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uh-wriring · 5 months

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Dark Urge/Gortash

Just a Drabble I cant get out of my head- Durge is able to recover more of his memories along his travels back to Baldurs Gate, and Orin doesn’t bother telling Gortash that her kin has returned.

“Hello, Lordling”

The Dark Urge, Son of Bhaal, Nox leans back against the old, mahogany desk in his dear friend, Gortash’s office where he’s been waiting, ever patiently, for the tyrant to arrive.

It’s luxurious to a point Nox had once found gaudy, but the room gives him a warm feeling in his chest now. Some parts of his memories echo through his empty brain as mere feelings and impressions. Some remain vivid, yet the bulk of what he could access shows glimpses of his life only in the months before Orin’s attack, but he knows they go deeper. Flashes of late night scheming, shared heists, interrogations, pools of blood, carefully plotted assassinations, then, the smell of avernus clinging to their skin amidst a first kiss. All of it went back to him- Gortash, not Bhaal. Not his fathers wishes or the Urge or even the temple. Everything in Nox’s empty brain was bringing him here.

He let his companions greet the new archduke on their own, but he watched from the shadows, the disappointment in Gortash’s eyes betraying the tyrant, but this was a meeting better had in privacy. The very same newly coronated archduke stands in front of him now for the first time in only the gods know how long.

“Fuck off,” Gortash grumbles, a tight frown on his face. The large double doors of the office swing closed behind him. As their eyes meet, Nox can see the extent of exhaustion that permeates the tyrant’s being. Circles much darker than usual shroud his near-black eyes. His hair had grown in the past two months, resting on his collarbones in disarray. Even the way he breathes sings of discontent.

Nox tilts his head, unmoving from his spot on the lord’s desk “Not the welcome home I was hoping for. I can understand your anger, but-”

“-Orin” the duke hisses sharply, “I have better things to do than this. As do you. Make yourself useful for once.”

Orin. Something in Nox’s chest sinks with the realization, “She’s been mocking you with my face? Gods- I’m going to kill that inbred little bitch the second I see her” he growls.

That earned a raised eyebrow from Enver, but the duke keeps wary eyes trained on his assassin “I’m not playing your games this time” he sighs.

“I assure you, Enver, I am not here to play games.”

Nox watches as Gortash moves across the room to his liquor cabinet against the wall, fine wood gilded in gold. The duke’s eyes stay trained on him, even as he begins to pour a glass of fine, amber whiskey. “Yes, yes, you will slash me in two, bathe in my blood, and what was it-” Gortash pauses to take a long, slow sip, sighing once again “-wear my intestines as a scarf? No matter- all the same, uncouth drabble with you.”

“Not until the end. And not like that. I won’t kill you until- unless we are the last two living in all the realm. First you, then me.” Nox clenches his fingers, his jaw tightening and untightening as he feels the images of Enver’s death set in behind his eyes. The Urge whispers for him to take the Banite now, but he knows better. He takes a slow, deep breath, reaching instinctively to the band around his wrist. He focuses on the feelings to ground himself for a moment before continuing. “I believe that was the promise I made you before- Well, things are hazy- a lobotomy does that to you.”

Enver stops, his glass half raised to his lips as his eyes widen. Nox can nearly see his thoughts, debates. He’s questioning if Orin could have such knowledge, if Orin could keep calm this long in a conversation, if Orin could push down her Urge. Nox gives a lopsided smile as he continues. “I don’t remember everything, but I remember you. I came back for you- to stand by you. As we are meant to be.”

It only takes a few seconds for Gortash to cross the room, his glass crashing into the golden tray below it, well abandoned; and Nox smiles, allowing his shirt collar to be grasped tightly in the duke’s hands. Gortash crowds his space, leering at him. There’s venom in his expression, but just below that lies hope.

“Prove it or die.”

How many times had Orin tried this? How many times did she dangle Nox in front of Enver? Did she pretend to return to him just like this? Or simply take his form to berate the tyrant lord? The thought makes the teifling’s blood boil. But he will save that rage for later.

Nox huffs out a chuckle, “If I were Orin, I would have my fucking dagger, and this goddamn tadpole wouldn’t be in my head, Enver.”

His words are enough, and Gortash yanks the collar of his shirt forward until they are pressed against each other, their lips colliding in a rough, forceful kiss that dissolves into desperation. For Nox, it’s familiar and new all at once as if he were acting out a scene he had only seen in a play; he knew Enver’s taste, his smell, the way he was rough and gentle all at once. Yet, feeling it rather than seeing it through a haze of lost memories and confusion was enough to make his knees weak.

“You have a tadpole in your head. You gods damned idiot.” Enver smiled against his lips, words devoid of venom. His hands move up to cup Nox’s face, warm gold of Gortash’s gauntlets pressing against his cheeks. “I have missed you so, my dearest.”

“I missed you, too.” Nox chuckles, and his cheeks warm up as if the words were meant to stay inside his mind- as if he was supposed to be ashamed by such thoughts, but the way Enver pulls him closer makes him think perhaps it is okay not to be ashamed about some things. Perhaps, whatever lingering worry circles in his mind from before does not matter anymore.

#op. op. my dear op. your brain is wrinkly. i love the way gortash reacted and the idea that orin pretended to do this with him before is #just amazing #rb #durgetash #bg3

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uh-wriring · 6 months

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Family matters.

m!(trans)Dark Urge x Enver Gortash.

Brainworms finally got to me, I caved in and wrote a oneshot on the topic of "but what if Durge and Gortash had a child prior to all that mess"

Featuring my Dark Urge Levi, pre- and post- memory loss.

There was a living, breathing infant child in his arms; and for the first time in a long while Lord Enver Gortash was in complete loss at what to do.

“What is it?” fell rather flat down, a poor excuse of a question.

Leviathan rolled his eyes.

“A meaty flesh of some newly created life,” he huffed, visibly annoyed. “Also known as a child. I assume you’ve met their kind?”

Enver felt anger rise alongside with deeply rooted annoyance. Whatever spectacle the bhaalspawn decided to partake in, now was not the time for that. Neither it was the time for his witty itty remarks.

“I am well aware it’s a child,” he argued back just as sullenly, the said child held loosely in his arms. In his arms. Why was there a child in his arms? They were not made for holding babies.

“I’m asking why is it a child and why is it here. The questions any sane person in my place would indulge in.”

There was something...off about the bhaalspawn.

