rose care from his adoptive mother and cultivates them in Gortash’s garden, etc. a killer that has lived the good parts of life, and understands the world in a much wider capacity, for good or ill, than most people. Life clings. Life informs.

The Urge was created to be in direct opposition to sarevok and his brood - a kind of built in drama for Bhaal to follow as his own progeny makes their way about the world. He and Sarevok hate each other, and do not see eye to eye on almost anything beyond the service of their mutual lord. The cult is split into two unspoken factions in this regard - a conflict that is repressed so thoroughly that no outsider has any real concept of it’s going on beyond some guesses by astute associates.

The urge is a ranger-rogue, classes that greatly affect their leadership and religious theory as it pertains to the running and organization of the Bhaalist cult. He wants to make them ‘true hunters, not scavengers in the bleak midwinter hoping to nip at the weakest heel available’. Implying scavenging, implying wasteful, implying breeding into oblivion when the circle of blood and prestige eventually becomes too rotten to expand on itself.

A huge snub to Sarevok, who understands exactly what The Urge drives at with their schemes. For someone who is virtually a demigod, The Urge goes out of their way to cultivate a ‘pack’ mentality and ensure the basics of running and organizing of a group of people - the Bhaalists who adhere to his way of thinking are, and I mean this with caveats so long they look like terms and conditions page, good to each other, but everyone else is liable to become prey. They are family, they feed each other and kill for each other. They are soooo good at cult retention rates, it makes Sarevok look stupid.

Which is the point. It’s really hard for sarevok to control this very strong willed, well educated, emotionally unstable individual with very little compunctions about blatantly but slowly edging him out of power. The only one with any real power over The Urge is Bhaal. The urge is terrified of their father even as they act as dutiful son and priest, but does his bidding to the letter.

They have very lofty ways of speaking and very needle meets thread ways of going about things to get what they want. They twist pre existing doctrine to their liking, they grab at whatever they need and do not let go. I personally with the inbetweens of human experience, the middle ways, if you will, and I really wanted to make a Dark Utgr that walks in a strange veil of emotional ambiguity, rather than binary morality, even before the lobotomy. No one can truly understand all of them because he’s just the demigod they cling to, not a real person, and that’s how they want to keep it, that’s how they keep their power over others.

I think consciously, they became aware that escape is impossible very early on, and Bhaal’s influence will never slacken, but there’s always a little bit of rebellion brewing at the back of their mind anyhow. The clever child changes shape until they can slip their hands through the bars and feel the sweet breeze of the world they used to know. Bhaal is always willing to remind him who he is and what he is. Not because they don’t like killing, murder is a genuine pleasure and an easy, modern solution to their myriad of modern problems, they just don’t like being told what to do and they certainly would not be a cult leader in the sewer if they had the choice.

As an example, part of their obsession with taxidermy and autopsy is born out of a genuine fixation with medicine and the humanoid body. They have truly ground breaking notes and papers that could only be achieved through inhumane torture and misery that they guard jealously.

They were born, primarily, to propagate Bhaalspawn, with fate killing off all but the one that was conceived in … dubious circumstances. Which is how a changeling, against the laws of nature and the gods, gave birth to a Dragonborn with a red throat. There are children after that, but within five years of his son’s birth, they meet gortash, are elevated to chosen, and are gifted a new purpose. A sexual magnet. Bhaal Laura Palmer’d them so hard, another click in their choke chain collar. Now they’re just a dark venus in a dark sky.

Orin used to worship them like a mother-father and the urge used to dawn over her until she saw them break down and be human, just for an instant, at which point the hate was fucking real and solid from then on. The Urge - and this is a running theme here - thinks Orin wastes herself on a god who will never love her back. She’s brilliant but dumb, too desperate for approval when she could be making ‘real art’. They also think of Gortash in the same manner, and encouraged him to try to break from Bane at least once, which … wasn’t happening, and by then The Urgr was too obsessed with their friendship to really push it. In their eyes, it’s those such as himself that is designated by fate to kill and cull, and those who are blessed by the gods to create. These two idiots could be artists and inventors and instead they’re playing hopelessly devote child right next to him. It’s almost embarrassing. He’s also too selfish to ever make them turn from him in any way that matters.

