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petit-etoile · 7 months

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everything i see, everything i feel (you are my universe)

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 8746 content warnings: astarion is not a vampire nor ascended & tav is not the dark urge but i use pet names from his ascended route because i think they fit & some of the dark urge connections are necessary, brief mention of tav being raised as a child soldier by gortash, tav is gender neutral, nearly 8k of pure smut other tags: alternate universe - royalty, character study, porn with plot, dom/sub undertones, mi.ssionary style, do.ggy style, riding, cr.eampie, marriage proposal, sort of archiveofourown: here. note: depending on reception & if i have time, there may be a part two or a prequel. i ended coming up with lore for this verse so i like it a lot. summary: ‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’

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You can already tell what kind of evening it will be just from the way Astarion looks at you from beneath his eyelashes, so coy and pretty and unabashed in the way he glances over you. Whatever happened tpday at court has pleased him. He practically purrs when he steps past you to enter the sanctuary of his expansive bedroom.

‘You’ll come,’ he murmurs, ‘won’t you, darling?’

You’ll play his game because he likes it. You keep your lips pressed together in a firm line despite the way his hand slides gracefully across your waist, warming the chainmail that you wear dutifully every day so that you can keep the crown prince safe. He pouts when you pretend to not notice the playful mood he’s in. And when you change your mind after only a few minutes, Astarion will wear the same mischievous frown and think he has claimed victory over you once more.

You recite your vows to yourself to keep your mind from wandering, but it’s difficult. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. It’s…admittedly hard to remember the rest. You’re distracted by the most impure thoughts. Memories of nights before. The taste of him on your tongue, the feel of him between your thighs, the sight of him as he grinds above you, the gleam of his skin as dawn begins to creep over the horizon. You squeeze your thighs together and try to wait out at least five minutes before you cave.

You peek down the hallway. There are no other guards skulking around at night. You’re not technically supposed to leave your post, but if the prince commands it… Well, it’s an excuse. You rush inside before you can feel the call of your valor and close the door after you with a soft click. Astarion sits with his legs crossed at the edge of his bed. He grins. It’s almost as predictable as you are, but you would never admit it.

‘You called, my prince?’ you ask carefully, trying to keep your tone even.

‘I did,’ he says with a delicate shrug. ‘I thought I could use entertainment, and you were there…’

You smile beneath your helm. You were always there. Astarion tries to hide it a little too much, but there’s no one else he would seek out to keep him entertained when his mood is like this. He tries to play into the expectations everyone has of him. That he’s ambitious, unpredictable, easy to rile up. The truth of the matter is that Astarion longs for you in a way that he will never admit except into the curls of your hair when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. You care for him — love him — and there’s nothing you adore more than the way he laughs around you as though you were born for him and him alone.

‘I take it the court wasn’t too uneventful,’ you say.

He grimaces. ‘I saw Lord Gortash, unfortunately. I believe the sight of him has ruined my week.’

‘So cruel,’ you hum. You touch the buckles of your cape and release it from your bodice.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Astarion asks defensively, playfully.

You touch the latch of your armor. ‘He’s head of the city guard.’

‘I ought to fire him,’ the prince says darkly. ‘Hire a new one.’

‘Who would protect the city instead?’

‘You,’ Astarion says without pause.

‘Alas, I am duty bound to serve the prince,’ you disagree. You pull the weight of your chest piece off your shoulders and drop it to the floor. ‘How can I serve the city when my mind is filled with nothing but you?’

Astarion smiles, a true smile. ‘Oh, you honor me. You truly mean every word.’

‘Without question,’ you promise.

You think about kneeling before him and looking up at him, but your chest piece is still in the way. You pull and untangle and twist until it all slides to the floor, leaving you in a simpler top. His honor, a single white rose, is pinned to the front of your shirt. You can still remember the day he gave it to you, the day you knelt in the throne room and he pressed his sword to your shoulder to claim you.

‘You are mine,’ Astarion says slowly.

‘I am yours,’ you repeat fondly.

‘Until the end of time?’

‘Until the end.’

‘And,’ Astarion begins playfully, ‘if I asked you to please me?’

‘I would be duty bound,’ you reply.

‘Then may I ask you to please me?’ he murmurs, eyes dangerous.

Astarion practically preens under your careful attention, his eyes unwavering as he watches you. You take your time. You remove the rest of your armor slowly, savoring the hungry way he watches. Even in court when you are his shadow, Astarion barely hides it. The hunger. The longing. The darkest of desires. He would claim you in public if it wouldn’t be a scandal.

You lower yourself before him, groveling on your hands and knees. You place your head in his lap and sigh when he threads his fingers through your hair. These are the moments you live for. When he is no longer a prince and you are no longer a knight. You are you, and Astarion is Astarion.

You don’t have to wonder where his mind is. Not during times like these. He’s anxious to feel you, but you take your time in this. You slip his fancy boots from his feet then take your time undoing his belts and buttons, sliding everything down his lean legs with careful intent. His cock greets you, already half hard and growing still.

It still makes you nervous, deep down inside. Astarion is a prince and the pinnacle of perfection. He could have any duke or duchess he wanted, yet it’s you he takes care of when the standing watch for hours on end from dusk til dawn has caused your bones to grow weary. The least you could do is love him like this. You lean forward and kiss the side of his cock, and Astarion’s fingers tighten in your hair.

‘Please, your highness,’ you whisper.

You are perched at his feet still awaiting commands. Like a good little pup. You shiver.

‘Go on,’ Astarion encourages.

You barely stick the tip of your tongue out and watch as his cock throbs in anticipation. This is dangerous. Obscene, even. You’ve seen him hundreds of times yet it still excites you. Carefully, you take him into your mouth and admire his debauched moan.

You have half a mind to tease him, but when you glance upwards at him, he’s as pretty as an aasimar. Or something worse, but you don’t give yourself much time to think about it. You know his desires. What he enjoys. What he tolerates for you. You know Astarion likes your little hums as you glide your mouth over his cock. He likes being pampered more than anything.

Astarion’s hand is tender as he moves your bangs out of your eyes. It’s the eye contact he wants. He likes to see and always acts like it’s the first time. He holds the edge of your jaw while you rub the tip of his cock against the inside of your cheek, eyebrows scrunching. It’s divine for you as well.

Astarion lives for the pomp and circumstance, absolutely devours court rumors with a delight you barely understand — but he would let his kingdom fall into the Underdark if it meant he could spend every hour of every day fucking you.

It’s the same for you.

It always has been ever since your coronation.

You were not like the other knights who were born into houses of servitude, second born sons and daughters who were the spares of their family names. You were given to Astarion by Lord Gortash as a way to buy favor from the crown. You were once his favorite, well-trained dog.

But unlike Lord Gortash, you are coveted by the crown in a way no other knight has been before. Astarion kisses you every morning and finishes against your spine every evening. But he is your salvation, your savior, and you are on your knees to show what that means to you.

Astarion stirs beneath your ruminations, his thighs tensing beneath your elbows, his hips doing those unconscious lusty jerks that you like so much. His head falls back as he gets lost in the feel of your tongue and mouth and he moans so sweetly that it almost distracts you from your ministrations. You take his cock as far back into your mouth as you can manage, closing your eyes to squeeze out any embarrassing tears that might threaten to fall. Like the prettiest bird, he sings for you.

‘Wait,’ he moans. ‘Not yet, I want — ’

You pull away from him as commanded, licking your lips clean of spit. His hands dance frantically against your shoulders as he pulls you up against him, cock hard against both of your bellies. He kisses you hotly, one hand fisting in your hair and the other tugging uselessly at your shirt.

‘You are needy today, my prince,’ you whisper against a barrage of kisses.

‘You were too perfect,’ he whines. ‘Always perfect for me.’

You laugh against his cheek. ‘You did say to please you.’

‘And now I’m saying to get on the fucking bed,’ Astarion fusses. ‘Oh, and clothes off. I want to see you.’

‘Yes, your — ’ you begin.

‘You,’ Astarion accuses with an affectionate pinch to your side, ‘are being quite the obstinate charge tonight. I want to taste you and be tasted in return, but be familiar with me, my love. Come back to me. Share my bed.’

