#gortash ruins everything

[chronurgy]

In my feels about how Gortash abso-fucking-lutely ruined Durge's life. Just fucking destroyed it. But that's also the only reason they have any sort of chance to make something different for themself. He's the only reason they even have a chance at a happy ending (even though it's a happy ending that he can't be in)

#enver gortash #dark urge #dark urge x gortash #durgetash #bg3 #Thinking about how my durge had just resigned themself to being miserable and alone and hating the world for everything it #Couldn't or wouldn't give them. For being so fucking boring. They had their magic and that was everything they needed. But then #In sweeps this motherfucker who talks to them and understands them and is just as smart as they are and then suddenly #They have dreams again. All the wants they thought they'd ground into dust years ago come back with a vengeance #It ruined them! If they'd just been able to live in the same furious and miserable detachment as before Orin never would've gotten to them #If they had never started feeling alive again then they never would have begun to balk at the idea of dying on their father's altar #Because who cares about dying when you're already buried six feet under? But when you're alive? Maybe you don't want to die #Maybe you want to live. Maybe you have other things to think about besides Bhaal's bloody love and your siblings' resentments #And that's when they get you #Ughhhh I'm going to be fucking sick #Vesper

[maegalkarven]

AU where Dark Urge didn't loose memories and the events in Moonrise Towers in act 2 went a tag differently. Or very differently.

Fucking everything up in a new, interesting way.

Characters: m!Dark Urge, Enver Gortash, Orin the Red, Ketheric Thorm, Isobel Thorm, Dame Aylin, Wyll Ravengard, Ulder Ravengard (mentioned), Karlach.

m!Dark Urge x Enver Gortash.

It was a stupid fucking plan from the very beginning of it.

To go to the Moonrise Towers to – what, confront Ketheric? Confront the Chosen of the God of the Dead?

Nemo knew better than the others what an idiotic idea it was.

But Nightsong already took a flight, and harpers moved to attack – and what was Nemo supposed to do?

He was a wreck, a shadow of his former self, weak as a kitten, clumsy as a newborn owlcub. He was the failed Chosen of Bhaal going to a place what was his demise.

Swooped by the currents of events unfolding, he had no plan.

But again, Nemo was never the plan guy; it was Gortash’s forte, it was his work. He was the brain of their plan, the brain of all of their operations. He thought things through as Nemo sliced around, creating chaos, bringing havoc, painting world in blood.

But it was before. Before Orin took her swing, before Nemo’s once great abilities were reduced to dust, before he became weak. So weak he had to depend on others, so weak he required, no, needed allies.

The voice of Father dull in his head; illithid parasite had to do something with it, had to change the rules the same way it changed them for Astarion.

Funny, before that whole mess Nemo would never put himself and a vampire spawn on the same page. But now? Oh, how alike they were, the spawns of unrelenting cruel force commanding their will, puppets of someone else’s play.

Waking up on nautiloid was akin to waking up from a fewer dream. The Urge...subsided. It was pushed back, held at bay. He was almost alone in his own head, more alone when he ever was with Father’s constant will moving his hands.

But what good did this free will do if he was about to die anyway, probably in the same damn place he died the first time? Would Orin be the one to slice through him one final time?

Nemo was never the one for plans, as clever as he was. Gortash always claimed it drove him mad, for Nemo had all the intellect, but rarely put it to good use.

“You have to exercise your mind the same way you train your body,” his unexpected ally would say. “Otherwise what use is it to you? You, my dear murderer, is capable of much greater things than your father foresees for you.”

These thoughts were atrocious, they were heretical, they were...compelling. Flattering, warming some deep corners of the soul Nemo didn’t know he had.

No wonder lordling ended up luring Nemo into his bed.

No wonder Orin saw her brother’s newfound weakness and used it against him.

Clever little thing, his slaughter-kin, to shift into Gortash to approach him. He was a fool to lower his defenses, of course he was.

He paid for it greatly.

“We’re moving down,” Isobel acknowledged. She, a daughter of a man who turned his back to two gods for her sake. She, the priestess of a goddess Ketheric Thorm forsaken. She, a child brave enough to confront her father.

Nemo hated her before he knew her.

He hated her for the way Ketheric turned the world upside down for her to live; he hated her for how ridiculously loved she was.

She hated her because even after being corrupted by Myrkul’s unholy powers, she still dared to stay unstained. Holy. Good.

He hated her so much his whole body hurt.

She who denied her father’s love, she who had love so selfless, so unconditional-

Father’s love was always conditional. Father’s love was always a leash and never a caress.

Father’s love hurt no matter how much Nemo craved it.

Oh, how he wished he could stifle the light of her life; oh how he wanted to see Ketheric’s face as he would tell him, in every gruesome detail, how his precious daughter died the second time.

How everything Ketheric did, everything he betrayed was for naught.