Not only Enver hadn’t seen the man for almost the entity of a year, an assassin always claiming some task of utmost importance, but now he decided to pop out of the thin air with a live child in a tow and immediately push said child into his, Enver Gortash’s, not so open arms.

It was alarming, to say the least.

“Oh, that,” Levi waved him off like it was a casual annoyance and not a conversation two adults, so-conspirers - partners - had. Like Gortash imposed himself into his free time and personal space and not the other way around. “It’s yours.”

It’s what?

“Or at least I assume it’s yours,” Leviathan followed as Enver’s thoughts came to a rapid halt. “Since I haven’t touched anyone alive but you in a long time. And look where it led me,” the look of pure disdain was all the child was getting, it seemed. “A freshly made meaty cage for a new soul. Disgusting. You’d think Father would make this shit stop and would not allow a child of banite to be born, but I guess any bhaalspawn is a good little pawn under his merciful gaze. Anyway,” a wild, excusing gesture of a hand. “I don’t have any use for this...thing. Sceleritas suggested to bring it into the fold and let my men do all the work, but well, the bother. So you can take it instead,” a winning smile what would work wonders if not for the whole absurdity of the situation Gortash just found himself in. “Think of it as of a gift. A proof of my loyalty to our cause, hm?”

Sometimes the bastard was more annoying than he was charming and his presence took a toll on the man.

Sometimes Enver wanted nothing more than to break Levi’s pretty slender neck.

That was one of these times.

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Oh, whatever you want,” another wide, generous gesture. This asshole truly thought of that...child as if of a gift to be given away, didn’t he?

Enver shouldn’t have been surprised, not really, he knew Leviathan’s stance on children.

“Taste good, not much of use when alive, it’s funny when they die first” – was as good of a take as one could expect from the leader of the Cult of Murder.

“You can throw it away or feed it to the dogs. You can raise it or give it to a hag or even sell it to the devil,” another smile that’s more malicious than anything else. “I don't really care, if I'm being honest.”

Unfortunately, killing a bhaalspawn when you were holding just another bhaalspawn would prove to be close to impossible.

It would have to wait, and Leviathan Anchev still had his uses, bratty as he was.

And his appeal, as deadly as that ordeal proved to be. Or how complicated.

A child, huh? Well, Enver supposed every ruler needed an heir.

“Bring me the wizard,” was the first order out of his mouth when bhaalspawn left. The child was safely given into the care of the first competent older servant, who looked just as bewildered as Gortash himself felt. “Tell him to scan the...the-“

“The boy, my lord.”

“Right, tell the mage to scan the boy’s heritage. Let’s find who his parents are, shall we?”

Trusting a psycho murderer was an awful idea even at the safest of times, and now were not those. Levi would lie just to fuck with Enver. Levi had to lie, because there was no way this infant boy was actually his, Enver’s, flesh and blood.

***

Leviathan Anchev did not lie.

***

Levi moved away to sprawl his body across the bed, the creature of leisure he was. He sniffed the air and then wrinkled his nose, closer to an animal than any other person Gortash has ever known. More appealing in that, in his beast-like fluid grace.

“You still have this thing around,” the man commented, frowning. “Why? Playing the dollhouse? How...quant.”

“This thing has a name,” Enver couldn’t not parry. “Noah.”

Leviathan groaned.

“Oh, spare me the details; I want nothing to do with that flesh meat. Having to carry it inside my body for almost a year was a bother enough. Almost cut it out myself on multiple occasions, but Sceleritas insisted the internal damage I’d deal would be too great to handle. Idiot.” A moment of a thoughtful pause.

“You know what my destiny is, right?”

A searching gaze, reaching hands, clawed fingers cupping Enver’s cheeks almost gently. Something changed between them some time ago, but what it was Lord Gortash could not pinpoint.

Yet something...Shifted.

Levi searching his face for some kind of acknowledgement was a sign of this.

Leviathan Anchev Enver first met would not care less about his approval. Leviathan Anchev of now was Enver’s nearest and dearest and it was pretty much a mutual kind of thing.

“I know.”

To kill everyone in the world and then himself. In Bhaal’s name. A gruesome fate, and pointless. Dull, lacking of any grandiose his, Enver’s, path had.

If only he could break off this deadly conviction in his dear ally, if only there was a way to make him stray out of this path...

They could be good for each other. They could rule together as the gods of the new age; glorious, undefeatable, perfect.

The rulers Toriel truly deserved.

“Then you know I’ll have to kill this...thing,” a moment of barely noticeable hesitation. “This... Noah.”

Enver also knew he would rather see his lover bleed on the altar of his dreadful father than let it happen.

“I do.”

“I,” another uncertain pause. “I was planning to leave you for last. To kill you and myself in one final blow; a perfect tribute to Father. But,” and really, those damn pauses were starting to get on Enver’s nerves. Levi was never short of words before, so what in the nine hells had happened? “Would you rather prefer I’d do you and...Noah... together? To kill you two in one blow?”

Ah.

Enver saw it for what it was, in the uncertain, searching gaze of his unlucky lover, in the carefulness with that he produced words.

Something warm flooded out the irritation from before; something warm and soft and entirely fragile.

It was mercy, the only kind of mercy the bhaalspawn could know. Leviathan Anchev, the man fully capable of destroying everyone and everything on his wake, offered him a tiny piece of his own surrender. A confirmation of his affections, almost a confession.

In some ways he did care.

“That would be very considerate of you, yes,” he agreed, bringing his bhaalspawn close. His bhaalspawn, his ally, his lover. The father of his son.

If there was a way of bringing Bhaal down without bringing Levi with him, Enver would find and utilize it. Otherwise he’d have to kill the best partner in crime he has ever had.

And that would be...unfortunate.

Levi leaned into the touch, soft and gentle in a way he never was before; almost fragile.

Trusting.

“Does it...know about me?” came out in a whisper, almost unbidden.

“He knows you exist,” was all the response Enver could give, enveloping his assassin into his arms, holding him closely, firmly, painfully so.

The bhaalspawn squirmed for a moment before finally settling in.

“Oh,” he breathed out. “I didn’t think you would...What you would tell him I do. Exist, I mean. I’d expect you’d spin a tale of some tragically dead wife or-“

“There is no tragically dead wife,” Enver cut off, feeling rather irritated. A mystery of complications, his dear murderer. “Only a lunatic of a murderer for a father. Not what Noah knows that, he knows we’re working together and what you’re a very busy man.”

