Chapter Text
The archduke’s dark eyes on them could only be described as hungry. The gleam behind them was reminiscent of Astarion’s eyes when he fed, down to the unsettling tenderness behind the ache. His hand had outstretched for just a moment, as if he intended to touch them and then thought better of it. As the archduke played his lapse off as part of a wider gesture, the tin ringing in their ears started up.
He wants to touch you. He wants to touch you. Hack it off! Hack it off! He’ll never get to touch you again!
Again? They tried to push deeper into the urge’s meaning and were only met with an overwhelming surge of bloodlust. Their hands twitched, aching to release their dagger. The archduke was still talking, though they had stopped fully listening and it seemed he wasn’t fully listening to himself. His eyes had fallen from their face to their hip, where their blades were slung. If he had looked hungry before, his eyes on their blade were positively ravenous.
He wants you to hurt him. He always wanted you to hurt him. A royal, loyal little lapdog, awaiting your command. It would be so easy to hurt him. Get him alone and slice, slice, slice. He’d thank you for it after.
They tried to swallow back the bile rankling in their throat as the urge gloated. He had asked them something, something they hadn’t heard, but his hand was outstretched expectantly. The usual quiet background noise that was the urge surged into a frenzied scream as their eyes fell on his hand.
Hackitoffhackitoffhackitoffhackitoffhackitoff!
No one can ever touch you!
Astarion’s hand at the small of their back provided sickening punctuation to the urge’s manic squealing. Back outside their mind, the archduke’s eyes were bearing down on them, hunger slipping into unabashed lust as he skimmed their body. The ringing in their ears almost drowned out the sound of their own voice speaking words they hadn’t fully intended to say.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, tyrant.”
They couldn’t be certain, it happened too quickly , but a brief pained expression flickered across the archduke’s face at the honorific. Then, his eyes met theirs, his pupils fully blown, and his mouth spread to a wolfish grin. Something about it pulled in the back of their mind, the faint memory of blood, the taste of salt and a phantom caress up their back.
“I should certainly hope not, assassin.”
Their body acted without the instruction of their mind reaching out to take his hand as though they had done so a thousand times before. They felt Astarion’s hand cling to their back before his touch faded as their body moved away from his. The archduke’s grip was feather light, yet there was a firm undercurrent that guided them to follow him. The cool metal tips of his gauntlet lay carefully at their wrist, pressing in just enough to make their presence known. The tin ringing drowned out all other sound, leaving only the urge to gleefully sing.
Turn around, turn around, turn around and look! You know you want to see. You want to see how hurt he is. You want to see it on his face. You want to hurt him. You want to see him suffer. You want to see how far you can bend him ‘til he breaks. Turn and look, turn and look, turn and look!
They tried to focus in on the beat of their heart, desperate for anything to drown out the urge’s delight. The archduke had released their hand, but his eyes never left them. They avoided his stare, choosing to fix their gaze on the stone behind him. A white hot feeling passed over their body as the public nature of the archduke’s coronation and his evident passion settled on their shoulders. Something in the clarity of revelation drove them to bring their focus back to his face. His attention was focused on them entirely, as though he wasn’t listening to the grand duke’s words as he repeated them with grand empty gestures. His mouth maintained a small smile, his gaze still starved as they slowly met his eyes, staring into two dark pools, deep enough they feared they might drown. Their heartbeat slowed to the pace of a dirge.
Suddenly in a flurry of motion the ceremony was over. They were able to find their retreat in the flood of patriars, all clambering to gain the favor of their new archduke. They finally turned to face Astarion in their newfound freedom, but he wasn’t facing them. Instead, he was further away than they expected, clustered in a tight circle with Gale and Karlach. He appeared to be arguing with them.
They know what you did. They know who you are. They know who you are even when you don’t know who you are. They always knew who you were. They’ll never trust you again. Deep down they never did.
The urge was cut off by Karlach’s raised voice. Her voice reverberated off the walls, yet none of the elite seemed to hear her. She stormed from the hall with Gale following quickly in her wake with a rueful glance in their direction. Astarion didn’t hesitate to turn back to the assassin. Even though his expression was difficult to read, they could tell he was displeased with the conversation. They started toward each other in tandem, Astarion’s hand reaching to them. Just as he was about to reach them, his expression darkened and they felt someone close in behind them.
The sudden prick of cold steel at their hip sent a wave of ice over their body that was quickly replaced by the warmth of the body behind them. “Meet me upstairs. Later, when your camp is settled. We have much to discuss.” he said, his voice so low it would have been impossible to hear were it not for his proximity. The archduke’s breath was hot against their ear, the hand on their hip just slightly tighter than was appropriate around so many people. He lingered with them for slightly longer than he should have, his body flush with their own. Their face turned to him slightly, just enough to see what he was looking at. Just enough to catch the piercing eye contact he was making with Astarion. He held Astarion’s glare for an agonizing moment, then stepped away and released them from his warmth.