But Nemo was not what he used to be: he was weak, and Isobel was his advantage in a fight against her father. Her and Nightsong, but Nemo wasn’t even sure if aasimar was alive; the last he saw of her was when Elder Brain dragged the woman down.

Down, down, down-

Down they went.

Nemo didn’t want to go down there. He didn’t want to confront anyone, he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t strong, he-

He wanted to go home.

Home, such a strange concept it is.

Bhaal’s temple was never his home, even if it was the only shelter he has ever known.

No, home was...

Home was a mechanical clicking of devices operating in Gortash’s workshop. Home was the dim light and the huge table covered in papers; the smell of hot iron and smoke, and the man with fingers stained in ink.

The bitter bile rose up his throat at the thought of it.

The Chosen of Bane was never supposed to be his home.

The Chosen of Bane was his enemy.

Nemo has failed his life’s purpose in more ways than he could count.

And yet he wanted to go back; to the security of that place, to the delighted glint in the other man’s eyes, the mad plans, the notes on the table, the open books, the diagrams, the warmth of his skin as Nemo dragged Enver away from his work:

"Rest, you need to rest. It’s unbecoming of you to run yourself ragged like that. Sleep, your machines will not disappear overnight."

The way he struggled, tried to argue as exhaustion overtook his body. The way Lord Enver Gortash, the tyrant in the making, looked vulnerable in front of him in a way, Nemo suspected, he never looked in front of anyone else.

The way Nemo went to bed with him and expected to wake up in a pool of blood, but never did.

Because some part of him resisted Father even then. Some part of him claimed Enver Gortash for himself.

And it cost him greatly.

Nemo wondered if returning to Moonrise Towers could be classified as ‘coming home’.

He wondered if his home would meet him with windows shut and new lock on the door. He wondered how quickly he would be discarded by a man having no use for him anymore.

Turned out, Nemo was a fucking idiot.

***

It happens faster than it has any right to be; Ketheric spots Isobel, Wyll sees his father, Karlach lurches at Gortash, and Orin...

Orin steps away from the Elder Brain and smiles.

“My poor slaughter-kin,” she coos. “Came back so I could finish what I’ve started, did you not?”

And then the moves.

And fuck, Nemo forgot how fast she is, and he is so out of it, he is but a shell of his former self; his body is weak, feeble, damaged-

Orin knows it. Orin was the one who damaged it in the first place.

Nemo is vaguely aware of Isobel reaching out to Nightsong and freeing her from the bonds, he thinks he hears Gortash trying to reel Orin and Ketheric back in:

“Orin, we haven’t finished, the Brain didn’t receive command yet, come back here- Ketheric, two stones can’t hold it down, we need the third, Ketheric, forget about your daughter, come right here and make yourself useful for a change-“

But Ketheric doesn’t listen. Orin doesn’t listen. Everyone is too wrapped up in their own issues, their own grudges, their own fights. Karlach slices through the undead servant and knocks Gortash into the ground, only to be pushed back by a force of small explosive detonating right into her face. It doesn’t damage her much, but pushes back a significant amount.

“My poor brother,” Orin taints as Nemo tries to dodge one of her slices and comes out short. Blood oozes from the new cut and his murder-kin giggles. “So out of it, so pathetically weak. I did a good job on you, brother dear. But,” another smile, another attack. Nemo barely parries it in time. “I can do better. Father knows I can do better, Father knows you have failed him. He loves you no more, my failure of a brother. He has left you.”

Nemo would love to argue what Father went nowhere, what he still haunts Nemo’s every waking and dreaming moment, what the only thing stopping the God of Murder from consuming his wayward son is the illithid parasite in the bhaalspawn’s brain. But he doesn’t have the time, he doesn’t have the strength, he is failing, and-

The next strike to come is fatal.

Or it would be, if not for a huge tentacle of the brain to come flying out of nowhere.

Sending Orin flying right into the Morphic pool.

To the Brain.

With her stone.

Fuck.

Nemo turns around and meets a bewildered stare of Enver fucking Gortash, the man who just successfully compromised his own plan - their plan - beyond any recovery.

A fool.

Nemo’s blood is so loud in his ears he can barely hear; his heart is throwing itself against the cage of his ribs with a force unbeknown to him before.

He feels elevated, he feels scared, but most of all he feels-

“What the fuck did you do?” he snarls and everything, miraculously, stills. Everyone freezes, staring between them in a mix of surprise and dread.

Everyone feels what something just went very wrong.

“I-“ Enver starts, but Nemo gives him no chance to continue.

“You just threw the Netherstone to the Brain! The Netherstone we use to control the Brain! And you just threw it right at it,” there’s indignation burning in him but also...confusion?

Why? Why would Enver do something like that? Why would he compromise everything? Why would he-

“She was about to kill you,” Gortash seethes. “I saved your life.”