“Hmph,” Levi’s breath brushed Enver’s neck. “I guess that is true.”

“Do you want to,” and now it was his time to be a hesitant bother. “Meet him?

At that Leviathan actually laughed.

“Oh, absolutely not, keep him and that strange dollhouse of yours as far away from me as possible. I have things to do, people to kill, empires to rule. I don’t have time for meat-things, of my own creation or not.”

And just like that, it was as if nothing has changed.

***

The alarm goes off the moment Karlach finishes the last of the Hands and flies into a wall by the force of the explosive detonating right into her face.

Enver doesn’t stop to register that, or to look around at the bodies of his faithful, to mourn his perfectly constructed plans – his watch, the Iron Throne, the little fireworks shop – because the alarm in Noah’s private chambers went off and it only means one thing.

Intruders.

He skips one step at the time climbing up the steep steps to the higher, more private level.

Could that be the remaining of Orin’s assassins?

Levi said he dispatched of them all, but surely some had to survive by the sheer luck of not being in the temple at the moment. Are those Ravengard’s forces, Florrick’s?

Is it Leviathan, finally coming to sniff out the life he himself created?

He is vaguely aware of the younger Ravengard and the pale elf taking the chase after him, of Karlach joining in.

They think he is escaping.

Idiots.

Enver tries not to think what he is leading the enemies right to his son; he’ll deal with them later. Right now there’s blazing alarm shrieking what something is wrong – and indeed it is, as he discovers with the first body lying dead on the floor. Then the second. Then the third.

All of them – with their throats ripped open, Leviathan’s favorite style.

Enver turns the corner and reaches for the door handle – the door is unlocked and half open: this is bad, bad, bad-

Then he hears laughter and pauses.

He opens the door slowly and carefully instead of ripping it open as he intended at first.

And sees...

Levi is sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning slightly forward.

Across of him, sitting in the exact same – ridiculous – pose sits the boy not older than five. He has a dark messy hair, blazing green eyes what betray his nature, and the new game Gortash brought to him just recently. He is trying to explain the rules to the tiefling in front of him, who listens attentively, nodding here and there.

“Wow,” Leviathan Anchev comments with an air of nonchalance he didn’t have before. “I did not understand a thing. But good for you, lil one, good for you.”

“It’s really not that difficult,” Noah insists. “I can teach you! We can play together.”

Enver steps closer, somehow is still not detected neither by his son nor by his...his what?

Karlach almost crashes into the doorframe after him, but somehow manages to steady herself, takes in the view in front of her – and freezes.

So do the other two of Levi’s unruly companions. Gortash especially doesn’t like the pale one; he has a habit of sticking way closer to the bhaalspawn than it is proper.

“I am not that good at these kinds of games,” Levi admits as his tail flips from side to side and nostrils flare; he has detected him. Probably smelled before sensing. “But I have a friend with a real knack for them. He is a wizard and knows a lot of fun things; I think you’d get along.”

Noah looks uncertain.

“Are you sure?” he looks down. “I don’t think...I’m not allowed outside.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“Well,” the boy fidgets with his game. “Father says people who oppose him would try to use me against him, if they knew I existed. So I am kind of...a secret? It’s for my own safety!” he immediately adds, seeing Leviathan’s face blank out. “There’s a murderer on the loose, she really doesn’t like father despite supposedly working with him. Father says she will kill me if she finds out I exist.”

“Oh,” Levi looks taken aback at that. “I don’t think you need to worry about that anymore. If you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about, then she has been dealt with already.”

“Oh!” Noah brightens. “By whom?”

“By me. But say,” the spawn looks quizzically at the child in front of him, frowning slightly. “Is it just your father and you? Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t have one,” and this is definitely the moment then Enver needs to intervene, but he is just...frozen in place, turned to stone.

Leviathan Anchev he knew hated children.

This Leviathan Anchev is talking to a child as it was his best friend.

“I have a dad though!” Noah is a sweet fool, Enver taught him much better than telling complete strangers his entire live’s story. Stop. Talking. “He is...working a lot and is too busy to visit,” the boy looks down gloomily. “But! He and father are very close; they even stole from the devil together!”

Levi blinks. Then blinks once more. Then again.

“The devil, you say?” and is it just Gortash’s imagination, but did the man’s voice just rise up an octave?

“Yes! And not just any devil, the achdevil Mephistopheles!” Noah looks so absurdly proud of that it hurts. “They snuck right into his home, stole a crown from his vault and returned here. Unspotted, unstopped. Victorious.”

“What the fuck?” Karlach lets out and both the boy and the bhaalspawn who created him turn to the door.

Noah’s face immediately brightens.

“Father!” he exclaims, hastily getting to his feet and rushing to him. Behind the boy Levi gives the man the most bewildered stare he has ever seen.

“You have a child!” young Ravengard speaks out with the accusation in his voice. Enver really isn’t sure whom the man is addressing.

Noah is unperturbed.

“Father, I met a really cool guy, his name is Levi and he must be your friend because he came here with no problem at all; and he has children at his camp, two girls named Yenna and Arabella. Arabella is a druid because she stole the idol of Sylvanus and it gave her powers, and Yenna has a cat! But the cat is anxious so I shouldn’t pet it, but I can look at it! Please, can I look at Yenna’s cat? Levi said the evil murderer is dealt with, so it’s probably safe. And Levi can guard me if needed. Also there’s a vampire spawn in his camp and-“

The pale elf coughs.

“Hello there,” he tries, pulling a not entirely convincing smile up his lips. “A vampire spawn speaking. And you would be...”

“I am Noah!” says Noah right away; and did Enver shelter him too much? Damn, he has sheltered him too much. Look at the boy, he wants to befriend a vampire spawn. “I’m the son of the Archduke! Hello.”

“Yes, hi,” the elf looks at Levi uncertainly and back. “So...”

“So,” the bhaalspawn steps forward, a bewildered look stuck to his face. He crouches down to Noah’s level and takes his hands into his calloused and clawed ones. “So Noah...Your dad is the man who helped your father to steal the crown from the devil, is that right?”

Noah nods vigorously and Enver takes his time to observe the scene; the two bhaalspawns in front of each other, Levi’s posture, his relaxed shoulders, his slightly shaking hands. The tail that seems to have a life on its own and moves agitatedly behind its owner.

Three companions of the bhaalspawn, all somewhat stuck in place, with different levels of surprise stitched up their faces. The pale elf – a step closer, almost lingering at Leviathan’s side. Annoying.