You are in the middle of doing as he requests, sitting with one leg on either side of his thighs when he slides his hands to your waist and forces you to roll to the side. He pushes you further into the many adorning pillows of his bed and starts devouring you, his mouth dancing from your neck to your collarbones while he tears your shirt apart with his hands, though he does slow down enough to place the white rose on the bedside table. He pushes his palms flat against your chest and leaves bite marks and bruises across your chest and down your belly, chasing after you as you try to squirm away. Astarion finally takes interest in leaving his mark on your throat.

You set to work pushing your leggings and small clothes down your thigh, but Astarion, in all his impatience, gets in the way of that too. He presses his thigh between your legs on purpose, rolling his cock against your hip while his thigh applies almost perfect pressure to the most sensitive parts of you.

You moan and turn your face away, but Astarion chases the sound. He nuzzles your noses together until you look at him, bleary and dazed, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. He rolls his hips again with intent. He catches the sound of your moan on the tip of your tongue and returns it, his own ragged breath warm against your cheek.

‘There you are, my love,’ he whispers deliciously. ‘I’ve missed you. My treasure, my pet…’

‘Yours,’ you moan.

‘Mine,’ Astarion agrees. ‘All mine.’

He drags his fingernails across the swell of your hip, and you can’t help but chase the curve of his wrist. Your cheeks burn, but you’re tempted to beg him. To ask if he’ll please you with his hands. You want to feel his fingers pressed up inside you, to feel them curl and twist. You want it more than anything else you’ve ever wanted to. Astarion watches the way you twist and turn with a small smile on his face. He pets your hip and slides his fingers between your thighs. You can feel the cool of his jeweled rings against your heated flesh.

Astarion is grateful for your reckless display. He acquiesces to your silent begging, brushing his fingers between your folds and pressing the tip of his middle finger against you. He watches with delight as you grind against the pressure. His cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears are ruddy, and though he’s pretending to be controlled right now, you can hear how shaky his breath has become.

And then, like a god answering a prayer, he presses a finger inside of you so painstakingly slow it’s almost maddening. You mewl, watching his expressions in fascination, because his own mouth falls open as he cranes his next to watch. He adds another. He twists and twirls his fingers as deeply as he can reach it. His eyes flutter with desperation. He’s so beautiful that you can hardly stand it. You want more, so much more, and you press your wrist against your mouth to keep from begging.

‘Don’t hide from me,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I want to hear everything. Please, sing for me.’

‘More,’ you whisper thickly. ‘More, I need more, I want more.’

He kisses your jaw sloppily. ‘I’ll give you everything.’

‘It’s not enough!’

‘You’ll take it,’ Astarion tells you. ‘You’ll take what I give.’

‘Astarion,’ you weep. ‘I want you. I want — ’

This time, he might as well have ripped the rest of your clothes with his haste. You aren’t sure what he does with them, you just know that you’re naked and in his bed, surrounded by all his pillows with your thighs slick from how wet you are.

Your eyes watch your star’s every movement. He rids himself of his finery as well, shrugging out of his layers until there’s nothing left. The moonlight hits his skin prettily, almost as dainty as the way his eyes catch in the candlelight. He chases you, chases your mouth, presses his cock against you and ruts for a moment. You can’t help but be dizzy with lust yourself. You leave your own marks across his collarbones and chest, mindful of his neck and what skin would peek above his elegant collars. You wonder how he’ll take you. Astarion has always been the creative type. Sometimes you’ll ride him, and sometimes he’ll ride you until you see stars. Despite his urgency, he seems tender tonight.

Astarion wants to make you feel good. He wants to find your heat and bask in the warmth. You can tell in the way he watches your face ever so fondly. He’s always been so good at masking how much he prefers you to anyone he’s spoken to before. You’ve stood and listened as the perfect guard during meetings with dignitaries from neighboring cities, and Astarion always spoke to them with practiced politeness bearing a practiced albeit bored undertone. Yet with you, he seems to hang onto your every word. He takes it in until there was nothing left to share. He cares when you are supposed to be nothing more than a knight at his door.

‘I have a gift for you tonight,’ Astarion says suddenly. He blushes. It’s adorable how much it’s unlike him.

‘What is it?’ you ask.

‘Patience,’ he complains, but he doesn’t mean it.

Astarion reaches for something just beyond your sight, and when he sits back up, you feel as though someone has released a cage of birds in the pit of your stomach. He holds out a small silver band for your inspection. ‘A warding ring,’ he explains. ‘I had my Master of the Arcane enchant it for you — for us.’

‘Kiss me,’ you whisper. ‘Please.’

‘Put it on first,’ he insists. ‘For me.’

Something must show on your face, because he’s quick to show you his own hand. There is a matching silver band there, and it causes your heart to swell so much you think your heart will give out. Astarion, with great care, slides the band onto your finger and then looks at you, hopeful.

‘Whatever you feel, I shall feel,’ he says like a promise. ‘You and I, together.’

You guide his mouth to yours before you can do something silly like cry. When you touch his chest, intent on finding his heartbeat, you can feel it so frantic against your palm.

What is a better story than a prince and his knight? A savior and his sword? The bards will sing forever about the prince and his favored knight, their matching rings, their sacred vows. You ache with longing. You surge with love. It is all Astarion’s fault.

You push your hands through his thick curls and guide him to lie on top of you. You can feel the ring humming with magic. Though you are sure this isn’t its intended use, you can’t help but feel nervous.

You take him into your arms. He collapses into you and your only thought is that it’s a little poetic. You have caught a star as it fell from the sky. Now, it rests in your hands again and again and again until, slowly, you cannot exist without one another. His mouth finds yours, and your hands with the matching rings reach out for one another as though choreographed. Astarion presses you against his sheets and you willingly let him devour you once more. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Astarion kisses down your chest again. He kisses your tummy and all the muscle you’ve earned from being a knight. He kisses every scar from every battle you’ve ever endured all the way down to your hips, to that warm core that lies between them. You moan unapologetically, head rushing until you’re almost positive you’re going to faint. Astarion presses a kiss between your legs, growls as though he was a man starved before finding you, and takes you into his mouth.

It’s a little romantic how you’ve grown together. You were each other’s firsts — Astarion taught you how to kiss, and you taught him how to fondle someone else’s body without feeling shy about it. You had first used your mouth on him, but he had taken all of the knowledge you had given and weaponized it against you the next moment that he could. He’s determined to please, desperate for compliments, hopeless in all his endeavors to please you almost as much as you’ve pleased him. But unlike you, Astarion is selfish and he reaches for fruit to pluck that anyone else would have discarded as soon as something better came along. He chose you.

He licks and bites and nuzzles and feasts upon the very fruit of you, groaning at how you taste. It’s his favorite taste in the world, and he would brag about it if it didn’t make your cheeks flush. He laps at your folds hungrily and squeezes the thickness your thighs until they’ve bruised.

‘Little star,’ you whine, pressing your hands to your eyes. ‘Please, please.’

His tongue is like torture. Astarion never does anything without fully committing, and from your time together, you know he’s memorized every little thing he can do to drive you absolutely wild. He’s pulled your legs over his shoulders, his fingers moving on after bruising them to dig into your hip bones, and he hums so prettily for you.

Even you aren’t sure what you’re begging for. You want Astarion to stop teasing you so insistently. You want to feel his heartbeat, you want to taste his lips. There’s a part of you so empty and full of longing that if you wait any longer, if you withhold anymore, you might lose yourself. The only thing serving to ground you to this world is depravity, twisting carnal lust, and the depths of your love. You shiver under his touch and moan even as you try to hush it.

‘ — star!’ you cry sharply.

You try to twist out of his grasp, crying at how determined he is, but Astarion simply drags you back down to where he is as if it’s nothing to him. He doesn’t stop torturing with your tongue until you’ve choked out a sob and chased your release, chest heaving from the effort. He doesn’t let you go for long either, climbing up your body so that he can press encouraging kisses to your jaw, pushing your damp curls back from your temple.

Astarion pushes his nose against your ear and breathes in, almost so desperate to have memorized your very scent. It’s always been his little habit. As if just by knowing your smell, he is able to do whatever he needs to accomplish in this world.

‘You,’ he murmurs between kisses, ‘are always so magnificent for me.’

You reach for his hip, the back of your knuckles sweeping against his sharp bone. ‘I want to do the same for you,’ you say shakily. ‘Let me have you, please. It’s all I want.’

