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Durge wasn’t supposed to be here, not really. But what he was supposed to do had recently been partially replaced with far more dangerous thoughts of what he wanted to do.
And it was all because of Bane’s chosen.
Though they had no meeting tonight, no intention of furthering their plan for their masters, he still found himself crawling through Enver’s window. The sitting room where he would host his more intimate meetings was empty, meaning that he could only be upstairs, burning the midnight oil at his desk.
Durge crept through the night, silent and unseen, in spite of his bright scales and tall stature.
As predicted, Enver was still working. He had clearly been at it for a while, his inkpot already replaced once and his desk piled with papers. Their presence was spread fairly thin, covering both Moonrise and Baldur’s Gate, so copious amounts of correspondence was needed to keep their forces in check.
But even a mind as sharp as Enver’s will dull if it isn’t treated with care. And that would be a damn shame. The man was a fine dagger, one that could slice many throats before it wore out.
One that felt right in Durge’s hands.
He allowed himself that thought for tonight. He had butchered his way through the city today, providing his father with ample sacrifice. And Gortash had yet to notice him, so for now any softness on his face would remain his own.
The fact that he’d been sitting on the windowsill without any acknowledgement for a few minutes was more concerning than anything, revealing just how tired the Lord really was. As did the bags under his bloodshot eyes and the ink that stained his hands. Durge had no doubt that every letter was still perfect, carefully planned and put to paper, but while his work never suffered, his body did.
He was only human. A fact that Durge was all too aware of, for both good and bad. On one hand it intrigued him, the softness of his skin, the hair that lined his body, the way his flesh would depress softly under Durge’s touch in a way that scales and corpses didn’t.
On the other, the man was fragile. He would hate that description, but it was true. Durge knew all too well how easily humans died, how little it took to break them. And sleep deprivation was one of the cruelest methods he knew.
He finally allowed his feet to touch the ground, fully entering the room and announcing his presence.
Gortash looked up, alarmed, if a bit too slow to react. When he saw that there was no threat, he turned back to his work.
Durge was almost a bit offended by that. But part of him didn’t really mind. It was almost refreshing to not be greeted with fear.
“I don’t recall us having a meeting tonight.”
“We don’t.”
When Enver finally looked back up at him with a raised brow, his stern face was ruined by the way his eyes squinted against the light.
“Then to what do I owe this visit?” He finally placed the pen down carefully, clearly giving up on getting anything done with another distraction added to the pile.
“How long has it been since you slept?”
Enver seemed genuinely taken aback by what should have been an obvious question. “That hardly matters. Politics do not wait for you to sleep. That is simply an opportunity for your detractors to undermine you.”
“Considering that I’ve been killing your detractors, that hardly seems like a valid excuse.”
“I wasn’t aware that I needed an excuse.”
“I suppose you don’t.” The dragonborn circled the table, putting out the oil lamp that illuminated the paperwork. “But you do need sleep.”
Enver’s protests died in his chest as Durge pressed a hand to his cheek in a surprisingly gentle touch. He leaned into it slightly, clearly just realizing how tired his neck muscles were.
Durge’s voice was quiet, dampened to match the calm that had settled over the room. “Don’t torture yourself, Enver. That’s my job.”
The Lord managed a tired laugh, reaching up to hook a heavy hand around Durge’s. It was warm. Enver always was, the human’s temperature running significantly higher than his own. As Enver repositioned his head slightly to push his forehead against the colder hand, Durge realized that he was probably too warm.
He helped him out of the nice, but uncomfortable, clothes gently, secretly hoping that Enver wouldn’t mistake his actions as sexual advances. If Enver was to initiate something and Durge turned him down, Bhaal wouldn’t approve. Sex and murder were the two things he was never supposed to turn down, even from a banite. Fortunately, Gortash seemed to have other things on his mind, allowing this moment of intimacy without the heavy judgemental gaze of their gods weighing on them.
Before they could lay down, Enver pulled him into a lazy kiss. It was tired, it was sloppy, it wasn’t meant to stoke passions or assert dominance. It was simply because they wanted to.
With that, he pulled the lord into bed, gently folding arms that were meant to kill around fragile human bones. Enver held him close in turn, practically unconscious by the time he hit the bed. With a wave of his hand Durge extinguished the last light, allowing the darkness to hide them from the eyes of the world as he pressed his lips against the top of Enver’s head.