Yet somehow, no matter how hard Gortash looks at it, he doesn’t sense any danger. Doesn’t see it, even with Karlach still aflame by the doorframe.

“Yep,” Noah agrees eagerly. “I wish he’d come to meet me soon. He will come, right? Once the work is done and all,” the boy sighs. “I mean, I am his son, surely he would care to come to meet me.”

“Um,” the tiefing looks uncertain. “And what if...something happened to him? What if he, say, lost his memories?”

“How? Did something hit him in the head?”

The vampire spawn chokes on a laugh and Levi rolls his eyes at him.

“Sure,” he agrees. “Let’s call it that. So...what if he doesn’t...exactly remember having you?”

“You mean if he’s lost and doesn’t know he needs to come back?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I guess I’d come looking for him. He is my other father. It’s important.”

The force of conviction behind these words hits harder than a thunderwave.

Leviathan blinks hard, clears his throat, and then-

“You...don’t have to. I don’t remember much about my life before...certain events, but it was made adamantly clear to me I was the one to break into the Mephistopheles’ vault with your father. And if your dad is who did that, then,” he stops. “Then I guess- Enver, are you really just going to stand here like a fucking statue? Tell me if this is what I think it is or not.”

“You swore!”

“No, the fuck, I did not. Enver-“

“Now you swore twice!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-“

“So,” Gortash steps forward, a lazy smile dancing on his lips. Gods only know how much this smile costs him. “You have known your son for the entirety of twenty minutes and already taught him a swear word. Really impressive.”

“Father?”

“Oh, listen here, you poignant prick-“

This, Enver thinks, is what family feels like.

#pleeeease i want to know how the others reacted at camp #this is so lovely #rb

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uh-wriring · 6 months

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Anyone knows if Durge has any in game mention about their body temp? I'm unsure if I make my boy cold as the dead or real hot, because of their blood.

I like to think (and Major spoilers here btw) Bhaal, being the god of murder, had some troubles creating Durge.

#bg3 #dark urge #bg3 spoilers #dark urge spoilers

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uh-wriring · 6 months

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Writing about.... Cannibalism.... jbwjbsjabGSJSGAUAHA

Religious cannibalism, my Dark Urge was a (The) priest for the temple and that one follower who says "you fed my first peace of meat but Orin doesn't let us feast" has been living in my mind rent free.

#it will involve Gortash yes #but a few chapters of longing and religious guilt first #and some masturbation plus longing plus religious guilt #theeen they can fuck and commit violence against one another and that may or may not involve more cannibalism #last part is still on the workshop #text #dark urge #bg3

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uh-wriring · 6 months

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So look in my mercy mirror.

m!Dark Urge x Gortash, m!Dark Urge x Astarion.

Redeemed!Durge (but not morally), good run.

The team confronts Lord Gortash in his keep.

Karlach wants to kill the man; June has another idea.

TW: tadpoling (not graphic), June refers to Gortash solely by his name.

What are you doing?

The Emperor’s voice rings in his ears - in his mind - slightly tinted with suspicion. Funny, for how much the mindflayer insists June can trust it, it doesn’t seem to trust June at all.

You said I need to gather my allies, he replies absentmindedly, hands working on taking this damn cork off and opening the bottle. Such a small thing it is, and how much it contains.

Enver was personally responsible for the creation of this new, nether-touched illithid parasite.

Enver and him; the details are hazy, but June can easily see himself fit into the narrative the lordling painted for him. He can see himself, on top of the world, with crown of Karsus in his hands, ready to conquer the entire Toriel for his father.

What a fool he was.

It’s changed now. He is a changed man.

“June?” Karlach looks uncertain and that hurts.

Hadn’t she learned by now to trust his judgment, had he not proved himself to be a good, loyal friend? The mere fact what she doubts him still is simply unacceptable.

She’ll see, June knows. Once he puts his plan in action, she will see the brilliance of it.

What use Enver’s death would be to her? It would not turn back the time, it would not give her back her heart or ten years of her life.

But this? This can turn the tide.

“It’s alright,” he smiles, but for some reason she doesn’t smile back. Damn it, did the smile come out wrong again? “Just hold him firm.”

She complies, but looks even more unsettled.

“This is...Not what I’ve expected,” Karlach admits. “You...What are you going to do with this thing?”

June smiles; this time the smile comes out right.

“I am going to fix it.”

Enver lets out a deep, throaty chuckle.

“And there I was, concerned they’ve somehow ruined you,” for a man beaten bloody and pressed down the cold tile floor he looks surprisingly content. “Worried Orin damaged your brain too much and somehow turned you into...” he trails off. “But I was a fool to fear that. No, you’re just as you’ve always been.” Another annoyingly long pause and then- “You’re going to tadpole me.”

“Yes,” June smiles.

Of course Enver of all people would understand.

He pulls the specimen out of its glass cage and holds between his fingers. Gently, ever so gently.

Enver’s eyes trail the movement.

“We worked so hard on these curious little things; you’ve worked so hard on them. It would be a shame for you to not test out your own creation, would it not?”

“June,” Wyll calls out and June doesn’t need to turn around to know his friend looks downright horrified.

Why can’t they see?

This is the right thing to do. Death is too simple, too easy. This? This will give Enver a chance to atone for his crimes. No, it will downright force him to cooperate.

And cooperation is exactly what June needs.

He is in your head, comes out an echo of a conversation long passed. Gortash, Gortash, Gortash – this damned lordling is all you can speak of these days! I doubt father approves of that, brother dear.

But June doesn’t care if father approves anymore. June doesn’t do his father’s bidding.

He is a free man, a free and a good man. And if he can change like that, who knows how Enver could?

“This is a chance,” he thinks and realizes he’s spoken aloud. “To work together. To fix the mess we’ve started. To make things right.”

“This is wrong,” Wyll argues. “You know this is wrong, June-“

“Juniper,” Enver speaks. There’s a strange glint in his eyes and it takes June some time to decipher it. There’s dread, of course, but also...Satisfaction? Like this is expected outcome. Like this aligns with Enver Gortash’s image of the world.

June frowns.

“You look entirely too pleased, my dear,” he comments lightly, crouching down to Enver’s level. The parasite dangles from his fingers, sharp jaws opening and closing in a rather rhythmical manner. As if it senses the prey nearby.

Enver manages a weak shrug, still pressed firmly down; Karlach looks distressed but her hold does not waver.