The archduke left them with an ostentatious salutation of “My friends”, followed by a meaningful look to the assassin. Astarion resumed his usual posture beside them, his arm curled possessively around their hips. Where the cool of his body would have been comforting, they found it a jarring difference to the archduke’s warmth. “I’m not certain how I feel about the way he looked at you, my sweet.” Astarion murmured, making a small show of pressing a kiss into their hairline as he stared daggers into the archduke’s back.
“I’m not certain how I feel about it either.”
Outside in the bright light of Wyrm’s Crossing, Gale struggled to keep pace with the tiefling as she stormed back to their camp. After several paces of jogging to keep up the wizard stopped to beg her to slow down. Karlach obliged, but her nervous energy next to him put Gale on edge. His own anger was blistering just under his skin and Karlach’s louder, lower boiling point was making matters worse. When the decreased pace and uneasy silence seemed to prove too much, Karlach’s words exploded from her as though they couldn’t leave her mouth fast enough.
“They were working with Gortash! They were involved with him! Did you see the way he touched them? The way they took his hand? And Astarion just stayed there with them. Like he wasn’t even angry. Like he understood!”
Gale bristled at Karlach’s accusations and attempted to quicken his pace. “Astarion has never made his affections or allegiances a secret.” he quipped, attempting to seem nonchalant.
Karlach stopped in her tracks, face morphed with an incredulous look. Gale tried to keep walking but a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “You don’t have to defend him, soldier.” she said, her voice softening with her gaze.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” he replied, heat flowing across his ears and down the back of his neck “I am simply stating that our allies and friends, may have their reasons for what happened in there.” Karlach’s engine blazed a few degrees hotter in response to his words, bathing Gale in heat.
“They’re dangerous, Gale. Both of them. They’re dangerous apart and even more dangerous together.” she half-shouted, the strenuous effort it was taking her to remain sympathetic clear across her face.
Gale just swallowed hard, his gaze drifting over Karlach’s shoulders to the figures approaching. Astarion was still wrapped around the bhaalspawn, his pale hand at the usual place on their hip. The elf leaned into them as he walked, murmuring some unknown pleasantry in the bhaalspawn’s ear, his easy, teasing smile gracing their presence as always. The hand at their hip pressed in as Gale could surmise he was making some lewd joke about the pompous archduke and his blown out ceremony. As he watched the two spawn a familiar aching spread across Gale’s chest and he felt as though his heart were beating in his stomach.
Karlach had finally noted his distraction and looked over her own shoulder. When she realized who he was watching, she released a disapproving sigh and marched off. Gale turned halfway to follow her, torn between his anger with the Bhaalspawn and his desire to walk beside the vampire draped across their shoulders. In the time it took him to try to come to a decision Karlach was gone and the lovers had nearly reached his place on the road. He begrudgingly held his position for them, unable to prevent the glare that covered his face.
The bhaalspawn sighed as they reached him. “Don’t look at me like that.” they pleaded.
Gale felt his scowl deepen. “I’m not entirely certain I have anything to say to you at this moment. Beyond that this whole turn of events has been wholly unsurprising.” he snapped. The bhaalspawn’s jaw twitched, but they didn’t engage him further.
It was Astarion who cut in on their behalf. “Gale, don't be petulant.” he drawled, “Yes it would seem our esteemed leader is in fact the evil bastard who landed us all in this predicament in the first place, but there are bastards who are even more evil than they are who have been passed the torch.” Astarion threw a wink in the bhaalspawn’s direction as he wrapped an arm around Gale’s shoulders. Gale tried not to focus on the vampire’s touch, swallowing back the knot of emotion that formed in his throat.
“What took you both so long anyway?” he grumbled, trying to lean away from Astarion’s chest in a subtle manner.
“Actually that is a good question.” Astarion said, turning his attention back to his paramour, “What exactly did his eminence want to say to you?” Astarion’s voice was dripping in the kind of venom he usually reserved for speaking about his master. Gale wondered if something had happened after they left the coronation hall. The bhaalspawn tittered a moment before speaking.
“He wants to meet with me…alone.”
Astarion let out a barking laugh that would have come across as nonchalant, if Gale couldn’t feel his body stiffen next to him. “Well of course you shouldn’t do that, darling.” Astarion said with an airy wave of his hand, “That would be supremely foolish.”