“By dooming everyone and everything in the process,” Nemo shouts back. “By dooming yourself. By the gods, Ketheric, did you see that? How he just- Ruined everything?”

“I did in fact see that,” Ketheric, who is pretty much being held down at the fire point, states. The only thing stopping Nightsong from murdering him here and now is Isobel’s hand on her shoulder. “It was a very stupid thing to do.”

Gortash looks appalled at that.

“I just saved his life!” he repeats like this fixes everything. Like it explains anything. There’s a mad look in his eyes, of a man who just realized what he has done. Then he turns to Nemo. “I saved your life, you ungrateful little-“

“Why?” comes out so quietly it’s barely a whisper.

At first Nemo thinks he asked that, the question was definitely on the tip of his tongue. But no, the voice belongs to Karlach. She rises from the ground, shaken but unhurt.

“I know you; you’re an awful fucking person who only cares for his own well-being. Why would you do something like that,” she gestures at Nemo and Nemo makes a face at her. He knows how he looks, thank you very much. “For him?”

Gortash opens his mouth, hesitates. His eyes dart to Nemo and Nemo meets his gaze with just as inquisitive expression as the one on Karlach’s face.

“Yes, Enver,” he agrees. “Why?”

But Enver never gets to answer, for in that precise moment the waters of the Morphic pool part and a figure crawls out.

A figure of a pale woman with even paler eyes, dressed in red.

Orin.

She takes a step, then another.

And something is wrong.

Her movements are unsteady; her head dangles as if she’s held up the strings and her eyes-

They’re vacant, her eyes, almost empty. They’re...peaceful, and Orin has never been peaceful in her entire damn life.

Nemo makes the involuntary step forward and is immediately held back by Wyll, who, gods only know how, managed to not only teleport his father right next to Karlach, but also come back to Nemo, and is now holding him firmly by the forearm.

“Don’t,” he whispers into Nemo’s ear. “This is not your sister.”

“Orin?” Nemo calls out regardless, because this is his sister. It has to be.

Orin raises her head and looks straight at him. Then she opens her mouth and speaks:

“Praise the Absolute.”

“By the Nine Hells,” Karlach curses. “She got tadpolled.”

“And she has the stone,” Ketheric is the first one to move, ripping himself out of Nightsong’s grip and stepping forward.

“Well, shit.”

An overwhelming, overbearing horror embraces Nemo.

Orin, his little sister. Orin, his murderer, his torturer.

Orin, the perfect slayer. The puppet of the Absolute.

“Maybe I can use the prism,” he starts. “I can bring her back to her senses.”

“And then what?” Wyll argues and it takes Nemo an embarrassingly long time to realize his friend has already started to pull him away. “She’ll try to kill us on her own volition and not the Brain’s? No.”

“We need to go,” Gortash speaks up. “Quickly, now.”

“There’s no ‘we,’”, Karlach argues. “And ‘we’ are not going anywhere with you.”

“Karlach, now is not the time to argue-“

“You sold me to Zariel-“

“Father?” Isobel calls out. “Father, what are you doing?”

Ketheric unsheathes his sword.

“Atoning,” he speaks. The moves to rip the Netherstone from his armor and throw it at Nemo. Nemo, surprisingly, manages to catch it. “Keep it safe,” the man orders and oh, is this his general voice now? “Keep her safe.”

Nemo doesn’t need to ask who he means by that. Instead he argues.

“I am a murderer, you know that, right?” as if any sane argument would work right now. “A murder incarnate. I do not keep people safe.”

“This time you will,” and this is why Ketheric was so feared and respected; a single hard stare pins Nemo to the ground. “Or I will come back and hunt you down to the end of Toriel. To the end of every known realm, if I have to.”

“Not to interrupt this fine and lovely conversation, but general,” Gortash looks just as puzzled as Nemo feels. “What are you doing again?”

The man has some strength enough to smirk.

“What I should have done long time ago,” he sends Isobel a long, sickeningly loving gaze. “The right thing. Isobel.”

“Father,” the girl’s chin trembles. “Father, I don’t-“

“I love you more than any god could understand,” the old general speaks. “And I will never regret bringing you back, never. But now,” he turns his gaze back and manages to parry the quick, efficient and entirely deadly strike of Bhaal’s unloved daughter. “You have to live. And I...I have to take a stand. Go,” he says. “Go,” he commands. “I will hold her back for as long as I can.”

“The undying against the slayer,” Gortash murmurs as he already sprints towards the elevated platform.

The ground shakes as the Brain breaks out of its bonds, bit by bit, slowly but surely. The wave of psionic energy what comes their way almost knocks them all down.

“Go,” Nemo shouts as he and Wyll teleport closer to the exit. Thank fuck for the teleportation spells. Thank fuck for Wyll.

Karlach all but carries dazed Ravengard away as Dame Aylin takes Isobel in her arms and takes flight.