He moans, soft and quiet, and settles between your legs. He kisses you again with that same hunger. The same, almost desperate kind of lust. He presses you so far into his sheets that you’re not sure you’ll ever be released from them again. And you think you would be fine with that. There’s nothing more that you want than to stay here with him. His hands joined with yours, your hips pressed to his, forever until the world has ended.

You slide your hands across the broad sweep of his shoulders and feel as his muscles shift. He is so gentle with you even when he doesn’t have to be. He’s cautious, meticulous, almost ridiculously polite because it’s you. His love is like an apology for everything you’ve been through, and when he cradles the back of your head, you lean into his touch.

‘You are mine,’ he says tenderly. His thumb sweeps across your cheek.

‘Take me,’ you say hungrily. ‘I am your prize.’

‘You were created by the gods for me,’ Astarion tells you sincerely. He sits onto his knees and pulls your hands flush against his stomach. ‘Look at how well you fit against me.’

You were never one to be shy before, but his praise causes you to turn your cheek aside and look away. He pushes his hands up your thighs, searching, admiring. He says pretty words, but he’ll never understand if you were to repeat the things he’s said back to him. Underneath that prestigious bravado and practiced façade, Astarion still understands little of his own divinity and worth. You’re thankful for him as much as he is for you, and you allow him this. He finds his worth at your core and marvels in it, allowing you to see him as Astarion. Like a mortal making a deal with a cambion, he reaches for you.

‘Do you want me inside of you?’ he asks in a graveled voice.

‘More than anything else,’ you reply, choking on how thick your want is. You think about how it feels every time he’s claimed you and shudder. ‘Please.’

‘I am going to get lost in you for hours,’ Astarion promises. He smiles, dangerous and dark. ‘When you return to your post, you’ll feel me still. You’ll be sorer than you’ve ever been.’

You are so aroused it’s painful. You ache and twist, spreading your legs so that he might take you then and there without so much as a second thought. You need the closeness. His grounding touch. His cock, as much as it would embarrass you to say aloud, has been on your mind ever since he invited you inside his room. He strokes your hip.

‘You’re shaking,’ he says fondly.

He leans forward and kisses you. He connects with you like that, nose brushing yours affectionately, before he stares at the little shivers you’re now aware you’re doing. He sees everything, knows everything. It delights him.

And then he slides his cock into you. Slowly, agonizingly, inch by inch. He squeezes your hip in encouragement, but you’re too full and he’s too thick for you to manage any coherent thought. He’s determined to reach the deepest parts of your core.

Astarion speaks through gritted teeth. ‘You are perfect.’

‘No,’ you say. ‘You are.’

‘I like to watch,’ he says honestly. ‘I like to see how you take me. You’re so tight here, did you know?’

‘More — ’

‘Use your words for me.’

You swallow. ‘I want you — to fuck me.’

‘You’ve been a good pup,’ Astarion says with a small laugh. ‘I’ll make love to you until dawn calls.’

For the faintest few heartbeats, this is the only way you want to exist. He is pressed inside of you, and you are surrounded by nothing but him and his scent and his bed and his pretty words, longing so intently to memorialize this moment. Astarion is haloed by the silver moonlight. He shines prettier than the crown he wears at court.

He shines brighter than the stars.

You’re aware of how fragile your breathing sounds. You forcefully drag air down into your lungs and hold his gaze, so warm and soft when he looks at you. You don’t know why it’s so different this time with him, but you reach out until he entwines your fingers together and you lose yourself in a way you haven’t before. You don’t realize you’re crying until he coos at you and calls you beautiful.

Astarion only moves once he’s assured you’re not in any pain. He’s conscious of the way you tense, but you shake your head and try to dry your tears.

If you’re being honest, you aren’t really sure why you’re so emotional tonight. You’re ignoring what the rings promise on purpose. A meaning that you are too nervous to confront. You know it’s how much you wish this was your fate. It all comes to a boil when he leans forward and kisses the tip of your ear. Astarion wraps his arms around you and moans softly in your ear, the heat of his cheek flush against your temple.

‘I love you,’ he whispers.

‘I can feel you,’ you whisper back, voice uneven. ‘All the way inside.’

‘Our souls are touching tonight,’ Astarion promises you. ;This is what I want to give you.’

Once he’s assured that you’re fine, Astarion begins moving inside you. You still feel overly full. It’s almost difficult to breathe, that you’re so aware of how deep his cock is inside of you — as if it’s the first time you’ve experienced him before. He murmurs encouragement into your hair and ruts further and further, but when you press your fingers against his biceps, you can feel how he’s shaking too.

‘Let me be yours,’ you say softly, eyes fluttering closed. ‘Let me be with you, Astarion, please.’

‘You are my pretty consort,’ Astarion says fiercely. ‘You belong to me, and I to you.’

His consort, his knight. The one he comes home to, that he ignores all the other lovely people at court for. The idea of it makes your blood warm, makes you feel a little wild and different. You rock your hips back against Astarion’s. Feeling him lose what little of his control pushes you over the edge. You start mumbling nonsensically, thank you, thank you, my prince, my star, thank you, I feel it, Astarion and he growls low in the bottom of his throat. His hips stutter against yours and you know with a little wiggle, you could make him spend then and there.

It’s only when Astarion pushes into you as far as he can go, the tip of his cock pressed as deep into your core as you can handle it, that you remember what a devout worshiper you are. You’re fully aware of how your spine protests the way your back arches up off the bed. You feel Astarion’s mouth hot and desperate against the side of your throat, his hands slowly sliding down your skin to grip your hips, the tips of his fingers digging in harshly to the curve of your ass.

When you dare meet his gaze, you’re mesmerized.

Astarion has always been the most beautiful person you’ve ever set eyes on. The height of his cheekbones, the way they flush when you moan his name. His uneven smile, the way his teeth point when he laughs. His intense eyes that take in even your faintest moves. He is sharp and calculated, cunning and keen on dramatics — but underneath, you can see the gentler side. The warmth in his gaze. The way he laughs ugly with you instead of with practiced finesse. You fit rather well together. Perfectly, like a puzzle. Intoxicatingly. He catches you staring and his breath catches in his throat.

You must be quite the sight as well. Astarion always lavished you with the utmost attention, often buying you things you’d never need as a knight. Rings, gowns, circlets and other finery to wear with him on your occasional strolls through Baldur’s Gate when you were off-duty and carefree.

You feel nearly feral at this moment. It takes all your self-control to not rake your nails down his spine or bite his shoulder because you’re too full and he’s too much and you’re almost certain you’re going to explode, but you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him tighter to you until there’s almost nothing else he can do that grind uselessly, desperate sounds coming from both of your mouths as you try to hold on just a little longer.

Without thinking, without caution, you whisper, ‘Inside — Tonight, I want you to — ’

‘Gods,’ he chokes out. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

‘Please,’ you beg. ‘I’ve been good. I’ve been — ’

Astarion burrows his face against your collarbone, whining unceremoniously. That’s when you can feel it, his cum, hot and warm, so wonderful and dizzying that you also forget to be dignified. Your fingers stutter against his skin, and if it was painful to experience, the only proof is the way Astarion hisses at the burn and coils dangerously beneath your touch.

‘That’s it,’ he soothes proudly. ‘You’ve done well, my sweet.’

You murmur, ‘So much.’

‘Don’t tease me,’ Astarion says. He pouts his bottom lip. ‘You’re quite beautiful, you know.’

‘Not as beautiful as you,’ you say.

‘Well,’ Astarion allows with a small laugh, ‘I am rather perfect, I agree.’

He groans when he pulls away from you, brow furrowed in concentration. He trembles with exertion, and whatever other plans he might have had are forgotten, for Astarion drops down into his sheets beside you in all his naked and exhausted glory and presses close to you, an arm thrown over your waist.

A pang of guilt hits you at the sight of his closed door. Your armor is thrown carelessly across this floor, and while you wish you could enjoy this moment of bliss with him, you must continue to do your actual duty of guarding the prince. You move, delicate, to stand up. Astarion wraps his other arm around you.

‘Where are you going?’ he demands tiredly. ‘The sun is not yet up. Come back.’

‘My post — ’

‘Fuck your post,’ he snorts. ‘Your only duty is to lie in my bed and look pretty.’