And on the topic of Gortash … they are not normal about each other. They’re … ‘friends’ of 15 years and equals and they fuck routinely (‘be my seal wife for tonight, I’ll hang my skin at the door’) and plot to take over the world together but neither can truly possess the other while the other is shackled to his god so they just sit and commit tax fraud together, at the end of the day. Any explosive mutual destruction shit is long past. It is both hilarious and deeply fascinating for me for these two to have done some truly insane shit trying to cling to the other and it’s driven them so insane that they’re now like ohhhhh Enver dear if you must wed the patriar’s daughter I want to watch you fuck her on the wedding night. As your friend. And Gortash is just like sure man okay. Can do. Arguing over Gortash getting new drapes even though the urge doesn’t even live in his house. They aren’t for each other to keep in any substantial way and that’s fine, it’s life, moving on.

Unfortunately he and Kethric hate each other. They think the other is a terrible parent when ladies, you’re both awful in different, delicately flavored ways.

Also he loves pink.

#editing most of some pre existing text this is getting too long #bg3 #the dark urge #changeling dark urge #asks #my oc #resisting posting like fifty wips to go along with this #durgetash #if you think they’re old and amicably divorced #well. ‘old’ as in ‘old love’. old evil love.#also yes I’m bending the slayer lore a widdle. I think first periods deserve a free skin buster moment. my statement #redeemed durge #the urge and gortash in my beautiful post game canon: married to other people and swinging between #‘you were supoosed to stay celibate for the rest of your life you fuck’#and ‘normal. happy. no we aren’t extorting money or scheming’

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pessimisticromantic · 15 days

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Cold Body, Warm Blood Ch. 1

Words: 4.1k M/M Astarion x Redeemed Durge - 18+

Tags: Drama & Romance Slow Burn Past Abuse Past Sexual Abuse Past Torture Past Violence Blood and Violence Hurt/ComfortAngst and Hurt/Comfort Falling In Love Nightmares Blood Drinking Blood Kink Read on AO3 (recommended) Chapter 1 of ? (WIP)

Disclaimer: I own nothing other than my mind

A few spoilers for Act 1, but most of this nonsense is from my brain. (Apologies for any OOC, this is my first time writing Astarion)

Chapter 1: Blood Like Wine

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Tav stood in the middle of the goblin camp, multiple wounds covered his arms and torso. The viscera of goblins dripped off of his shaking fingertips. Blood matted his blonde hair and the furs of his lightweight armor. His chest heaved as he stared down at the broken body of Dror Ragzlin, the red mist of rage clouding his vision. His hands still felt the ghost of snapping bones, and the dark coiling thoughts in his mind flared with pleasure even through the haze of the blood rage. A small part of his mind recoiled from that darkness, disgusted and terrified of the intensity.

A concerned voice called out his name, and the back of his mind knew it was Shadowheart, but the rage had a strong grip. A few more murmured words and then a blur of white entered the corner of his vision. Tav whirled, raising one of his bloodied hand axes, and came face to face with the pale elf. Astarion. His crimson eyes were wary, but his voice was flippant, "Shall we get a move on, then? I fear the stench will cling to my clothes if I have to stay in this rank place any longer."

Tav blinked, the red mist clearing enough for him to reign in the dark thoughts and desires. He was bone weary, the exhaustion of his rage hitting him hard enough to cause him to stumble. Astarion darted forward, steadying the large half-elf barbarian. Tav straightened, flashing a tired smile at Astarion, who rolled his eyes in response and stepped back. Shadowheart stepped forward laying a hand on Tav's forearm, whispering a word as blue light flared underneath her hand, rushing up Tav's arm to begin healing his wounds. He could feel some of his exhaustion abating though a couple of the wounds still stayed open and angry, refusing to heal completely.

"Sorry, that's all I've left in me for today. Let's get back to camp and we can get the rest patched up," she said.

"You mean, I'll patch him up," Astarion corrected. He was the resident surgeon when magic and potions didn't quite finish the job. He preferred to mend the camp clothes, compared to skin, but had become quite skilled at the task.

Shadowheart barked out a short laugh and agreed with the vampire spawn. Tav turned his attention to their resident warlock who was searching through the dead, partly to make sure they were, in fact, all dead, and partly to look for any resources they could use. "Find anything of use, Wyll?" Tav said, sliding his two hand axes back into his broad leather belt.