Gale noted the small flash of irritation in their eyes before they spoke, not quite so deadly as he had seen before but still worth keeping an eye on. “I want to speak with him.” they replied, “He knows who I was before.”
“Now my sweet, let’s not play dumb.” Astarion hissed out nails digging into Gale’s shoulder, “We both know the tyrant doesn’t just want to talk .”
Gale regretted not following Karlach, but the damage was already done. The lovers both briefly seemed as though they each might draw a weapon, the air thick with tension. As he realized the bhaalspawn’s gaze was fixed on Astarion’s hand on his shoulder, Gale shifted away from the rogue. His body briefly mourned the loss of Astarion’s touch, but he preferred his organs in their appropriate place.
“Gortash is getting desperate. He’d likely say anything you wanted to hear to get you to his side.” he said, attempting to diffuse the energy flowing between them all.
“Or it’s a trap.” Astarion tacked on, “And I know a trap better than any of the rest of you.”
The bhaalspawn didn’t appear keen to back down on the subject, yet with an unsettling smile they shifted and extended a hand to Astarion. “You’re both right.” they cooed, their tone sickly sweet, “It was a foolish thought. Let’s get back to camp. I’m sure Karlach has already spread the news of my…unfortunate, former alliance.” Astarion took their hand and all tension dissipated with a kiss. Gale started down the path to their camp, his stomach churning.
The assassin was right, Karlach had already informed their companions, settling a tense quiet over the camp. Their stares of mistrust weren’t unfamiliar, if anything they were reminiscent of the days following the bard’s death. The ringing in their ears that had become so loud since they reached the city was becoming unbearable. They retreated to their bedroll, hoping tomorrow would bring some peace and a clearer plan of action.
Yet between the ringing and the urge’s incessant taunting, peace eluded them. Even when Astarion joined them to feed, the dread in their chest never lifted. Astarion’s presence was usually accompanied by a heady lightness and soft chill like a balm against a burn. His cool fingertips were often enough to chase the urge back to its quiet background noise, but tonight all that came of it was cold. Their body had felt cold since the archduke had touched them, as though his warmth had drained them of their own. The isolation from their companion’s, Astarion’s jealousy, his hand on Gale, all swirled through their mind, fighting for dominance over what the urge would use to further tear at their psyche.
You could earn their trust again. Eliminate the tyrant. Scurry off to his office and bathe in his blood. Tear into his flesh and they’ll sing your praises like a hero. Kill him and your vampire will feel warm again. His warmth will never taint you again.
They were on the road in Wyrm’s Crossing approaching the Rock. They couldn’t even be certain when they had decided to go or how they had gotten there. There was only one thought in their often empty mind. They needed to see the tyrant.
Access to the fortress was surprisingly simple. They expected to run the gauntlet, steel watch. Flaming Fists, trained assassins, but the path to the archduke’s personal quarters was cleared. Only a single Fist who merely nodded them along as though she had been expecting them. The quiet was unsettling, leaving them with only the urge whining over the lack of bloodshed.
Kill the tyrant extra bloody, then kill the rest of the sorry souls in this fortress. Show them your prowess, make them regret letting you in. Make them bleed.
The archduke was at his desk, poring over some documents with a glass of wine in his hand. He looked up from under his heavy brow as they entered with a soft, dangerous smile. “I’m glad you accepted my offer, assassin. There’s much to be done.” he said, waving them in from the doorway. They entered cautiously, unwilling to break the archduke’s stare. He held out a glass to them, gesturing to an empty seat near the desk. “It’s a vintage you favored.” he said, as they started to decline. Begrudgingly they accepted, giving the liquid a quick sniff. The archduke chuckled.
“Poison isn’t my preferred method, my dear.”
“That’s funny, I would have pegged it as your style, your grace.”
“Why should it be? Up until recently I had the finest assassin in Baldur’s Gate at my disposal.”
The assassin glared at him, but took a careful sip. The tyrant was right. If they were to choose, this would be their preference. It reminded them of the bottle they had shared with Astarion the night they had celebrated their victory over the goblins. Sharp, acidic, with undertones of earth, pepper and a dark fleshy fruit they couldn’t name. Clearly a finer vintage than had been available on the road, but with the same hint of vinegar.
The archduke was watching them again, clearly pleased with his overt knowledge where they lacked the ability to remember themselves. He was making his point rather beautifully. The desire to wipe the smirk off his face in blood nearly overtook them. Instead, they scowled into their glass before they spoke again.
“Your security measures are shockingly subpar, your grace. I waltzed right in without so much as a second glance.”