You open your mouth to protest, but Astarion fusses. It’s hard to deny him even though you know only what the Captain of his Kingsguard has instilled in you. The moonlight is a gorgeous embellishment on his skin, and the ridges of his body are enticing enough that you forget your vows for the time being. Your heart squeezes at the tenderness. Astarion welcomes you back into his arms without further complaint. It’s your turn to tuck your head against his shoulder, basking in the warmth of his body as he cradles you close.

‘This is where you belong,’ Astarion tells you plainly. ‘You and I belong in bed having forgotten our other duties forevermore. The kingdom may fall to rot and ruin for all I care. As long as I have you, I care not.’ He touches your hip. ‘I know what you must be thinking. That it isn’t that easy. But it is that easy. I’m the prince and I want it to be so. I see our fate in my dreams.’

You allow yourself to daydream and doze for the moment. He’s murmuring sweet things into your hair, and your eyes are so heavy you know when you close them, it’ll be hard for you to wake up if you give in. The ache in your muscles is comforting. It’s a reminder of all the ways Astarion has ever had you, and you can’t help but wonder if this really is where your life was always meant to head.

You do fall asleep. Despite your best efforts to stay awake, you fall into a peaceful slumber with Astarion’s hand petting your spine. When you next awake, Astarion is no longer at your side. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring out of the window watching as dawn begins to peek through.

He hasn’t left you entirely alone. He’s draped his many fancy satin blankets over you and somehow managed to coax your head onto a pillow without waking you. You’re almost inspired to fall back asleep at the sight, but the view of Astarion basking in an orange glimmer keeps you from entering the depths of your mind once more.

‘No,’ Astarion says. He’s smiling. ‘Don’t move. I like the way you look.’

‘And how do I look, your highness?’

‘Sated.’

‘Come back to me, my love,’ you say. You try to hold one of your hands out, but you’re still so very tired from before. You press your cheek further into the pillow. ‘’m cold.’

‘I was thinking,’ he says.

‘Enough thinking,’ you whine. ‘I miss you beside me.’

‘Promise me something first.’

‘What shall I promise?’

‘That when I am king, you will help me create my new world,’ Astarion says, peering affectionately at you from over his shoulder. ‘A world where you are both my shield and my consort. A world where no one else like us has to get hurt.’

You start to sit up at that, blood suddenly rushing to your head as you try to think of what he means. Were you not already his Shield, extending your Sword to his greatest foes? Were you not already his Consort in all but proper name? You furrow your eyebrows, too sleepy and overwhelmed, but Astarion is quick to come to your side, to press kisses into your hair and against your ear and at the tears on your cheeks.

‘When I am king, there will be no need for us to hide like this,’ Astarion promises, petting his hand comfortingly down your spine. He shushes you. ‘I will sit on the throne and you will sit beside me.’ When he’s certain you’re done crying, he adds, ‘Or in my lap, if you prefer.’

Somehow, there’s only one thing you can manage to say. ‘I love you.’

‘And I love you,’ Astarion says. ‘That’s why I will do this for us.’

‘Will it go well?’

He hums. ‘Of course it will go well. I will be king. I will make it go well.’

You say again, ‘I love you.’

‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’

‘I promise,’ you say, ‘to help you.’

‘Then say no more, my love,’ he whispers. He kisses the side of your throat again and slowly pulls his silk sheets away from your skin. The cold morning air leaves a trail of gooseflesh down your spine, and he tastes every knot of it with his mouth and tongue. He gives you commands, ‘Let me have you again. You’re so beautiful in the morning light. I need you now more than ever. Gods, the things you do to me.’

You rock your hips back to meet his. It’s an alluring situation straight from your wildest, most longing of dreams — a world where you might sit alongside Astarion as he rules, no longer a simple guard dog to follow commands, but something else. Something sweeter.

It was like marriage but better. The thought of you and Astarion rising to godhood through his own determined means rather than falling into the same song the bards often liked to play on unrequited love. You allow him to trace his fingers down your stomach to that place between your legs, your warm core where you’re certain he’s found his divinity. Astarion presses his cock against your lower back and gives into his own avarice. He bites your shoulder almost a touch too rough and leaves a bruise in the shape of his teeth, reveling in your shocked cry.

You want him.

You want to be by his side, to kneel at his feet. You want to watch him dress in the mornings and fall into his arms every evening. You want to place his crown atop his brow. You arch your hips against his waist, and ponder about the creation of the empyrean heavens above. You will guide him to become celestial.

It’s with a near untamed fervor that Astarion tears through his sheets to get to you. He slides his knee beneath yours and pushes it forward, his breath warm and hiccuped against the blade of your shoulder. He doesn’t hurt you and he never would, but he slides his cock inside, the tenderness of earlier forgotten.

‘Be loud,’ he encourages you, groaning, his hand still scrambling against the arc of your belly. He sounds debauched. ‘Let them all hear. Let them know.’

He fucks into you like he wants you both to grow together. One body and one soul. You’re glad for it. It only intensifies the burn from the evening and pushes you to a place you’ve never been before. You’re almost certain you see sparks in your vision, but you do as asked. You don’t swallow down your moans. They’re taut, sharp, staccato ah-ah-ahs that match the sun’s rise.

It’s almost sweet how hard Astarion fucks into you. His princely demeanor is gone now, the control he tries to exhibit. He moans freely as well and kisses without meaning. Your shoulder, the back of your head, the nape of your neck, and he’s babbling things that don’t make sense. But you’re no better. Your cheeks are so warm you’re feverish, hands clenched in his sheets, and the pleasure borders on welcomed pain when he sits up behind you, knee still forcing you to be pliant, as he drags his cock in and out of you from behind. Astarion is watching again, one hand on your lower back, the other on your ass. When you try to hide your face in mild embarrassment, he scolds you.

‘Let me see you,’ Astarion rasps. ‘Let me see, I want to see everything — ’

So you let him, shifting and arching as much as your back will let you. Your muscles feel strained. Your mind is hardly there. But the prince has asked, and it would be rude of you to not heed his call. It’s not as though it matters. You’re easily distracted by the way he presses himself in and out of you, intoxicated by the gravitational pull he’s created between you. You can’t help but lean into his every touch, to mewl, to whine the exact way he likes.

You wonder what Lord Gortash would think of his loyal dog if he saw it now. You were taught the blade and the bow, how to use a lance and a shield, and you were never meant to be anything more than a warrior given to the ground so that he could get on the good side of the king. There isn’t much of your life you can remember before you were brought to the steps of the throne room and thrown down before the prince and his father. All you remember is looking up and seeing an angel smiling down at you.

So you arch your back and push up into your elbows, looking over your shoulder to catch Astarion’s eyes. He’s constantly looking between your face to make sure you’re alright and looking down at your hips where your bodies meet. He has the audacity to blush. It makes him look sweet and less severe.

‘More — ’

The fairest thought you have is that you’re not sure you can take more. There’s something ferocious building in the pit of your stomach, a volatile hunger unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Your almost delirious with how much greed is inside you, how you long to do this all day if you could. Sitting pretty on your hands and knees and belly while Astarion ravishes you — forgetting your duties and the kingdom — but it’s somehow worse than before when you’re aware that he would do the same. Gone is any sense of decency, replaced by something carnal, something infernal.

Just when you think he might be done with you, Astarion pulls out and drags your body along. He lays handsomely in the center of his pillows, a deep blue and rich satin and silk display, and pulls you into his lap. His bottom lip is ruined from where he’s bitten it in an attempt to maintain control.

He arranges for you as he likes. He tilts his head to the side as if looking upon a painting. Finally, he coaxes you upwards and whispers kind encouragements as you guide and slide his cock back inside of you. You aren’t sure how far it can go, but then it goes deeper and deeper and deeper until you’re sick.

‘Oh,’ you cry sweetly. ‘It’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t — ’

‘You can,’ Astarion promises, rubbing his thumb across your hip. ‘You can do anything. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we were created for this.’

You sit atop him, your ass flush against his hips, and try desperately to not squirm in his lap. The wiggling makes it worse, you think. You feel swollen around him. He feels thickest inside of you. And you can’t help but lean forward as he rubbs his hands up and down your spine, kissing your temple and cheek and jaw. You can kiss him better this way. You can taste the sweetness of his mouth, taste his words.

‘I love you,’ you say over and over.

‘I know,’ he murmurs, kissing your tears.