The horned warlock stood from the body of a drow, brushing his hands off on his trousers as he did. "Not so much. A few weapons, a couple of potions, some rotten cheese." He approached the group, adjusting the knapsack he had thrown over his shoulder, "You took a beating for us today Tav. Let's head back to camp before darkness sets in. I want to get out of this armor and get clean. You look like you could sleep for a week."

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Immediately upon making it back to camp, Shadowheart pulled Tav to the campfire, Karlach joining them curiously. "Whew, you look a mess, soldier. Tough time with the goblins, then?" she asked, sitting down on the fallen log they used as a seat.

"Yeah, I lost myself for a bit and might have taken more hits than I should have. Thankfully Shadowheart's helped with the majority of the serious one," Tav replied, sheepish as he scratched the back of his head then winced at the pain the movement caused.

"Sit, Tav. Astarion, would you bring your needle and thread, please? Oh, Karlach, could you fetch some water and warm it," Shadowheart asked as she knelt, fussing over the amount of blood and gore that covered Tav and his clothes.

"Hot water, coming right up," Karlach said enthusiastically, moving to the cooking bag and retrieving a large dented pot before briskly heading towards the nearby river.

Astarion said nothing, just washed his hands in his water basin next to his tent, then ducked into the tent to grab his sewing kit. By the time he popped back out of his tent and made his way to the campfire, Karlach was back with the water and clean rags.

"Sit on the log, Tav, and strip out of those disgusting furs," Astarion said as he scrutinized the cuts left on Tav's body. Grabbing one of the clean rags Astarion dipped it quickly in the hot water Karlach had put near the log and moved back to the now-sitting Tav, nudging aside one of his knees with his leg so he could stand closer. Tav watched as the pale elf knelt between his knees and couldn't help the desire that flared to life in his stomach. Swallowing hard he kept as still as he could as Astarion proceeded to wipe away blood near his various cuts and wounds. Most of the cuts had been mostly healed by Shadowheart's magic, but a couple dribbled blood still and Astarion mumbled to himself about getting those sewn up first.

Karlach nudged Shadowheart, giving the cleric a conspiratorial look, before grabbing up Tav's furs. "Just gonna go get these cleaned up, right, Shadowheart?"

"Oh! Uhm, yes. Don't mind us," Shadowheart said as they moved away, giving the two men some privacy. Neither man noticed, Astarion just grunted and continued grumbling to himself, and Tav had a hard time keeping his eyes off of the rogue.

It was no secret in the camp that Tav and Astarion had some sort of delicate relationship. Everyone knew that Tav allowed Astarion to feed on him, and that wasn't the only physical thing they got up to in the middle of the night.

"Now then, stay still while I get these taken care of," Astarion said, glancing up at the larger half-elf. Tav's cheeks and ear tips were flushed and his blue eyes were intense. "My dear, now is not the time for you to be looking at me like that."

Tav's eyes widened in embarrassment, "Sorry, I just...you caught me by surprise. My mind's a bit of a mess today," he said as he averted his gaze, looking out at the slowly meandering river as the sun danced and sparkled across the placid current. Tav felt the sharp prick of the needle as Astarion began his work. The pain barely registered in his mind afterward, so he continued to watch the sunset, letting his mind and eyes wander.

This little ragtag group had gone through a lot in the time they'd banded together. Surviving a crashing nautiloid ship, bandits, goblins, shadow druids, and even a hag of all things. With the goblin camp now decimated and scattered, this small section of the Sword Coast might be safe for a little while. That thought stirred a blossoming of warmth in Tav's chest. Even with these dark urges, and incredibly horrific fantasies, he was still able to help those in need. It caused Astarion to grumble and complain about 'pathetic heroes', but the pale elf had still reached out to Tav, and he had a hard time saying no to Astarion.

Feeling the subject of his thoughts shift between his legs, Tav's eyes were drawn back to the vampire spawn. He watched as Astarion's cool, dextrous fingers gently wiped away residual blood from the freshly sewn cut. Another gentle prick of the needle and Tav's eyes followed Astarion's hands as he worked. Slowly Tav found his gaze trailing its way to Astarion's face. The dying sunlight bathed him in warm oranges and burning reds, giving his usually pale skin a gently warm glow. The sight caught Tav's breath in his chest and he couldn't help but be captivated by the beauty in front of him.

