#cw durgs

[hydra-collector]

Luke 18:14 (Good Omens Fanfiction)

"The seed which fell among the thorns, these are the ones who have heard, and as they go on their way they are choked with worries and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to maturity." Post S2-Crowley makes some reckless decisions, thinks about Aziraphale. I like to think that mystical demon powers and drugs would have some unique interactions sometimes.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49877530

Alcohol was getting a little boring. Crowley began opting for the various stocks of hard drugs he kept in his flat’s bedroom. Currently he was driving back to the bookshop (which he claimed was more interesting to dissociate or hallucinate to, but for the most part he was quite lonely and the bookshop was homey) with a small Ziploc bag that contained a few grams of a crystally, powdery white substance. It had been ages since he’d gotten it. He couldn’t quite remember exactly what it was and didn’t bother checking.

He pulled up to the bookshop and all but fell out of the car like a hostage from a plane. He unlocked the door with a key, only because Aziraphale had given him one a few decades back, for emergencies.

“Muriel?” he called tentatively, because the last thing he wanted was to talk to an angel. No response. Good, they were out, probably examining ugly trinkets in a pawn shop. He entered the small “kitchen” and rifled through the drawers for a straw. There was a reasonably good metal one, albeit a bit old. He was sure the only reason Aziraphale had it was for because it was special, as a gift or that it had belonged to someone important. Whatever. It would work fine.

He didn’t bother measuring, just stuck the straw in the bag and sniffed until it seemed like enough. In a cabinet was a rather old bottle of wine, which he took to drink. He may as well. He took a swig as a dizzy feeling began to kick in. He climbed upstairs in no rush, focusing on every step. The first door he found led to Aziraphale’s bedroom. He wouldn’t have had one, except that he felt as though he should appear more human to any visitors, and Crowley had recommended that he try sleeping sometime back in the 1890s. He had indeed tried, and felt fairly neutral about it. He did it once or twice more, but decided that he preferred to use his bed for reading, as it was quite comfortable.

The room was well-organized, neatly arranged with a subtle but respectable layer of dust settled on just about everything. An impressive king-sized bed was set against the back wall. The headboard was large and intricate, connected to a bulky wooden frame engraved with lions, wings, and pretty swirls. The sheets were white, gold, and blue, with red accents here and there. It was expertly embroidered in floral patterns, and on top was a frankly ridiculous amount of pillows. On the far side, there was an equally gorgeous dresser next to the window’s velvet curtains. There was a large rug–all sorts of pretty colors, upon which were a number of small dressers, chests of drawers, and other containers for trinkets and books. (Aziraphale had also found that the extra room was quite useful for storage as he collected things over the years).

Crowley noticed none of this, except for the presence of a large bed and a framed picture on the dresser. He picked it up, collapsing onto the bed and taking a gulp of wine that did its very best not to spill on the exquisite sheets. Crowley watched the dust he’d kicked up drift slowly around the room, a small shaft of light from the window curtains illuminating the particles.

He had maybe done a little more than he should have. He felt himself slip away, almost, the long-term memories in his brain glossing over. He felt it all through his body, a complete detachment from the light, the sheets, the sounds of cars outside.

Crowley examined the picture.

It was… it was… he almost had it, but his capacity for remembering slipped out from underneath him.

It was, in fact, the picture that Aziraphale had slipped into his sleeve in 1941, and kept in a precious frame for decades in his bedroom. Crowley was not able to understand what it meant at the moment, but out of it emanated a terribly strong feeling of love and caring, so he clutched it to his chest. He drank more, and sat up to lean back into Aziraphale’s luxurious pillows. He held it up and stared, and kept staring. He stared for the better part of an hour, until he wasn’t so much working it out, as he was just about to actually work it out, or figure something from it, at least.

He set it down on the nearest night table and snorted more from his bag. He felt empty inside having put down the picture. Well, not empty, per se, but filled with something that was hollow.

It was about now that Aziraphale’s search for Crowley led him to the shop. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to come here, because between Muriel taking care of it and it being his primary residence on Earth, it was only a matter of time before Heaven would realize he wasn’t coming back and pursued him as a traitor on the run. The shop would be the first place they look. Nevertheless, he needed to find Crowley, so he began poking around and calling his name, only hoping the response wouldn’t be angry.

But there was no response, so he went upstairs and found his bedroom door ajar. When was the last time he’d used it? No matter. Tentatively, he opened it to find a small, unmoving figure curled up on his bed.

Crowley had not heard Aziraphale call, and would not have thought to respond if he had. He wasn’t thinking all that much at the moment. What he was doing was feeling–and currently he could feel a wonderful warmth sink down beside him and pull him closer. Inside it was a great deal of love. Far more than the picture had provided, so he leaned closer to it, and with his inadequate ability to think, wrapped his arms around it through instinct.

Aziraphale held him tightly, almost fearing that Crowley would Fall back down to Hell should he let go. He had never seen him so vulnerable, sober or not. He gently took the half-drunk bottle of wine and the bag in one hand, sliding them into his nightstand drawer. They laid like this for a few minutes, and Crowley didn’t stir. He was entranced by the rhythmic heartbeat, not pumping out blood, but love, pure love.

“Do you think you could sober up, Crowley?” said a voice from his left.

“Sober up,” another voice repeated absently, the source of which was suspiciously close to Crowley’s ears. A hand cradles his chin, tilting it upwards. Crowley’s eyes contained a hunger that an astronaut could have seen from space, if they were looking. He was gazing at something absolutely beautiful.

Aziraphale repeated his question, but Crowley couldn’t answer. He sighed, tucking the demon’s head under his arm again, and watched his chest rise and fall for almost an hour.