And you do cry in this position, overwhelmed and stuttering. Astarion guides your hips back and forth across his so that he’s not necessarily drilling inside of you, but watching how you dance across his cock. He always watches so intently as if he’s afraid to miss anything you do. He guides you intently, humming, tensing beneath your thighs as you try to balance yourself with your hands on his belly.

Astarion moans at the sight. He sounds positively wrecked. You decide that you want to hear him sing for you again, so you raise your hips this time and slide them back down. You squeeze your eyes shut in concentration, treating it more like trying to hit a tricky shot with an arrow rather than taking and un-taking every inch of his cock. You’re trembling so much that you seek out his hands, guiding them away from your hips so he can tuck them under your thighs for help.

‘Ah,’ Astarion says hoarsely. ‘Fuck.’

And that’s how he helps you, his hands helping carry your weight so that you can bounce on his cock and enjoy every minute of it. The physical strain is worth it. You know Astarion likes to watch, possessive of the way you look and ride, and his eyes shine with a certain kind of deviance that you’ve grown to love.

It’s a long way from where you started as a poor soul standing on the steps, but you lean forward and kiss your raison d'être on his open mouth, savoring the way his bruised lip tastes in your mouth, enjoying just how much he enjoys you. The sunlight warms your skin and basks Astarion in a golden glow, so impossibly handsome that they should write songs about the way he looks after a night of lovemaking. He groans, trapping your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard enough you’re almost certain he’s drawn blood.

You don’t mind it. You welcome the rougher things, enjoy them as much as he does. You lean back, hands now behind you on his thighs, and try to not feel too self-conscious about how open you’re being with your body. You’re encouraged to do it. His reactions are what drive you to be better. Because Astarion’s eyes widen slightly to take in the sight of your legs spread apart as you sit on his cock, your skin shining with a delicate veil of sweat. He comes with a rough moan.

Gods, you could listen to the sound of him all day.

You fall forward onto Astarion’s chest. Your limbs feel like nothing after a night of increasingly more difficult sex, but it’s worth it for the way he spoils you after. Astarion kisses you nice and slow, lips and tongue and teeth, as if an apology for the roughness you willingly endured. He cradles you close to his body. He always seeks your warmth, always tries to press as close as he can.

It’s your turn to preen under his careful ministrations. Astarion pushes your sweaty hair back from your face and runs the tips of his fingers across your cheekbones and forehead, following the delicate lines of your bone structure. He lightly pinches your cheeks as if to savor the heat of your blush, but it doesn’t hurt when he does it. He kisses them better. He helps you slide back down into his sheets and takes note of the mess, smoothing his fingers against the bruises and love bites he’s left as gifts against your skin.

Astarion takes gentle care as he lifts your hand. He admires the ring on it and watches as he slides his fingers into yours so that his ring can crowd the empty spaces of your fingers. He kisses the back of your hand like a proper prince and then unceremoniously collapses down by your side, boneless and lazy.

‘You’ve made a mess,’ you accuse him sleepily.

‘I made you happy,’ Astarion corrects.

You reach out and touch his throat. ‘You’ve ruined your sheets.’

‘These sheets are perfect, my love,’ he murmurs. ‘Just like you.’

Later in the morning, after you’ve rested again despite your attempts to stay awake, you’re coaxed back into existence by Astarion’s lips dancing softly against the nape of your deck. You’re almost certain he’s going to ask for more — a thought that startles you — but instead he lifts you from the depths of his blankets and carries you to a bathing tub in the corner of his quarters. He lowers you into freshly warmed water, and you try to not let how much you long for him show.

‘The maids — ’

‘They’ve seen you,’ he says with a shrug. ‘But they did not care. You should have heard the way they swooned over us.’

He lavishes you again with rose petals and fancy perfumes and soaps. He guides a cloth over your skin and even massages a rather determined knot in your hip. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. You’d let him pamper you for the next month if you could.

‘I will have you like this often,’ Astarion warns. ‘Tonight. Every night. You have no idea what you’ve done to me. It’s like you’ve enchanted me.’

He’s climbed in with you at this point, tucked behind you so that he can style your hair in a plait. He likes the way it’s gotten long. You can tell how hard he’s thinking by how silent he is. His fingers trickle water down your spine and occasionally trace the shape of a petal against your skin. You shiver and allow him these idle distractions, basking in his touches and singing while he allows himself to wander in his lost thoughts. You fall asleep again briefly, lulled into a dream by the warmth and the relaxing scents of the many perfumes and Astarion humming softly in your ear.

Astarion washes your chest again to avoid having to leave the bath. He’s in one of his contemplative moods, eyes somewhere a thousand miles away, lips twisted in curiosity. You would’ve stayed forever as well, but the water is slowly getting colder and you’re beginning to shiver. You look over your shoulder at him. You watch as his eyelashes flutter and close as if he too is moments away from falling asleep, but then you see it. A sign of melancholic hope.

‘You and I belong together,’ you tell him.

‘We are the greatest match together the world has ever seen,’ Astarion agrees. ‘There is no one else.’

‘It is an honor,’ you say. You catch a petal in your palm and show him.

He pulls your fingers up to his mouth with his own hand guiding you. He kisses your palm and the petal, and then each of your fingertips one by one.

‘I’m doing this for you, you know,’ he murmurs.

‘You are doing this for us,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘We are a family.’

‘We are more than a family,’ he insists. ‘We are more than lovers. Our souls belong together.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you say.

Whatever world Astarion is imagining, you’re beginning to see it too. A world where being a king means more than throwing extravagant parties and hosting masquerades and balls and ignoring those in need. Astarion cares because you care, and that makes your heart squeeze dangerously. You are with Astarion when he usurps his father’s court. He had called them weak-willed men in front of his own council, his lip curled in distaste. They had allowed a shadow ruler to take his father’s place for years, had controlled the crown like a puppeteer would his prized puppet. And now, Astarion has pulled together enough favor to overthrow those who had betrayed him, who had betrayed you, and who had betrayed Baldur’s Gate most of all.

‘I believe you are sitting in my chair,’ Astarion calmly tells Ketheric Thorm.

The removal of the pretenders is fairly certain. Ketheric’s own daughter Isobel aids in his arrest. The installation of Astarion’s council is relatively easy with such esteemed replacements. Wyll Ravengard takes his father’s place as Lord Commander of the Flaming Fist. Karlach takes Enver Gortash’s place as leader of the city guard, betrayed as you were, and her eyes burn with heat when she pulls him from his tower. Gale and Shadowheart had been planning the entire thing for years behind the scenes, favoring Astarion against the old court. All you do is stand beside Astarion with your hand on the hilt of your blade though no one dared raise their arms against him.

Astarion’s coronation takes place later that week, and even with all the planning, he does not allow you to stray from his side. You are with him when meeting with the emissaries Lady Lae’zel and Lord Halsin and Lady Jaheira. You are with him during his fittings. You are with Astarion the night before when he fucks you so hard you see stars.

You are there the day of his coronation. He is dressed in brilliant reds and off-whites and wears a crown with rubies. You stand alongside him in the armor he commissioned for you styled after Dame Aylin’s and hold the sword gifted to you from the crown.

It is a wedding as well.

A wedding of peace and resilience. A wedding of love and understanding.You drop down before him to one knee and swear anew your vows, though now they taste sweeter on your tongue. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm, the Consort of the Chosen. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. When you rise, Astarion kisses you.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x oc #astarion smut #bg3 smut #from ，carcosa .#my fic #* et toi，et moi

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petit-etoile · 6 months

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Prompt idea I am Soft™ for: the first time Prince Astarion kissed his knight *is dreamy over that AU*

a love that will last forever

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 5,422 content warnings: astarion is soft here and unlike his depicition in "everything i see" as he is younger, implied underage drinking ( setting appropriate ), references to tav being raised as a child soldier by gortash, tav is gender neutral other tags: alternate universe - royalty, character study, porn with plot, pwp, vignette, developing relationship, getting together, love confessions, mi.ssionary style archiveofourown: here. sequel: everything i see, everything i feel (you are my universe)

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia, @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack be added to the taglist here

summary: 4 times Astarion wanted to kiss you, and the one time he did.

i. You would recognize the sound of his laughter anywhere — a bubbling and bouncing symphony down the cobblestone walls of the Lower City. The prince passes by a different unsuspecting guard flanked by Karlach who is also laughing, but unlike him, she wears no disguise. She darts by you first, and then you’re sliding an arm around Astarion’s thin waist and twirling him towards you. He grips your shoulders and yelps from the force. His giggles abruptly stop as his arms wrap tighter around your shoulders. When you meet his gaze, Astarion’s flushes.