“But of course, dearest. Their orders are simple. You are free to come and go as you wish and no matter what they might hear, they are not to interrupt. I expect my orders to be followed to perfection.”
“And you find that a wise choice, archduke? To allow me as close as I would wish? To allow me whatever my twisted psyche might drive me to do?” they asked. The assassin placed both hands on his desk, leaning over him as every ounce of malice thrummed through their body. He looked up at them with a nearly hopeful expression, as though he was eager for whatever harm they might intend him. “My assassin, my dagger, my love,” the archduke purred, “My life has long been yours to forfeit. If you have decided tonight is my end, then I willingly lay myself at the mercy of your blade.”
NOW! NOWNOWNOW! DO IT NOW!
They had started to laugh, the low, throaty chuckle of a madman. The archduke was either supremely stupid or just as insane as they were. Yet his every word rang with sincerity. Who was this man? Who was he to them? The urge recognized his presence when even they could not. Their wild laughter had hunched them over the desk, gripped by the urge’s wild screaming and the utter insanity of it all. Then something warm touched their cheek.
The archduke had placed a hand on their face, wiping away the tears they couldn’t source the emotion behind. Their own hand acted once again without their command, clasping on to the hand at their cheek. Fixed on his dark eyes, a sense of comfort and self flooded their chest, chasing down and destroying the doubt they were clinging to like the mast of a ship. His eyes reflected their own image back to them with the kind of intimacy reserved only for the beloved. It ripped at their memory so viciously they wondered if they would leave this room with their mind intact. The room around them tilted as flashes of memory flickered across their senses.
As their knees buckled, they were abruptly surrounded by warmth. The archduke was holding them up, face angled down to them, close enough that his dark hair tickled their skin. The assassin had to pull back from the instinct to close the distance between them and relearn the taste of his tongue. His expression was just as intense as the moment they first encountered him, but now coloured with a fond softness. His body felt familiar, like a homecoming their very soul had been waiting for since they set foot in the city, despite their mind not holding a single memory of him.
“Hello, assassin. Welcome home.”
They moved back, noting their reluctance to break from his warmth. Their body undeniably craved his presence. “Who are you?” they whispered, uncertain that was the question they meant to ask.
“Enver Gortash, Archduke of Baldur’s Gate.” he replied with a smirk, “But to you, my dearest? Tyrant, lordling, would be duke. Occasionally darling or even Enver, if I behaved.” His tone was fond, as though he were telling a dear friend the story of his greatest love. Perhaps he was…
Their heart was beating in their throat. This had been a mistake. Astarion had been right, they had to get back to him. They had to leave, to get back to camp. They just needed their body to move, to listen to their commands once more. A task that proved to be outside their own purview.
Without thinking they moved to the window rather than the door, only realizing they had done so as their fingertips were brushing the sill. They had settled on the faintest grooves in the wood, slotting perfectly into place. The faint smell of cloves and tobacco brushed their senses. Their other hand raised, pressing lightly into the cold, warped glass of the pane. The blood pounded in their ears, drowning out their senses until there was only the urge.
You came here to do something. Don’t leave now. Soak the sill in blood. Let it run over the wall. Get him here, lean him out and slit his throat. Do it. Stop waiting. He wants you to do it. Give in and do it. Do it. DO IT.
Warmth enveloped their body. The urge fell silent as Enver’s chest molded to their back, a large arm wrapping their chest. The stubble of his chin prickled at their neck and at some distant sensation that could have been lifetimes ago. “You remember more than you think you do, assassin.” he crooned. His weight pressed them forward against the pane, the harsh cold of the glass countered by his warmth. Their mind vaguely conjured the feeling of Astarion’s chest against their skin the first time they had laid with him in the forest. Their hand twitched towards the latch of the window, but something in them couldn’t finish the motion.
“Your body remembers. Though if you’re so inclined, I would be glad to give it a reminder.” he continued, a clawed thumb rubbing slow circles against their hip. He paused to wait for their response, his lips pressing at the base of their neck. When their words failed, the hand on their chest drifted across their stomach. Their grip on the window sill tightened, deepening the slight grooves by another notch. As his hand toyed at their laces, their fingers splayed against the glass. A brief thought raised from their fog, comparing the cool, smooth texture of the glass to Astarion’s chest. The heat of Enver’s shuddering breath chased the thought from their mind as he pressed them forward, his hand sliding under their waistband and across their slick folds. His thumb swiped across them, teasing at their clit with a level of dexterity that could only be attributed to intimate knowledge.