“No sense to panic over something I can’t change, is there?” True, but that does not explain the smugness. “And it’s a relief.”

“A relief?” June slowly reaches out, hand getting closer and closer to Enver’s face. Did he caress this face before? Were they that close?

The deep, annoying longing inside insists they were.

Close. Closer than Bhaal would permit, perhaps. Was he the reason for June’s little rebellion?

If so, it’s only right to repay for that.

“This thing with Selûne,” Enver frowns. “It was entirely...anticlimactic. I am glad you’re as ruthless as I recall you to be.”

June frowns right back.

“You’re delusional,” he replies. “I was ruthless once, but no more. This is mercy. I am sparing you, sparing your life. Enver, I am your savior.”

That makes the lordling look even more smug.

“Of course you are,” he smiles as if he knows something June does not. Annoying. “Now, shouldn’t you cut this ‘will he, won’t he’ business and finally-“

His voice cuts short as June drops the parasite on his face, as close to the eyes as he manages.

The creature crawls up and immediately buries itself into the depths of Enver’s skull. Clever little thing.

June watches, fascinated, as the man struggles while parasite takes a hold on him.

Then he raises an artifact.

Emperor? He calls out. Will you do the honors?

Of course.

A wave of pcionic power washes over them and Enver’s mind clears. He blinks; once, twice, brushes the uncalled tears away. Then looks up, straight at June.

“Not too bad,” comments plainly, asshole. Like June didn’t just turn his life upside down. “I assume you’ll force me to comply with your clever plans now?”

“Of course,” June thought it was rather obvious. “Now we’re going to save the day like the true heroes we are,” he smiles. “We don’t need any gods for that, we don’t need any cults. Bhaal and Bane can fight over the rubbish all they want, but we know better. We are going to have Baldur’s Gate eating from our palms. But first,” he feels his smile turn slightly malicious. “We’ll visit an old acquaintance. Halsik has everything prepared and stands at the ready.”

At that Enver perks up.

“You’re dragging me to Hell,” he comments rather cheerfully. “Again. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a trip to Hell is your idea of a date.”

June snorts, and Karlach snorts, and even Astarion, who was mostly silent through the entire encounter, snorts, though his snort is more unkind than the others'.

“No, silly,” June drags his hands up Enver’s torso until they lay placidly on his chest. Warm, he notices absentmindedly. Warm and familiar. Selûne’s Grace, am I in love with this man?

That would be...unfortunate, all things considered. But not entirely unexpected.

“We are going to break into the House of Hope,” he feels Enver stil underneath the touch. “I assume you’re more than familiar with the place, are you not?”

The lordling wets his lips, then grasps June and uses him as a leverage to stand up. Karlach almost doesn’t let him, but June waves her off and she, rather begrudgingly, lets go of the man.

There’s still a sense of unease about her, unease and...A hint of distrust? Of him, of June? But he is fixing things, surely she knows that!

“And what exactly are you planning to get there?”

Enver is close, gods, he is so close and his breath is warm on June’s forehead and it’s hard to think- Fuck, they definitely were lovers and June is definitely not over it. Astarion is going to kill him. Or worse, going to be hurt by him, by that. Stop, stop, stop, he needs to stop-

Two things happen at once.

Enver’s hand finds its place on June’s waist and takes a sure, firm hold of it.

Astarion’s mind, gentle in a way a mind of a man intimately familiar with all the ways personal boundaries can be broken, making damn sure he is not breaking and entering into the depths of June’s mind unwelcome, brushes past him.

June lets him in.

Stop fucking fidgeting, his glorious lover complains immediately. You’re giving the bastard a leverage over yourself.

I’m sorry, June immediately blurts and does it with such a force he is sure both Karlach and Wyll heard him. He avoids thinking of Gortash being linked to them the same way now. I’m sorry, I didn’t know, or maybe I did, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, but he’s here and he is so close and I- I am sorry, I am so, so-

Do you take me for an idiot? Comes out a huff and how did Astarion manage to huff through a mental link? You might have emotional intelligence of a redcap, but I’ve been aware you two knew each other on a level what’s far beyond any niceties the moment Gortash stopped his own coronation to gape at you.

He didn’t gape at me, June argues, thought he isn’t so sure now. Was Enver gaping at him? He sure looked friendly, much friendlier than Ketheric and Orin combined. But gaping?

He stopped his coronation, Astarion repeats. To come down from his high horse and chat with you. To welcome you back. He took control over one of his steelwatchers simply to invite you to the damn thing. And you- now there’s an actual, visible huff coming from his lover.

June catches Enver watching Astarion closely; a loose, entirely self-satisfied smile on his lips, hand still on June’s waist, head leaning on his. Enver invades June’s personal space like it’s his life goal, like instilling his presence in June’s life is something he has at his top priority.

This is...flattering.

“No, the fuck, it isn’t,” Karlach says aloud, and it’s a cue for June to realize he might have been thinking too loudly. “This is disgusting is what it is, I can’t believe you would-“

“My sweet June has his strong suits and his weak ones,” Astarion speaks, giving Gortash the smile so sharp it should’ve splinted the man in half. “His awful taste in men is, admittedly, one of the later. Not me, of course,” he chuckles, but June hears the underlying self-degrading tone noneless. They should’ve made Cazador Szarr suffer more. “But other,” vampire spawn gestures at Gortash. “Lesser men.”

“Lesser, you say?” And of fucking course Enver would take the bait. “I would-“

“Enough,” Wyll all but barks and for once they all comply. “We have bigger things to worry about but you two fighting over June’s affections,” June catches Karlach make a gagging face at that and Enver sending her a rude gesture in response.

Children, he is surrounded by literal children. Worst of all, these children are the ones saving the world with him. Ridiculous.

“Right, right,” he sends a grateful smile Wyll’s way and is relieved to see the man smile back just as warmly. At least someone is in his corner. Someone other than Astarion, but that’s given; June and Astarion are bound for life now, for as long as both of them live.

Admittedly, said life might include Astarion murdering June’s former, current – who could tell? – tyrannical lover in a cold blood. Or hot blood. In a pool of blood, definitely.

June isn’t even sure he would be very angry about it, mostly just...sad? He does seem to care for the said tyrant a lot. Oh, bother.

“We are going to break into the House of Hope,” he reminds these literal children who now are making faces at each other. If anything, seeing Karlach and Enver flip each other off would work for an evening entertainment. June will have to work on this destrusting undertone of her; talk her through it, explain things.