‘And who might you be running from, my prince?’ you ask, voice low.

Astarion stares at you with wide, guilty eyes. He’s wearing a disguise to hide himself so that he might parade around the city in peace. Once he recognizes you, the slight panic in his gaze dissipates and he smiles as brightly as he can. He smells like a cluster of aromas. Wines, smoke from the cookshops, and his own personal perfume that’s crafted for him to attract an ardent admirer. A gift from the sickly king. Astarion leans towards you distractingly, snorting carefreely as you support his weight.

‘My favorite knight,’ Astarion says breathlessly.

You contemplate your choices. You could drag him back to the Keep kicking and screaming and sequester him to his bedchambers as you were ordered to do or… Karlach stands away from you, idly shiftinging. She looks sheepish enough. On her back is her broadsword and at her hip is a small axe. You bite the inside of your cheek.

‘Your highness,’ you greet him.

‘Please,’ Astarion whispers vampishly.

You meet his eyes. He is so open, so honest with you in these darkened streets. He leans forward and brushes the tip of his nose against yours. It’s so out of character it catches you off-guard. He weasels out of your grip then with a hideous cackle. He grabs your hands and holds them in his and pleads with you silently, eyes earnest. Please let me pretend to be nothing for one evening … You trust Karlach to keep him safe.

‘Please,’ Astarion insists. ‘For me.’

You free your hands from his and reach for the knife at your hip. You unfasten your belt and slide it around Astarion’s lithe hips instead, buckling it and tightening it so that he’ll have it if he needs it. You ruck up his shirt so that it falls gracelessly to conceal the weapon.

‘Take care, your highness,’ you murmur. Astarion’s grin is nothing but teeth. ‘But do not allow me to catch you again this evening. There’s a Keep in the room calling your name.’

‘And if I want you to hunt me?’ Astarion asks softly. You do not reply.

Astarion backs away from you with reluctance, knocking into Karlach who starts snorting with laughter. You trained with Karlach. You learned the blade and the bow and the lance at her side beneath Enver Gortash’s careful tutelage. She is the only one you trust to keep the prince safe when you are not at his side, so for tonight, you will allow it.

This is a moment of victory for Astarion. Away from the Keep, he is free to be a boy. He wears no crown and bears no royal crest. He simply transforms beneath this freedom. This is something you can understand now that there is no longer a boot crushing your spine. If there is a moment where Astarion could laugh and drink without worry of his father’s council snatching away the fun, you would give it to him again and again.

You watch as Astarion anxiously fists the knife at his side, and for a brief moment, you regret your decision. He looks every part the charlatan he pretends to be as he shifts his weight to play at being a danger, and you hold your hands up playfully, glad that your heavy helm hides your smile.

You remember Lord Gortash’s words. A dog should not be soft. A dog should not know this affection.

‘Thank you,’ Astarion says. ‘I won’t forget this.’

You lean against the stone wall and turn your chin. You try to forget how handsome he looks clothed as an urchin, no longer weighed down by the finery and regalia of the Ancunin name. Your heart aches at how well he fits in with Karlach, at how well their laughter mixes as they begin darting through the streets once more. You wait until you can no longer hear Astarion’s song on the wind before you begin making your way back to the Keep.

Ser Thorm is waiting for you when you arrive. You aren’t sure how long you’re reprimanded for, or how you narrowly manage to avoid worse consequences but it’s worth it, you decide, when you stand watch over an empty room until the early morning. Astarion sneaks back in through a secret passage and opens his door behind you, and you stand still as a statue as he slides his hands around your waist to return your knife. His fingers hesitate, and your heart stutters. ii.

The castle is packed with lords and ladies, nobility and their children, and so much music that you cannot hear Astarion over a symphony of a hundred voices.

He looks like the perfect prince tonight. His hair has been brushed to perfection, his clothes measured so they fit him snugly, and his crown recently shined yet he dances with the Open Lord’s daughter with the most miserable expression on his face that he can get away with. Astarion had made you practice this waltz with him. Jealousy takes root in your stomach.

His father’s council has thrown a ball to commemorate his seventeenth nameday, and there are still many waiting for their turn to dance with their prince. They stand at the sides of the ballroom and coo as he twirls his partner, and no matter how hard you try to tune them out, their awe rings in your ears. You hatefully remember watching as he filled his dance card with name upon name until he realized it would be hours worth of trotting.

You’ve always prided yourself on how easy it was for you to swallow down your envy. Lord Gortash had done his best to rip it out of you, only allowing certain matters to still bring you a quiet sense of joy. You will never know what it is like to dance the Luskan Waltz with Prince Astarion of Baldur’s Gate.

You were not allowed to dance. It’s not something Enver Gortash ever trained you to do, nor was it something the crownsguard was allowed to participate in. Astarion had asked you desperately all morning between the maids fussing over dress and food, and you had denied him every time. You were meant to watch, to swallow your pride and your feelings. Denying him had made it feel as if your heart had shattered into millions of pieces.

Astarion looks as downtrodden as you feel, but when the Open Lord’s daughter peers at him wistfully, he smiles back at her with such finesse that it would be impossible to not believe that he was happy. The light of his smile never reaches his eyes, but those who dance with him will never understand that.

This malaise and ennui is not new to you. It is good that you wear a helm. No one can see how you press your lips together to keep from pouting.

The swell of the music comes to a decrescendo, and you watch Astarion excuse himself from the dance floor. He pushes past the other nobles clawing at him for a chance to speak with the crown prince, and he’s graceful with the way he denies them the opportunity. He pushes through an ocean of people to make it to you, but you don’t turn your head to acknowledge him as he grabs a fresh drink from the banquet table. Astarion holds the glass of wine out to you first.

‘Drink,’ he commands.

You take the delicate glass from his hand, careful to avoid touching himso that you might not pollute him, and lift your helm so that you might taste his Neverwinter red and wait. After a few heartbeats, you return his cup to him and he drinks his fill from the same place you drank yours. You close your eyes and pray the rush of nervousness goes away.

‘I’m bored,’ Astarion complains. He chokes down the rest of his wine and crinkles his nose in disgust. ‘This is the worst party I’ve ever been to.’

‘This is a celebration of your life, my prince,’ you say carefully. ‘There’s no better party to be had.’

‘Ha!’ Astarion snorts. ‘Haha! If it were you and I and our closest companions at the Blushing Mermaid, I’d be inclined to agree. But everyone here either wants to fuck me or wear my crown or both. I feel like meat.’

Astarion presses closer to you as if seeking your protection. He fusses with the dance card around his wrist, fumbling with it to count the names left. He groans and begins to reach for another wine before stopping himself. He looks at you, mystified, and runs his teeth over his bottom lip.

‘I need fresh air,’ he tells you. ‘Come with me to the balcony.’

‘As you command,’ you say. You allow him to pass.

‘It’s not a command,’ he pouts. ‘You could refuse if you wanted to, you know.’

You don’t know how to respond. You guide him away from the party as requested, and it’s easy to confess that the breath of fresh air is good for you. Astarion is unusually quiet on the balcony. The world is much different away from the music and the crowd, and you can’t help but feel despair as he stares across the distance at the Lower City. He flops onto a bench carelessly and reaches his hands upwards to the stars.

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say to make things better. To be truthful, you’re equally as frustrated as he is. What you wouldn’t give to slide off your armor, to match raiment with him, to dance to the violins and cellos as all others have. You sit on the ground next to him and peer between his fingers to watch the shooting star he’s framing with his fingers as it passes through the sky.

‘Make a wish,’ Astarion says, glancing at you. ‘I’ve already made mine.’

‘As you command,’ you repeat. His bottom lip trembles. iii.

When the Sickness of Spring breaks through into Baldur’s Gate, your first concern is the health of the prince. The crown had ordered the ports closed, yet somehow the mysterious disease had made it into the castle walls. The king remained safe, and yet…

You should have known better.

You are ambitious and resilient — yet every inhale of breath is like a thousand razors sliding down the flesh of your lungs, and your coughs are getting harder and harder to conceal. You are simultaneously certain you’re going to burn to death inside of your chain mail and that you are going to freeze to death.