Their heavy breathing was fogging the pane in front of them. When he finally pushed a finger inside them their forehead hit the glass, allowing their body to rock into his hand with the arch of their back. Enver’s breath was hot on their neck, his lips alternating between lingering kisses and sighing soft moans. His hand continued to work them over intimately, nothing about his strokes hurried, but carried by a desperate undercurrent that grew with every moment they were connected. The gauntlet left their hip, reaching up swiftly to take hold of their hair and pull their head backwards. The second it pierced their scalp the urge reared to life with a shriek.
TOUCHED YOU! TAINTED! Taintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtaintedtainted. No one can touch you! Rip, tear, cut, slice! Make him regret touching you!
Without a second thought the assassin drew their dagger, whipping around to bring it to his throat. The blade sliced into his skin, ruby droplets spilling over its silver edge. In turn the archduke’s gauntlet closed around their neck, pressing down just hard enough to silence the urge once more. Their pulse quickened, only heightened by the crimson trickling across their blade and his fingers still thrumming inside their cunt. Enver’s expression remained steady, consumed only by a ravenous desire.
Their body leaned into him again, allowing him deeper. His head fell against their own, pushing the blade deeper. “Enver…” they whimpered, their free hand gripping his hip, desperate for anything to hold them together. “Yes.” he groaned, pushing them so hard against the glass it felt as though it might break and send them both tumbling into the street. Somewhere distantly in their mind, the urge purred at the thought.
Their eyelids began to flutter, an overwhelming sensation crawling up their back. “Eyes on me, assassin.” he commanded. Their eyes flew open, locking their gaze with his intense stare. Time slowed for just a moment as their climax hit, eyes fixed on Enver’s, just before he pressed their mouths together. He rode their pleasure with his tongue in their mouth, their blade still stuck in his throat, prolonging it as long as he could.
When they finally came down from their high, he slowly pulled his hand from their trousers, softly brushing their soaked folds as he did. He held his covered hand up to the light, admiring it a moment before bringing it to his lips. As he did an image flashed across their empty mind. Astarion, hand covered in their blood as he swept it in his mouth.
The thought of Astarion brought them crashing back to their reality. Their hand slipped behind them, finding the latch to the window. The click drew Enver’s attention away from his hand. “You’re leaving?” he asked, making no motion to stop them. The assassin could only nod. He sighed softly. “Back to your camp?” he continued. Another nod. “Even knowing what you know now?” Enver pushed further, “Why?” The answer caught in their throat but they pushed through it to give him their reason.
“Astarion.” they whispered, his name falling out like a dead language.
With a low growl Enver pressed his mouth against theirs, forcing them to taste themselves on his tongue. They melted back against his body, the will to go faltering for a moment. Yet the hand behind their back pushed against the pane, opening the window and letting the cold rush in. Enver pulled back from them, disappointment clouding his eyes.
“Very well.” he said with a tut, “Return to your camp, fight against our plot, until you can no longer resist your true nature. I’m quite accustomed to waiting on you, assassin. Once you made me wait an entire month. You’ll find I am exceedingly patient.” He left a final kiss under their jaw before retreating to his desk with a lingering glance. The assassin slipped from the window, down the stone walls and back into the street.
He was sitting up when they crept back into camp, crimson eyes glowing in the dark. Astarion’s face painted a picture of anger, betrayal and concern all rolled into one. They considered avoiding him, returning to their bedroll as though nothing had changed, but his eyes drew them to him. “Hello darling.” they whispered, fighting past every instinct to run.
“We agreed you wouldn’t meet with him alone.” he hissed as they approached him. They could only nod, swallowing back the knot in their throat. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Astarion snapped, “I came out of my trance to you gone and you’ve been gone for hours.” In the low light of the candles at his tent, they could see his hair wasn’t coiffed quite as perfectly as usual, his shirt slightly rumpled and an empty wine bottle at his feet. He had been waiting up for them, possibly as long as they had been gone.
They both stood in their second tension filled silence of the day before Astarion sighed and reached for them. They relished the cool touch of his hands, settling into the crook of his neck. Their body felt overheated, flushed, tense in spite of their release. Astarion’s body against them provided a certain safety, the reminder that if he had not interceded, the camp likely would have dispatched them long ago. However it lacked the warmth and comfort Enver’s had provided. The realization created an aching hole on their chest.
“I don’t enjoy being worried for you, you know?” he grumbled into their hair.
“I know,” they replied, “I’m sorry, I just had to know.”
Astarion sighed again, cold fingers tracing patterns across their back. “Did you at least get the answers you were looking for?” he asked.
The thought to lie flashed across their mind as they dredged up a partial truth, muttering something about how they weren’t really certain. Astarion gave them some sympathetic tuts, and as he pulled their face to his the urge began to sing.
Do you think that he can taste the tyrant on your tongue?