Finally, Crowley lifted his head, ready to come back and face his angel. Aziraphale guided him upright, though he didn’t really need it.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I’m so, so sorry.” He didn’t know what else he could say.

Crowley still felt a bit woozy, so he urged some last few grains of powder back into the bag he got them from, and a larger bit of wine back into the bottle.

“You kept it?” he asked. Aziraphale looked at him in confusion, so he retrieved the framed picture from the other nightstand.

(What Crowley wanted to do is say: “Let’s take another,” and fish through Aziraphale’s drawers for a camera that may or may not have ended up in there. “Something to remember the darker moments by.” And guilt would flood Aziraphale, because he knew that he had created the darker moments, no matter how good his intentions were.)

But he didn’t, and Aziraphale told him lamely: “Well… I thought–it was a nice memory.” It was a token of them. It was about them being an us. It was a promise that Aziraphale never made, and didn’t keep.

Crowley chuckled, low and unconvincing. Aziraphale could practically feel the pain Crowley harbored. “Don’t worry about it.” Crowley gestured absently. “The whole Heaven thing. Finally let me get some alone time.”

“On ketamine? I seem to remember hard drugs don’t interest you unless you are exceptionally bored or, more commonly, miserable.”

“Is that what it was? Ketamine?” Crowley flashed a strained smile.

“And I rather think I will worry about it, dear,” Aziraphale leaned closer to him. Crowley looked away.

He was a demon, and he had lied. Aziraphale knew it as well as he did.

“I’ll make it up to you Crowley. I promise. For now, though, I think we’d better get a move on. Heaven will be looking for us.”

[ennissg]

Dr. Vrach sneaking out of camp to perform a ritual in the middle of the night and running into some vampire sucking on a boar

He's got too much on his mind (and, well, in it) to worry about it tonight though

[panksage]

Emperor is the funniest guy.

[ejoym]

My Durge is always rocking a high pony tail in-game but then I started wondering what might happen when she lets her hair down. This is the nonsense that I came up with. To banish Withers, head over to my Patreon to feast your eyes on sausage and melons for free. ✌

[dmbakura]

AU where Astarion brought V home to Cazador

he was hard to swallow

[lazylittledragon]

it’s being normal about dad gale hours again

[amaranthsynthesis]

First morning wake up after the nautiloid crash and there are still many questions to be answered. Not by Ballard, though! He doesn't know shit or remember fuck all! My man has the lowest possible intelligence stat without incurring a negative, and also there's holes in his brain.

Had the thought a ways back about the notes you find from Kressa in the Illithid Colony re: the dark urge strangling her with his own intestines. I'm not sure how he was healed from her experiments, if they scarred or how long the marks might last, but my policy is not to turn down shit about durge that's funny/deeply upsetting so here we are. This is the first time I've drawn Gale I think and I love him.

Also:

[kawareo]

Play stupid games, get bullied by the clerics

Based off of this post by @naughtybg3confessions !

Loved the idea of lovemaking under the sun but also neither of these idiots remembers that sun isn't bad for only vampire reasons

[jawlipops]

dearest dove

[bg3scenarios]

Gale: So… what does everyone here like to do for fun?

Lae’zel: Murder

Minthara: Murder

Astarion: Murder

Karlach: Sex! …And also murder

Durge: Sexual murder

Wyll: I like picnics, and long walks on the beach

Gale: …

Gale: Wyll, I am going to marry you

[rawrsatthetree]

I think one of Astarion’s ways of showing that he cares is making sure Tav is fully fed at all times.

Before he’s willing to admit his feeling for them, he tells himself that if they’re well fed that’s more blood they can feed him or they can’t protect him if they’re starving.

At meals he’ll push past everyone to make sure Tav gets plenty of food before anyone else.

He’ll sneak extra snacks into their pack.

He pays attention to what they like and makes sure to take it from the camp supplies and hides it in his tent. He also makes sure to look for it while they’re out exploring as well.

Living things need proper nutrients, so he always makes sure Tav gets the fruits and vegetables they find over anyone else.

If there’s a meat they particularly like he’ll be sure to hunt it and bring the bloodless corpse back to camp.

He’s the first to notice if they loose any weight or to spot any signs of hunger. He hates how it makes his gut twist with worry.

The threat of starvation always feels just around the corner, he needs to make sure they eat as much as they can while they still can.

And if this causes them to gain weight all the better! He loves the physical reminder they’re well fed and how they feel softer and warmer in his arms.

He never wants Tav to feel hunger like he has.

This is something that doesn’t change if he ascends. His Consort will always have to best blood and wine available, they’ll never feel the pains of vampiric hunger. What would be the point of all that power if he couldn’t even satisfy his favorite’s needs even if he has to force feed them.

[beebundt]

durggeeeegeee ^_^✌🙂😄

[panksage]

I use Gortash as a prop to bully my durge for his crimes.

[gothicspork]

High INT dumbasses

[ejoym]

Based on an anon ask about how my Durge and Astarion first met! If you want to read my comics WITHOUT Minsc, Boo, Withers, and the Strange Ox ruining everything then you can join as a free member on my patreon to see the goods. 🖤

[steelsartcorner]

BG3 Mini-Comic: They Don’t Belong to You

Ahhh, parallels, my beloved.

Playing a Dark Urge who is a squishy lil' sorcerer, I love the fact that you can choose to say "haha no, fuck what Big Daddy Murder wants" and have your buddies immediately join the 1-v-1 fight in order to win against Orin.

I like to imagine that my durge, Jiril's (she/they) romanced Astarion was particularly proactive about it. The man does not give a shit about rules, only survival.