Tav drank in the sight. The crease between Astarion's eyebrows as he concentrated. The lines around his mouth as the rogue frowned gently. The glittering depths of his crimson eyes, the sunlight turning them into ruby gems, framed by his long black lashes. The bruised look of the skin under his eyes lent his face an almost constant state of presumed tiredness. The way his hair curled around his ears. Tav found himself fantasizing about running his hands through those silver waves and watching the sunlight shimmer off them. Of kissing the dark circles under Astarion's eyes and filling his lungs with the smell of rosemary and bergamot soap.

"If you keep looking at me like that, I'll never finish patching you up, darling," Astarion purred as his crimson orbs looked up to Tav's face from underneath his lashes, hands stilled in their work, mid-suture. Tav was spellbound, unable to look away, blink, or even breathe. The irrational desire to pull Astarion up to his lips was overwhelming, but Tav managed to fight it down, having a plethora of experience fighting urges. Astarion had an unreadable expression on his face as he searched Tav's face and was eventually satisfied before he looked back down at his work.

"Come to my tent tonight," Tav said quietly, taking a shuddering breath after Astarion finished tying off the suture, keeping his eyes on Astarion, watching carefully to see the elf's reaction.

Astarion sat back on his heels, appraising his handiwork with a critical eye. His mouth formed a thin line before replying, "As much as I would love to, I don't think tonight would be a good idea. You lost a lot of blood today. I also don't want you ripping your stitches after all of my hard work."

Tav reached out a hand and gently tilted Astarion's head up by his chin, capturing his attention, "Not for that. And not for sex. I just...I'd like your company tonight. It's been a rough day."

Astarion's nose crinkled as he sneered, "No sex or blood? I'm offended, darling. What else do I keep you around for if not to be at my beck and call whenever I so desire?"

Tav could tell he was making light of the situation and gave the elf a bashful smile dropping his hand back to his lap, "I know, I'm a weak man. Can you forgive me for such an inconvenience to your time?"

Snorting a laugh Astarion looked away, the last dying embers of the sun turning the world varying shades of red and purple. Tav's eyes traced Astarion's profile, seeing the soft upward curve of the corner of the rogue's mouth, and knew that he would say yes. "Fine. But I'll expect a snack tomorrow, quid pro quo and all that."

"Of course. Though I'll remind you, I volunteered willingly. My snacks are freely given. I don't expect or need anything in return."

Astarion's red eyes flicked back to Tav's blue ones, his eyebrows crinkling together in thought before he looked away and began gathering his supplies. "Make sure you go clean up first. You smell horrid."

Tav laughed loudly, enough to draw curious looks from a few of their campmates, then stood to fetch his soap and a spare change of clothes.

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Later that evening, Astarion found Tav down by the river, washing the pot, bowls, and spoons used for the stew that was dinner that night. The large half-elf was gently humming to himself as he crouched by the river, his hands submerged in the cold water as he gently rinsed the bowl. Astarion knew the barbarian hadn't noticed his presence yet, so he let his feet rustle a few leaves as he approached. It wouldn't do to surprise the half-elf and risk having a bowl to the face. Tav was exceptionally fast for such a large man. Astarion saw the subtle shift in Tav's posture and said, "Why is it, you always volunteer to do menial tasks around the camp? There are others that are perfectly capable of doing it."

Tav shifted so he could see Astarion from the corner of his eye, humming thoughtfully as he pulled the bowl from the water, "Hmmm, well I like to do it. It eases the other's burdens and costs me nothing. So why not?"

Astarion stayed silent, staring out at the water as the moonlight danced across the water, bathing the world in the greys of night. Tav watched fascinated by the contrast of the muted greys versus the gentle flickering oranges of the campfire behind the pale elf.

Tav could feel the tension rolling off the other man and quickly finished rinsing the dishes, stacking them in the well-used pot. He stood with the pot in his hands and turned to Astarion, feeling quite nervous about approaching the vampire spawn. "I lied. I-I'm sorry. I guess it's not quite a lie. More of an avoidance of the truth."

Astarion looked at Tav with a raised eyebrow, confusion wrinkling his forehead. "What?"