Your skin is nothing but gooseflesh and you haven’t stopped shivering since you woke up. Your head feels as though it’s about to burst. You twist to catch your breath, but the world is spinning all around you through the small vision in your helm and you collapse in the garden instead of managing a tactful retreat. Astarion immediately rises from his game of lanceboard and rushes to your side, scrambling to pull you into hi slap and shove your helm off. His fingers are like open flame against your skin.

‘Help me!’ Astarion snaps at Gale.

It should be funny watching as they struggle to lift your body, but laughing makes the pounding in your head worse. You try to breathe carefully in and out of your nose as they work to carry you. No one steps in to help, too afraid of catching it themselves. You hope they’re taking you to a healer, but the first thing you notice when you’re able to open your eyes is the exalted extravagance of Astarion’s private bedchambers.

‘No,’ you say weakly. ‘Not here.’

‘It will be fine,’ he says, ignoring how you shove at his chest as he climbs beside you. ‘I’m an Ancunin,’ he adds. ‘We don’t get sick.’

That you know of, you want to say. You’re too tired to open your mouth and too feverish to stop him as he slowly strips you of your armor. He lets it clunk against the ground when he removes it then fights to force your limbs beneath his blankets. You want to tell him to go, to seek shelter elsewhere, but the smell of hm is comforting enough that you decide to be selfish.

For the first day of your sickness, you aren’t truly conscious. You occasionally hear Astarion and Gale’s voices through the fog of your stupor. Apparently Shadowheart and her Order have been working on a cure, and now that you’re sick, Astarion is more involved in the process. He struggles to pick up where his father’s council has slacked. He paces your bedside and when the others finally leave, he crawls in alongside you and hardly sleeps himself, torn between pouring over paperwork for potential cures and checking your pulse like Shadowheart taught him.

The second day of your sickness, you are aware of every single hair on your head. It hurts so much you spend most of the morning crying. The only relief for the pain comes when Astarion massages your scalp, rubbing his thumbs in tiny circles until you’re able to enjoy the touch without flinching. While you cough and choke, Astarion is as healthy as he can be. That knowledge helps you relax.

‘You are doing so well, my love,’ Astarion murmurs one night when he thinks you’re asleep. ‘If anyone can beat this, it is you.’

He continues whispering nonsensical things. He tells you about his dreams for the future. None of them involve the kingdom or the happiness of the smallfolk or the truth of the matter. When you try to focus on the sound of his voice, you realize Astarion is mentioning nothing but you in his soliloquy.

He proclaims that you will no longer be just a knight. You will no longer be away from him or barred from finding your own happiness. He says, it will be you and him and happiness until the end of the world. When you cry, you get to pretend it’s because of how heavy your chest is from the moisture in your lungs rather than the overwhelming desire that causes you to feel drunk. Astarion hushes you.

You feel the soft kisses he presses into your unwashed hair, and for the first time since this sickness overcame you, you believe him and his vows. Astarion holds your hands in his and sleeps nose to nose with you, and after two weeks of sickness when you’re finally able to stand, he takes you out to his private balcony so you can experience the fresh air and feeds you honeyed toast until you’re full. iv.

Years later, when Astarion is eight-and-ten, you come face to face with the man who sold you to the king. ‘Please,’ Lord Enver Gortash says disdainfully. ‘There is no need for your mutt to be here. This is a meeting between men — you and I.’

Years of servitude beneath Lord Gortash prevents you from meeting his gaze. You stare at your boots and try not to move a muscle. If you close your eyes for too long, you can hear steel meeting steel in practiced battle over and over and the sound of his voice as he dehumanized you. It makes the pit of your stomach feel bottomless with fear. You’re thankful that Lord Gortash only regards you coldly.

‘Do not presume to tell me where or where not I can take my Shield when I walk around my castle,’ Astarion says with mute irritation. ‘Do not forget who I am, Lord Gortash. I am not some slaver seeking to buy troops. I am your prince.’

‘I would never, your highness,’ Lord Gortash acquiesces. ‘Please, forgive me for speaking out of turn.’

Astarion appraises him. ‘I will consider it.’

You stand beside the door while they talk about the trouble brewing at the border. A rebellion is looming, or so Lord Gortash fears. Those in the Lower City are not pleased with how the Sickness of Spring was handled by the crown. Many had died, yet… Astarion’s father, the king, has not been well enough to see to the council meetings in years and Astarion ia not yet permitted by Lord Thorm to attend them in his stead. He was still a boy, Thorm said.

It’s so political that you feel as though you really shouldn’t be there. You were a mangy mutt who had been presented to the crown prince as hardly more than a child, and now you were delving into a world that you could never possibly understand. You too had been expressly forbidden from attending the meetings, though that order had come from Lord Gortash. He would not allow hounds to roam the halls in his presence.

Astarion hums and nods and listens to the information being presented. His body positioning is rigid, his spine straight, and he responds to everything Lord Gortrash says with a resigned annoyance in his voice. These were not men he approved of. Astarion hates them almost as much as he hates the parties, the lords and ladies that they so desperately wish he would marry so that he would no longer be a problem for his father’s council.

They talk, and they talk, and they talk of other things but you begin to realize why Gortash is really here. He is looking beyond Astarion and at you, and although you do not raise your chin to challenge his gaze, you know that you have repulsed him beyond repair.

Perhaps you were to chime in and offer your praises of Lord Gortash’s goodwill and outstanding, but you know more than anyone the kind of cruelty he has instilled in his gifts. He means to yank your chain and force you to bark, but you resist the only way you know how. You say nothing at all.

You are nothing but a mad dog, he told you once, and you will never learn what it means to be loved. On your knees and do not bark, dog. Your punishment awaits.

With the state of the city nowhere near perfected, Lord Gortash rises from his chair with feigned repentance. He bows his head to Astarion and then brushes past you with not a word spoken. Still, the ghost of his torment causes you to flinch away from him as he passes andyou’re met with the fiery blaze of Astarion’s disgust as he watches Lord Gortash leave. Once he’s stepped from the threshold of the door, Karlach joins his side mournfully and trades you a solemn, disappointed glance. Your collars have both been tightened this day, it seems.

You dare not wave goodbye to her, and she dares not say anything to you nor the prince as she follows behind her lord.

‘I hate that man,’ Astarion says darkly when Lord Gortash has left the hallway of the Flaming Fist. He turns to you, disgust on his face. ‘I should send a catspaw to slit his throat and be done with it.’

‘Lord Gortash has been a friend to the crown,’ you tell him quietly.

‘A friend would give aid to those who need it,’ Astarion says. He grabs your wrist. ‘I know what he has done to you and Karlach. I know of his fighting pits, and yet — ’

Astarion squeezes your wrist without thinking. His touch grows sterner and harder with every minute that passes. He is incensed, disgusted. You can tell by the way his hands shake that he cannot express his words well enough, yet he tries his best to reach out to you the only way he knows how. Astarion has never lied to you. You trust him more than anyone.

‘You have not looked at me since he arrived,’ he says mournfully. ‘He has taken your life and filled you with fear, and I cannot bear it any longer. Do you understand?’

You look at him shyly then. His piercing eyes are brimming with tears of frustration and anger, and his lips are twisted. He pulls you closer to him and then hesitates. He struggles, and you struggle too. These are waters you have never waded through before, and you are playing a dangerous game with which you have no experience. You do your best to hold your head above the grey ocean and seek your salvation in a halo of silver.

‘Let us go somewhere more private,’ Astarion says. ‘There is something I must speak to you about.’

‘Of course, my prince,’ you reply.

If only you knew what he had meant when he said those words. Your life, reverent, in his hands changed forevermore. v.

‘Please,’ Astarion says. ‘Tell me if I’m wrong, but I don’t know any other way — ’

Astarion kisses you hurriedly, both of his hands on either one of your cheeks, and the touch is so overwhelming that you almost pull away. He takes your breath away and replaces it with something else: devotion and unwavering loyalty. You aren’t sure what possesses you to forsake your vows as you have, but you grab at him just as desperately and cling, a hysterical sob escaping your mouth before you’re stumbling into his bedchambers and the first thing you ask is:

‘Is this real?’

Astarion laughs wildly and grabs at you. He makes short work of your armor in no time.