Karlach is a good person, she will understand. June is sure of it.

They’re doing this for the greater good.

“For what?” Enver cuts the chase off. “I assume not to make a deal with Raphael, he usually comes to his victims himself.”

“No,” June agrees. “Not for that, though he tried to strike a deal. He needs the Crown of Karsus, you see? And has something we need. But luckily, Raphael was kind enough to let us know he has it.”

“And why would we strike a deal with him,” Astarion hums. “When we can simply take what we need?”

“Exactly.”

Enver smiles.

“You are planning to steal from him.”

“No,” June leans into him almost involuntarily. He smells...good. He smells familiar. He smells like home. “We are going to steal from him. You,” a sharp nail hits Enver in the chest. The hand is immediately grabbed and held firm. “Are going with us. Care for some heist, my dear lord? Not Mephopheles’ vault, I’m afraid, but just enough for an evening entertainment.”

Enver smiles, wide and sharp and entirely wicked. An evil smile, people would call it. How he managed to convince people of the Baldurs Gate he is not villainous villain is beyond June’s comprehension. By brainwashing them, most likely.

“When let’s rob the devil,” the lordling speaks.

Then he kisses June.

And June can finally breathe.

#the delusion!!! the longing! the memory loss!!#fucking love this #reblog

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uh-wriring · 6 months

Text

Son of God

Pairing: Gortash/gn!Dark Urge

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: dom/sub dynamics, knife play, blood, using "bdsm" (aka whatever these two have going on) for what could be interpreted as self harm, emotional hurt.

The weight of the dagger sat heavily against his palm, the look on the spawn in front of him, new, although unsurprising. "You want me to use it on you?" he asks. Just a few months ago, he might have laughed, put the dagger on their neck and pushed them against the bed as soon as the offer was made, but now? Now, the Bhaalspawn had left a mark on him, one that didn't allow for such thoughtless eagerness. Their posture was different, more subdued, eyes low. "Yes." A straight answer, a heavy chest. The dagger found its way to their neck, tracing the same path that had left a scar on the Banite. It grazed their skin gently, a hint of menace. It tests the skin, soft, a murmur. "Please."

The window is foggy above their bed, the drow's tears staining the sheets, their blood unique, touched, smirred. Their ass high, hands bound by ropes that had become familiar. Gortash noticed their wrists weren't quite as red, weren't equal to the other wounds he had inflicted after low moans turned to screams, begging for his touch, for his pain, for his choice of punishment. They wanted to be bounded, to have no choice, to have this.

As the old tears dried, new ones formed. The Bhaalspawn's spine curled in fetal position, the dried blood carried a metallic scent. Enver didn't quite know what to do with this. Sharp blades weren't uncommon to the two, although it was mostly the other one who wielded. They seemed to enjoy believing to be in control, Gortash enjoyed knowing he was in control. It worked well, at least it used to. Unsure of what to do, he stays still in bed, the black around his eyes smeared, the sweat on both their skins lingering of pleasure, but the way the other clung to him… He wasn't made for this. Were any of them made for this?

#fanfic #angst #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #dark urge #dark urge spoilers #enver gortash #gortash #gortash x durge #not beta read #writing #IM BACK MUAHAHA

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uh-wriring · 8 months

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Hello everyone, my apologies on not delivering the requests. I got unlucky with life, losing people close to me for the first time, and processing some stuff. Thank you for understanding, and I'm getting better :)

#loss #personal

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uh-wriring · 9 months

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I promise I'm writing the resquests, just a little slow bc I had to travel for 7 hours for father's day! And, if you allow me to be that one wild writer, I'm restarting my final project. Again. At the last semester. And maybe starting another college course who knows :)

#thank god education is free where i live #my text

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uh-wriring · 9 months

Text

Like a Wild Animal

Prompt: You're in an argument with Miguel regarding the situation with Miles. He doesn't know how to deal with things.

Tags: Miguel & gn reader. Angst, grief, he raises his voice, a bit of physical violence.

Drops of rain fell from the clouds above, painting the sky in shades of gray and blue. The rooftop held a kind of beauty, with the smell of water hitting the concrete, birds flying to their homes much like the people bellow on the street.

You’d appreciate the scenery so much more if you weren’t arguing with O’hara, who just raised his voice at you. Not in the “you fucked up in a mission” way, no, much worse. You just touched an open wound, and like a wild animal, he showed his teeth and claws, clearly telling you to stay away.

He wasn’t disappointed, he was defensive.

Suppose that’s what you get for bringing Gabriella up. Or maybe for disagreeing on the “Miles subject.” Likely both, though.

“You know I’m right, Miguel.” You recover your previous poise, the one you held before you tuned out as he screamed. “You know it.”

“Do not compare my situation to this.” his posture tells all you need to know. He’s ready. Alert. Angry. Who were you to even mention his family, let alone mention them in this context.

In reality, he is still grieving. You had been through something so similar, the pain that reoccurs can break a vein in half, shatter your lungs and take you out for a days, but Miguel insisted on keeping on working and looking at old pictures, and he just… He’s grieving.

And grief is an abyss.

One that threatens to swallow even the highest of hearts. You knew the urge to throw yourself into work, to revisit old memories, to keep moving forward just to keep from sinking. And that’s what he is doing.

“This is different. Miles is different.” You say, mouth now aching and throbbing.

“It isn’t.” he turns to the exit, so high and strong, he almost looks fragile. But you continue, pushing through the pain in your mouth.

“We could help him, imagine what that would mean for the society- he wasn’t even supposed to be spider -man, and, if it’s the Spot that’s killing his father, wouldn’t that make his death the consequence of an anomaly- don’t - Miguel!”

The exit door makes a click when opening.

He fucking walked out on you.

You go after him, walking through the pale corridors of the spider society, almost screaming.

“You know damn well this isn’t the same, O’hara!”

He doesn’t answer, he only walks, always walking, always running, always facing but never feeling. Oh how he would hate you for your next words.

“He isn't doing what you did!”

His steps slowed, his back rigid. The words must’ve hit him like a punch to the gut.

He froze, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly. And then, as if the weight of your words had cracked something open within him, he turned back to you.

The tension in the air was thick, charged with unspoken history.

And then it happened.

His fists collide with you, your body crashing to the ground. The pain was sharp, the taste of copper in your mouth strong, warm, coming from above.

“You don’t know shit about my family.” He looms over you, presence almost suffocating. He could kill you if he so wished. And maybe you wanted to make him wish that.