Shifting his weight, Tav swallowed hard and blurted out, "I volunteer because I hate myself for what I've done." Digging his fingers into the metal of the pot, he could feel it buckle just slightly to the pressure, "It's...it's my penance for...Alfira."

Astarion snorted, ridicule coloring his voice, "She's dead. She doesn't care what you do. Neither does anyone else in this camp. We're all just looking out for ourselves after all." He turned away from Tav's hurt expression, looking back towards the water and the slowly rising moon.

"I can't believe that, Astarion. If I do...I'm afraid of what I'd become. What I'd do to y-" Tav said desperately and choked off the end. He couldn't let Astarion know just how much he meant to him. Not yet, at least. Panic welled in his chest as he cleared his throat, "Everyone here is depending on me. Therefore, I need to lead accordingly." Adjusting his grip on the pot, he walked away, back towards the light of the campfire. Back towards the sounds of laughter and hope, leaving the vampire spawn to his thoughts.

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Tav slipped into his tent, letting the flap fall closed, blocking the majority of the light from the campfire, and muffling the sounds of Karlach, Wyll, and Gale chatting. Wyll had pulled out a lyre, from somewhere, and was attempting to tune it, which was giving Gale and Karlach a wonderful amount of enjoyment. Apparently, Wyll had once learned a few songs, but it had been years since the warlock had played.

Tav pulled off his off-white rough-sewn shirt, tossing it in the corner before he sat down on his bed rolls and furs. Looking down his fingers traced the stitches on his chest and abdomen. They were only slightly swollen and thankfully free of any angry red spots, so it was probably not infected. Heaving a sigh, he laid back folding his hands under his head as a makeshift pillow. He stared up at the tent ceiling. It had been quite a long day. He could feel the exhaustion beginning to crack through his willpower once again and his eyes fluttered closed. The sound of his friend's playful banter and the poorly tuned lyre faded into the background, as darkness enveloped his mind.

Tav's eyes snapped open, looking for the source of the noise. Seeing the darkened silhouette sliding into his tent, his heart thundered in his chest until a soft shushing sound came from the figure, "Shhhh. Wouldn't do to wake the rest of the camp, would it?"

Astarion.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Tav said sitting up. His tent was dark, and the campfire outside had settled into a low burn of embers and coals. He could make out the pale white shirt Astarion wore as it drifted closer.

"I told you would. I just needed to go get dinner for myself first," Astarion murmured, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. He sat down next to Tav, his cold fingers reaching out and gently touching the sutures he'd done earlier in the day. Tav realized Astarion had stopped pretending to breathe, his body still, his expression a confusing jumble of emotions.

Before Tav could react, Astarion spat out, his voice filled with venom as his face twisted into a vicious snarl, "You're incredibly stupid."

Leaning back from the vampire spawn's touch, Tav couldn't help the hurt he felt. He knew Astarion was just upset and attempting to take it out on him. Astarion's scornful face cracked again, the vulnerability peeking through the mask. He was afraid. Tav leaned forward again, pressing his chest against Astarion's cold fingers once more. "I am. But I like to think it's worth it. It keeps you all safe," Tav said gently, reaching up to cover Astarion's hand with his own. His heart was pounding and he knew the pale elf could feel it.

"You can't keep us safe if you're dead from a spear to the gut."

"A measly spear wound isn't enough to take me down and you know it."

Silence filled the tent as they sat together in the darkness. Astarion hadn't pulled away like he usually would. His cold hand was slowly warming from the contact with Tav's skin. "You're disgusting, darling," Astarion said defeatedly, all venom drained from his voice, "Disgustingly good. Heroic. Selfless. Why? Why do it?"

"If I don't, the darkness inside me wins," Tav replied, rubbing his thumb against the back of Astarion's hand, "Then the tadpole wins. I don't want to see that future. So, I fight it. With everything I have." Tav paused struggling to find the right words, "I'll admit. I do need help sometimes. I...I can't do this alone. That's why I put up with all of you weirdos."

Astarion chuckled, pulling his hand away to run it through his hair, the curls catching the dim light of the campfire outside. "Surely we don't need Gale, right?"

Tav snorted a laugh, falling back to the bedroll, "We do in fact need the wizard from Waterdeep. He's incredibly skilled."

Astarion leaned down, his face hovering over Tav's a smirk playing along his lips, "He's skilled, is it? In what might I ask? And how would you know?"