But it isn’t until you’ve been shoved back onto the bed that you realize this isn't your imagination or some feverish dream. Astarion is crawling over you, and the expression on his face isn’t the typical pride and self-admiration that he normally wears. He is reverant and seeking, and you’ve never seen him look at anyone this way before. He slots his body nicely against yours and leans forward, kissing you again and pressing you further into the mattress until you feel like you’re falling.

‘Thank the gods,’ he whispers hoarsely. He nudges your nose with his. ‘I never thought it would end this way.’

‘My prince?’

‘Say my name,’ Astarion says.

He searches for something in your eyes, and your chest feels as though it’s empty. You watch your hand slide against his cheek and card your fingers through his thick curls and thank the gods that this is your home. You don’t know where you would be without him. You tremble.

Without hesitation, you say, ‘Astarion.’

It is everything your dreams are made of. You pull Astarion towards you for another kiss and wonder if the Lady of Love had heard your wish all those years ago and granted you this happiness. To be with him, to be his, to be allowed to dance and sing with him even if it was only in private.

Astarion smells like bergamot and rosemary, and though you can’t sink any further into his sheets, you’re overwhelmed by it all. You laugh, and Astarion laughs too. It’s all so intoxicating that you say it again over and over. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion . Astarion pulls at your clothes clumsily and you pause only slightly, grabbing onto his wrist nervously.

‘Do you mean it, Astarion?’ you ask softly, and he does hesitate. He looks so innocent about it you feel silly for asking.

‘I’ve never been more sure of anything,’ he says and encourages you to touch him.

You experience a lot of firsts tonight. Astarion teaches you to kiss, his thumb against your chin as he guides your mouth with his, and in truth, it’s a little strange the way he licks into your mouth with such interest your entire body goes warm. Once he’s had his fill of your lips, he finds your tenderest spots. There’s a place alongside your jaw that you almost purr when he pays attention to it, and it goes without saying that him nibbling your ear causes you to melt.

For all his bravado, Astarion’s hands stay relatively polite so you guide his fingers along your chest and waist and hips, stuttering when his fingers trace the inside of your thighs curiously. He chews nervously on his lip to the point where you kiss it to make better, and someone you end up kissing his chin instead of his lips, and he laughs like he’s drunk. His head falls forward onto your shoulder, and you find yourself tangling your fingers into his hair again.

‘You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment,’ Astarion says, shaking his head. ‘There’s no one in Faerûn that I want to do this with. I want to protect you, I want to make you forget, I want — ’

It isn’t real until you’re naked and he is too, and your body is pressed warm and flush against his. You admire everything that he has to offer. A svelte form with skin that pinkens easily when he flushes and that looks gorgeous when you suck a bruise against his clavicle. Astarion can’t keep his hands away from you either. He’s obsessed with the smoothness that your body has to offer, interested only in hearing soft little noises slip from between your lips.

It’s rather easy for him to do. Everything he’s decided to do with his mouth and hands has made you feel dizzy, from tasting the skin at your neck to sliding all the way down, making patterns against your stomach and hips and then at your very core. It won't do you any good to be shy about it, but it’s something you’ve never experienced before, something you never thought you’d get to experience with him .

‘This,’ Astarion says, rutting desperately against your hip, ‘is what I want. If I have this, I am willing to be a prisoner to my fate. Every day — Every night I have yearned for this, and now I have the opportunity to ask you to be mine.’

You feel a shiver run down your spine. Astarion always talks so much about whatever he likes, but it’s different now that his attention is on you rather than some unimportant soirée filled with the lords and ladies who sought to wear a crown. You turn your chin away in embarrassment, but he grabs your jaw and kisses you passionately.

‘I am not a summer’s child,’ he tells you. ‘I know what I want, and what I want is — ’

‘Take it,’ you say.

Astarion shakes his head, and you press your warm cheek against his and trail your hands down his spine, only feeling satisfaction when your hand is braced against the small of his back. Inside, you think but he has stolen your words leaving you only with your thoughts. He kisses you again and it tastes like heaven.

‘Give it to me,’ Astarion moans softly, pausing to bite at the pulse in your neck. ‘This isn’t…a prince who was bored so he found the first person he could… No, this is… This is what I want if it’s what you want.’

If you hesitate, you will destroy it. So you do not. You lick into his mouth and reach for his cock, shyly guiding him to that place between your legs. All you have to do is tell him that you’ve dreamt about this too, so you do, closing your eyes to avoid his expression. You’re afraid of what that honesty will bring.

You have a sacred vow, an honored bond, and to destroy that would be to destroy the covenant you have crafted. You are a Shield and a Sword, and he is the Crown Prince.

This is your world.

He is the only thing you have.

But as he sinks into you, inch after inch, you can feel him tremble in your arms. His moan is low and sweet in your ear, and just for you. The thought enchants you, mesmerizes you, fills your head with nothingness and happiness and you gasp only at the end when you and him have become one.

It’s easy to get lost in Astarion. He’s charming, a delight, the prime display of princely charms. But he moans while slowly frotting against you, a sound so sweet and unfamiliar, that you can’t help but cherish it. You toss and turn with him, weeping sweetly as he cradles the back of your hip in his hand to guide you against his cock as he glides into you, and you pull him closer and closer until there’s nowhere else for you to go.

‘Mine,’ he breathes selfishly, sliding his teeth against your jaw. ‘Please, please. Say it.’

‘Yours,’ you agree.

He blasphemes and caves as quickly as he started everything, rolling and pulling until you’re laying against his chest, one leg thrown haphazardly over his hip, while he continues to grind his cock into you lazily. He’s greedy with how often he gropes your skin, obsessed with how it feels to touch your waist and your hip and the curve of your ass. Your forehead presses against his, nose to nose. He kisses you. You watch as his eyes flutter closed and press your fingers against his lips.

His tongue darts out, and he laps at your fingers. It’s so shocking that you moan sharply, hiccuping against his arm, and chase your release while he murmurs encouragement into your hair. Astarion nibbles the pads of your fingers before jerking away from you, and you get to watch as his stomach flexes and he cries, his cum spilling prettily over his lower belly.

‘Gods,’ he groans.

His mouth is swollen and his cheeks are flushed, but he looks at you as though you have replaced Sune in the pantheon. Whatever care Astarion might have about the mess is promptly ignored as he kisses you sloppily, hands tenderly cupping your jaw, nose bumping yours. You hide the last of your moans against your palm.

‘You are incredible,’ Astarion tells you.

‘I am — ’

‘ — everything,’ he interrupts, dazed by splendor. ‘You are everything. Perfection.’

You press your tongue against your bottom lip and feel how swollen it is, and swallow the painful knot in your throat.

Astarion smooths his knuckles against your cheek. ‘I know what you must be thinking,’ he rasps, voice hoarse from your endeavors that evening. ‘ I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm, or whatever the bloody thing is. But that’s not all you are, not really. Gortash might regard you as a mongrel but you have never been nothing to me.’

‘I love you,’ you confess.

‘And I love you,’ he says with a half-smile. ‘I have ever since we met and… If this is what you want then I want it to, but I can never go back to pretending you are only a shield. You mean too much to me.’

It’s the first and last thing you’ve wanted to hear. To know that you are Astarion’s weakness, to know that you are Astarion’s strength… It is as terrifying as it is intoxicating.

Being in love with Astarion changes nothing about your job. If anything, it gives you more of a reason to follow as a shadow in the light. You seek him when he rises in the morning, and he seeks you when the moon hangs overhead. You attend his meetings, and slowly with a little uplifting, your fear dissipates.

It takes eight years to overthrow the council that has polluted the crown. It takes eight years to watch Astarion form a coy, playful persona to hide the softness that permeates his heart. It takes eight years for you to ascend as Sword and Shield to become the first Consort that Baldur’s Gate has seen. Astarion becomes King and it is like a veil has lifted, and for the first time since his birth, the people see peace.

That is —

Cazador Szarr raises his banner in rebellion in the winter of the year Astarion is crowned King, and the Shield of Dawn cracks beneath the weight of his Woe and Rhapsody.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #astarion smut #bg3 smut #from ，carcosa .#my fic #* et toi，et moi #anonymous #SORRY I POSTED THIS WRONG SO I HAD TO REDO IT #but this is my favorite verse you distracted me #this verse is my baby i kinda wanna ramble abt it but #TBH IM NOT SURE HOW INTERESTED PPL ARE.......#(i say as i reply to someone who is interested in it)

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