Your head rests against the cold floor, accepting the physical loss.

“You know what makes people like us?” you ask, “We try, Miguel. We always try. Isn’t this worth a try?”

For a second, a maroon, cloud gazed, second, you catch his eyes shifting from anger to something softer. But just like summer rain, it goes away, and he threatens:

“I won’t let him break the universe more than he already has. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

And then he left.

The corridor was silent, save for the rain hitting the walls and the sound of your ragged breaths. You gingerly touch your nose, your fingers coming away red.

Your words hung in the air. Hopefully you had planted a seed.

And as the rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm seemed to mirror your heartbeat. You contemplated the path ahead. Perhaps Lyla could help.

#atsv #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x male reader #fanfic #miguel o'hara x gn reader #prompt #think of the cake meme think of the cake meme think of t #my writing #one shot #angst #grief

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uh-wriring · 9 months

Text

Ruin

part 1

Miguel x gn reader; emotional angst

Your eyes feel dry. There is a sound, a constant hum of hospital machinery and whispers, a disinfectant scent, you were in a hospital bed. Surprisingly not in much pain, just discomfort… which is more than you could ask for. The room is quite cold, all white, window shining with the morning sun. The only thing bringing color into the room was the man sleeping in a chair next to the bed, and his blue and red suit. Miguel’s face was resting against the mattress, his arms supporting it, the rest of his body falling on the chair. It didn’t look comfortable at all, but he was there, sleeping. You can't help but smile at the sight, even in your weakened state. “Miguel.” Your voice is raspy. You are alive. You’re not in your blood-drenched suit but in a hospital gown. Here. Right now. The reality of it all is still… wild to think about. Damn. Miguel’s hair is soft, though oily, and gold like honey under the sunlight. Some strings fell onto his face, eyes closed and contorted. By his looks, you can tell he has been here for a long time. The tubes coming out of your hand and forearm don’t stop you from shaking Miguel awake. He looks at you. He isn’t groggy like most mornings, he is alert as soon as his head lifts from the bed. Tired eyes, stare at you, at your presence, confirming this isn’t a dream. Silence fills the room as he holds your hand and buries his face onto your chest. You hold each other in silence. His hands find their way around your waist, careful not to put any pressure around the wound, holding you so, but so closely. His breaths coming in quicker, his grip stronger. “I’m not going anywhere, vida.” You whisper. He doesn’t. Just holds you as closely as he can. Your gawn becomes wet with his quiet tears, and you can’t help but hold him just as strongly as he does. “I’m here. I promise I’ll stay.” The fondness in your voice was almost drowned by the worry. “Pensé que te había perdido.” (I thought I had lost you.) This time it was your turn to strengthen your grip. “Me too.”

#this was quite difficult to write so I kept thinking of the cake meme #atsv #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x male reader #my writing

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uh-wriring · 9 months

Text

Ruin

Prompt: You get severely hurt during a fight. Miguel begs for you to stay.

GN reader x Miguel

Tags: Angst, emotional angst, severe injury, blood, Miguel likely has ptsd due to his backstory so count that in

The sky was a mixture of orange and pink. It’d be a beautiful sunset to watch, if you weren’t in the middle of a fight, if you couldn’t feel your muscles strain and tire, if each swing didn’t make your stomach churn with pain. You kept fighting, but time passed and you weren’t invincible. Your reactions began getting sluggish, something Miguel took quick notice of. He made sure to get the anomaly to focus on him so you could catch your breath every few blows. Still, time passed, and you could feel the blood starting to seep through your suit. Your chest was warm, hot, and you could feel yourself sweating and staggering, falling to the ground of the rooftop. You barely heard Miguel scream your name, finding your side. You weren’t able to see his eyes, but you could still see the desperation behind them. Maybe the injury was a bit worse than you had assumed. “I’m fine, Miguel.” You murmur, not able to hide the painful expressions, as he presses his hands on your abdomen. “Don’t fall asleep,” Miguel stated. But your eyes were heavy and your hands were cold. “Just- please. Stay with me.” He pleaded. You could hear his throat closing, tears in his eyes. You had never seen Miguel like this. You never wanted to. “Won’t.” you gasp. Oh, but how you needed to rest, how your body was heavy on the concrete, how you could feel Miguel doing something. Unsure as to what, and your head didn’t seem to want to lift to see what. Still, you knew the bleeding hadn't stopped. Your back was soaked. It wouldn't be surprising if Miguel's knees and hands were too. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.” He took his mask off, nose red and cheeks stained with tears. He had already lost so much, and all the time you had spent together, all the missions and late nights and eventually confessions and trust and smiles, and now? To lose all that again? You didn’t want to think what would happen to him after this. The man pleads your name, seeing you rest your eyes. “Don’t leave me, please.” He held your face close to his, almost like his strength was the only thing holding you here. “I love you.” That’s all you can muster before seeing black, hearing Miguel sob. You couldn’t quite feel your hands anymore. “Please, please-” he begged, unsure to what or who but his devotion had never been stronger. You could hear a familiar sound on the background, however. A portal opening, a voice or another, and your body was lifted from the ground.

#atsv #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x male reader #angst #getting back into writing after a year or so wish me luck #and yes thats a the amazing devil reference title #my writing

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uh-wriring · 9 months

Note

“I never noticed your eyes were this [colour].” - for M!Handers?

I decided I wanted to use this prompt for my custom m!Hawke, who has really pretty eyes. I'm not sure about his first name at the moment because I decided to change it and I'm still not sure what would suit him best (this is probably why I usually stick to Garrett 😂). This is my first time publishing something about him! The only other thing I've written is the first chapter of an origin story about how he became a blood mage. Which I never got around to finishing. I hope to get back to it one day, but for now, here's a small piece about him and Anders sneaking into the Viscount's private gardens for @dadrunkwriting

...

It doesn’t feel much like Kirkwall up in this place. With each step Anders takes the grass is soft under his boots. The air is almost clean and he can sort of see why Hawke and Merrill like it here. He turns his head up to see the bright blue sky criss-crossed with branches adorned in soft pink blossom. It is certainly pretty.

But when Anders looks back down, his eyes fall on Hawke with his ragged black leathers and unkempt hair and it doesn’t quite make sense after all. This place is pleasant but in such a Hightown way that Anders can’t quite enjoy it. Hawke is the wildest thing here. Even just walking along by Anders' side, not saying a word, he’s a piece of the sublime out of place in the pretty mundane. Anders can’t understand why it doesn't bother Hawke, knowing everything that lies beneath their feet. What enjoyment is there to be found for people like them in a place like this?

