#lost in the sauce of durge dress up

[scalpelsister]

the dark urge

[flamemittens]

For the bhaalspawn asks:

OK but how does Durge actually view relationships and romance?

From the 9th Edition DU asks here!

Gortash x F!Durge. 900 words.

A/N: So...this got a little out of hand. I'm not even sure if I've answered the question as I got lost in the sauce™, but have this silly thing anyway :)

The weather could have been better tonight.

Admittedly, the trellis that facilitates the climb up to Gortash’s chambers is more difficult to scale in the heavy rain, but she completes her ascent with relative ease, dropping onto the terrace.

There is no need to pick the locks on the doors—in a touch of perhaps foolish confidence he tends to leave them open these days—thus the only challenge is to enter quietly. She slips inside through half-drawn curtains, and pulls the doors shut behind her.

The light in here is low, but her eyes make the adjustment.

Then she sees him.

Enver is fast asleep on one of the large chaises by the fireplace, head back, feet planted on the floor, chest rising and falling. Free of his usual finery, he is simply dressed in a half-open black shirt and trousers. She pads softly over to him intending to wake him up, but…something stays her hand. She stands there frozen in place, a tightness in her chest, and imagines the lifeblood flowing through his veins. Considers him in his vulnerability. Considers them.

She has no point of reference, no guide for how all this is supposed to go. It was never meant to be like this. It’s been an evolution, a negotiation. Communication shifting from parchment to in-person, from neutral locations to between his sheets. Gifts viewed with suspicion at first, then reluctantly accepted. An unwelcome distraction—and indulgence—morphing into a welcome one. A meeting of minds, a push and pull. It is both delightful, and confusing.

She wonders if this is what it is like for everyone.

Truthfully, Enver Gortash is the only friend she has ever had. She smiles, thinking of what Sceleritas would say to that statement—the butler is devoted, and not fond of her Banite.

Her reverie is broken however as Enver chooses this moment to wake up; he gives a brief start, then relaxes, as he looks up at her with a level of softness she’s never seen before.

Something twists painfully in her chest as she realizes he is relieved the interloper is her when he should be afraid—it digs in alongside everything else she carries. She is struck once again by the thought that he has not been afraid of her for some time now. If he ever was. He’s not even surprised.

“Good evening, my dear Bhaalist” he says calmly, voice still raspy from sleep. He reaches out a hand and pulls her closer. “Why are you wet? You’re soaked through.”

“It’s raining outside. I was caught in a downpour.”

A resigned sigh signals his acceptance as he runs a hand across his face. “When it comes to you, it could be worse, I suppose.”

He stands up. “I shall call the servants and have a bath drawn for you.”

“There’s no need. Do not bother them.”

“Nonsense, I insist. For the sake of my new rugs, if nothing else. And I do so enjoy you smelling of my soaps.” He leaves the room, returning a moment later.

“Good. They are seeing to it now.”

“Enver?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

He frowns and then turns to the fireplace, tossing another log into the flames. “Why what? My dear, as much as I enjoy puzzling you out, you’re going to have to give me more to go on.”

“Why do you care for me?” The question is neither simple nor complex, and it slides off her tongue like liquid before she can stop it. He has his back to her, but she catches how he briefly freezes, a sudden and subtle tension in his shoulders that he expertly dismisses before he continues. She has cornered him—not something that she achieves often with this man who is always several steps ahead—and bent their unspoken rules.

“So, you have decided to ask me all the difficult questions tonight, hmm?” He has opted, of course, for deflection.

“Oh, it’s a difficult question, is it? Should I be offended?”

“You know that’s not quite what I meant.”

“But that’s what you said.”

“Gods below. Well, it certainly isn’t because you infuriate me with disconcerting regularity.”

“No.” She grins slyly. “It’s in spite of that.”

He barks a laugh, then regards her for a moment before continuing.

“Now, while we wait, how about I show you what I’ve been working on today. And after we’re all done, perhaps you can give me the pleasure of your company until morning?”

“Lord Gortash, do you say that to all the guests you host in your personal chambers?”

He closes the distance between them, and gently grips her chin in his calloused fingers, tilting her head from side to side. She hopes to pass the inspection. Granted, there are times when she wants him to be the Chosen of Bane, but others where she prefers him to be Enver. Tonight, she finds she wishes for the latter.

“No” he murmurs after a spell, releasing her. “Only the ones who show up at near midnight drenched from head to toe, drip all over my upholstery, force me to call the servants to prepare a bath, and ask me questions.” He smiles down at her.

Enver it is.

She mirrors his expression. “That sounds awfully tiresome. You must suffer so.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Very well” she replies, leaning closer and patting his chest. “Tell me about your day, if you must.”