A mischievous grin slowly grew on Tav's face, "Oh wouldn't you like to know."

Astarion looked shocked at the suggestion, "I would never, with that windbag, he likes to hear himself talk too much. I prefer to hear myself talk."

Tav laughed and reached up sliding a hand up to the side of Astarion's neck, feeling the slight bumps of the bite scars from Cazador, giving Astarion the chance to pull away or agree to the intimacy. He never wanted Astarion to feel forced into interactions with him. Tav's heart had broken when Astarion told him what Cazador had put him through for 200 years. He knew there was more the pale elf wasn't revealing, but Tav had his own demons and dark urges he had to wrestle with. He understood how tough it was to be vulnerable with others.

Astarion slowly lowered himself further, until his lips ghosted across Tav's own. Anticipation and desire tangled in Tav's stomach, as he could smell the rich rosemary and bergamot soap Astarion had made during downtime at the camp. Their eyes were locked together and Astarion whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he purred out, "Darling, I thought I told you, you need rest tonight."

Tav licked his lips, biting his bottom lip before he replied, "You did, yes. I, however, am an incredibly stubborn and stupid man."

The dim light caught a shine in Astarion's eyes as they narrowed, appraising the half-elf below him. Tav stared up at him, his face open and relaxed, though the jumping muscle of his jaw told the truth of his inner emotions. Astarion let the man squirm a few more heartbeats then he said softly, "Then I will be gentle," before he finally pressed his lips to Tav's as he straddled the larger man. Desire welled within him, feeling the half-elf below him, willing and ready. Tav's heat was almost too much to bear as Astarion ran his hands along the other man, reveling in his strong body. Tav's hands buried into Astarion's silver locks, fingernails gently scratching against his scalp, applying just enough pressure to elicit a moan from Astarion's lips. The pale elf flung himself back, pulling himself halfway off of Tav before his mind even registered.

"Astarion?" Tav asked, bewildered as he sat up, one hand froze in the space between them, like he had reached out but stopped himself from completing the touch. His pupils were dilated so much that his eyes almost looked black in the darkness.

Astarion fought the roiling emotions inside his gut, frozen in place, crouched near the closed flap of the tent. He thought that perhaps, this one was different. It felt different. It felt nice, comforting, and dare he think it...safe. And yet the self-hatred, loathing, and disgust had exploded through him the moment he allowed himself to feel and enjoy the moment.

Tav was kneeling in front of him now, not touching, but close enough that Astarion could feel the warmth radiating off the man. "'Star, you're shaking. Is-Is it the tadpole? What do you need me to do," Tav asked, his voice wavering just enough to betray his worry. His eyes were still wide, but Astarion could now see the deep blue again, and for some reason that comforted the vampire spawn.

He was able to breathe again, even though his lungs required no air, the comfort of the familiar helped to ground him again. Shame flooded through him, he should have never let himself get into this situation. "I can't do this," he groaned weakly, his voice shaking.

Tav's face grew pained, and Astarion felt a surge of panic, he couldn't lose Tav, his protection. The artifact Tav now carried kept them all safe, so long as they stayed under its protection. If Tav became displeased and Astarion shivered at the thought. "I'm sorry, what I meant is I need a moment, to...collect myself," he said again his voice stronger as he began to build his walls back up, the creep of cold numbness spreading in his chest. He would do what he had to, to stay safe. He slid to his knees, his hand reaching for Tav's trouser laces. He couldn't look at the half-elf, afraid of what his eyes might betray.

Tav grabbed Astarion's wrist, halting the other man's movement. "Astarion, look at me. Please." Astarion flinched hearing the pain in Tav's voice and slowly met the other man's gaze. "I can't begin to know what all you've gone through, 'Star, but you don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Tav said gently, sliding his hands to cradle Astarion's hand, "I would never force your hand. If that means we take it slow, or not at all, I won't begrudge you that autonomy."

Astarion's vision blurred and he realized, he was crying. Him. Crying. Ridiculous. And yet he couldn't reign them in as they fell unbidden and before he knew it Tav had pulled him into a hug, crooning soft words of comfort into his hair. It was so warm, and gentle and Astarion felt the dam release as sobs wracked his body.

"I'm with you 'Star. Through whatever you need, always. I promise you that."

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