“You come here a lot?” Anders begins tentatively. Breaking the silence around Hawke has always felt like a physical thing. He’s so comfortable in it. It’s strange to Anders how often he feels that way too around him. Anders is a talker. He’s never been good at letting silence be. Except for with Hawke. Sometimes anyway.

“I like the quiet,” says Hawke, doing that thing where he hears the real question underneath the one Anders has asked aloud.

“Yet you brought me.” Anders makes sure to let Hawke hear the irony colouring his tone.

Hawke smiles at it, a small shy twist of his lips. “I like being with you too.”

Anders doesn’t quite know how to reply to that. Justice doesn’t like it. Anders sort of does. Anything that makes them think that way, like they’re two rather than one, is usually bad news. Anders tries to ignore it. “Well, there are plenty of places to go. Not that this isn't lovely but...” he trailed off. He’s being a bore again. Isn’t that what everyone is always telling him? Hawke never says it out loud but Anders is sure he must have thought it enough times. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much.

“I thought you could use the air,” Hawke says quietly.

There's nothing argumentative in his tone but that doesn’t stop Anders from replying, “So could a lot of people.”

Hawke frowns at him. Anders wonders if he’s also thinking about the recent chokedamp incident in Darktown or if he just thinks Anders is being an ass.

He opens his mouth to apologise because he knows Hawke is just trying to be nice but he doesn't get the chance before Hawke turns his head like he's listening to something. Then he takes Anders’ hand and starts moving fast, tugging Anders along behind him.

The next thing Anders knows he's being pushed back against the rough bark of a tree and when he looks down at Hawke there’s a certain gleam in his dark eyes. Up close like this he sees they aren’t quite black but a deep dark brown. There's a faded smear over the arch of his nose that Anders can only hope isn't blood. He’s unshaven and largely unwashed despite the fact that of the two of them, only Anders lives in a sewer. Hawke and his mother have been comfortably settled in Hightown for months now. And when he looks up at Anders with a smirk to match that gleam of mischief in his eyes and says, “I thought I heard something,” Anders suddenly gets it.

He laughs quietly. “That's it, isn't it? You just really don't like doing what you’re supposed to.”

“You're saying that to me?” Hawke looks somewhere between surprised and amused.

“Yes. To the Hightown noble who hates Hightown and apparently enjoys sneaking into the Viscount’s private gardens without invitation because of how many other nobles it would piss off if you were caught.”

Hawke's lips twitch into another smile that lasts just a moment before the corners droop and he’s frowning again. “Is that how you think of me? As a noble? Are... Are you upset with me for moving up here?”

“No,” Anders sighs. “No, Hawke, I know you're just looking out for your mother. And it’s better for that house to go to you than another band of slavers...” Of all the things to be upset with Hawke for, rising up to the rank of nobility is low on the list.

But Hawke has also done a lot for him and Anders doesn’t want to bring up old arguments.

Perhaps sensing something amiss, Hawke insists, “I didn’t want it, you know.”

“I know.” He’s here for his mother. Anders knows that.

In the quiet that follows Anders picks up on the sound of distant voices signalling they’re not alone in the garden. Hawke presses a hand against Anders’ chest as if to remind him that they’re meant to be hiding. It makes him very aware that’s not the only part of Hawke that’s pressed against him. He’s leaning all the way into him, pinning Anders against the tree with the length of his body. Anders also becomes aware that he doesn’t exactly mind the feeling. He doesn’t remember the last time he had someone close like this. And the fact that it’s Hawke... Anders looks down into those dark eyes and he’s not sure exactly what look he’s giving Hawke but something in it is enough to make his face colour as he steps quickly back.

Without thinking, Anders grabs his hand. “I thought we were supposed to be hiding,” he whispers but it comes out sounding strange. It sounds a little more like the old Anders. The one who was always breaking rules just for the fun of it. If it surprises Hawke, he gets over it quickly and steps back to press close against Anders once more. It feels so good to have the warmth of another person against him. Even better that it’s Hawke, who has occupied so many of Anders’ thoughts. Even if it’s only late at night when the clinic has closed and he’s not yet asleep that he lets himself indulge in them. Those are the only times they can’t be swept away, or directed elsewhere by a disapproving spirit. And Maker, has Anders indulged.

Each of those thoughts come back to him now with Hawke’s close proximity and it’s a heady feeling how much he wants him. That’s the part he’s always tried to deny because there are so many reasons he shouldn’t: Justice, the cause, the blood magic. That should be enough to make him want to stay away. But when he looks into those dark eyes all he feels is desire, enough to push all other feelings aside.

“You’re staring,” Hawke says, barely above a whisper but it’s enough to bring Anders back to reality.

“Sorry I just... Your eyes. I thought they were black but they’re not. I’ve never noticed the subtle colours in them before...” No sooner are the words out of his mouth than he flushes. What is he doing babbling about Hawke’s eyes? Ridiculous. “Sorry,” he mutters again.

But Hawke’s lips curl into a smirk. “No need to apologise.”

The way he holds Anders’ gaze then is almost too much. He’s spent so many years holding back on what he wants and what for? Is he any closer to his goal because of it? It so rarely feels that way and maybe Anders just needs a break. Maybe for once he just needs to think of what he wants right now in this moment. Just for this moment…

Does Hawke want him the same way? Anders has suspected from time to time but never fully been able to tell. But the way he looks at him now makes him think yes. Those dark eyes are locked on his, the smirk fading from his lips, as though Hawke’s too distracted to keep it up. His hand clutches at the front of Anders’ coat like he doesn’t want to let go. Anders doesn’t want him to either.

“Hawke…”

Fingers close tighter around the fabric at his chest and Anders draws closer, dipping his head almost unconsciously.

“You there!”

The shout cuts through the haze in Anders’ mind. He pulls back to his full height, head whipping around to see where the interruption might have come from. Sure enough, one of the guards they’d been hiding from has circled round far enough to bring them into view while they were both distracted. “Fuck,” Anders mutters.

The hand releases the grip on his coat and, to Anders’ surprise, drops to his own, fingers slipping between his and holding on tight. Startled Anders looks back to Hawke’s face to find the dazed look wiped from his features, replaced instead by a familiar smirk and that old gleam of mischief in his eyes. He tugs on Anders’ hand. “Run!”

#rb

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