“Go, go, go!” he repeats as a familiar hand grabs him by the shoulder. Nemo doesn’t have time to think, doesn’t have time to act as he is dragged the remaining way to the platform by no-one but the tyrant himself.

The moment Karlach reaches the platform Wyll hits the control panel and they start to rise. Nemo is afraid it is not fast enough.

From the height of their ascend he sees the undying general fight off the slayer. Two Chosen of Gods against each other.

Even from that far away it is clear Ketheric will fall.

He sacrificed himself. He brought them time.

Fool.

***

Down below the illithid colony, amidst the Hell of his own creation, general Ketheric Thorm receives one last, final blow.

Blood oozes out of his wounds, painting the floor red. Above him a woman dressed in red stands; eyes vacant, empty, soulless.

But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

Isobel is safe. And Ketheric...

“Melodia,” he whispers as the last breath leaves his body. “I am coming.”

Somehow he knows she is waiting for him; what she has always waited for him, no matter how far he strayed.

Ketheric Thorm dies peacefully. It feels like falling asleep.

#dark urge: nemo #enver gortash #ketheric thorm #isobel thorm #dame aylin #karlach #wyll ravengard #orin the red #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #is it a fix it if i ruin everything in a different way? #is it ketheric thorm redemption fix? yes #durge is a half-drow assasin named Nemo #who is WEAK AS FUCK thanks Orin #also it's kind of a good run as you can see it bc nemo is not strong or powerful enough to be evil #evil is a luxury #this is this fic where gortash accidentally pushes orin into the morphic pool #TO the elder brain. WITH her stone #oh joy #also a fix it where Ketheric gets to atone and Gortash is forced to work together with the team of tadfools #nemo is bad at feelings #the dark urge #bg3 dark urge #durge spoilers #gortash's pov of this is just: #gortash: *saves nemo* everyone: *disliked that*

[crossdressingdeath]

Orin: The little lordling has been whispering in your ears? He always knew how to tumble and twist your mind matter, leave you knotted in his cords.

I'm fascinated by the implications of this line. Especially with the patch 6 crumbs suggesting that affectionate mind games was a fairly big part of Durge and Gortash's relationship, or at least big enough that Gortash missed it. Like... was Gortash actually manipulating Durge, or was it all part of a game that Orin wasn't part of and didn't understand? I love the idea of Orin thinking Durge was a victim of Gortash's manipulations (and possibly turning on them because of it) when they were actually in on the whole thing from the start and having fun with it. It fits well with Orin's anger at having to follow a plan that involves restraining herself and her assassins when Durge helped create that plan and Bhaal presumably signed off on it. All evidence suggests that Durge and Orin weren't particularly close, and Durge definitely didn't confide in her; it makes sense that she didn't understand Gortash and Durge's relationship and just saw her idiot sibling letting a Banite manipulate them because she couldn't see that they were as much a part of the game as he was! So of course she assumes that he manipulated them into agreeing to a plan that involved not killing; why would Durge ever trust Gortash's plans enough that he could convince them that it was the right course of action? But then of course... they did trust him. And if Orin had trusted that they knew what they were doing instead of assuming they'd fallen under Gortash's thumb and stabbing them in the back the Chosen might actually have won.

#bg3 #orin the red #obsessed with the fact that gortash and durge's relationship set this all in motion and also doomed the chosen's plan #it would never have been possible if they hadn't trusted each other enough to go for it! #but their affection for each other was so clear that orin stabbed durge in the back over it and that ruined EVERYTHING

[vialae]

oouughhh i wanna write abt durge coming fresh from the house of hope, dripping in gore as he drops Raphael’s head on Gortash’s desk with a crazed grin on his face.

Would they make out??? Would Gortash just temporarily freeze, never expecting to have to look at that devil’s face while in the security of Wyrm’s Rock? Would he just get angry because he wanted to be the one to take his head?

Would Gortash want the house of hope now it was missing an owner? Make all within it who made him ever suffer now suffer tenfold??? Or would he just want to smash the place to pieces? All of the above??

#I also need someone smarter than me to tell me how they think gortash responds to durge making a deal with haarlep #surely that has to be a major betrayal right??? #his most dearest being intimate with the image of the devil who ruined everything?? #maybe gortash would just be upset he wasn’t there to watch Raphael get killed by his darling #rather than the fact he was killed overall #durgetash

[animentality]

I feel bad for Ketheric Thorm because he went mad with grief and loss, I also feel bad for him because if Gortash and Dark Urge were constantly whispering and giggling and sitting in each other's laps during their evil chosen three meetings in front of ME, I'd definitely mock the Dark Urge when they came back to me with no memory of what happened and also not tell Gortash what happened to them even though I probably knew.

Like I'd definitely be like, *nodding at dark urge* that's what you get for being a whore, and *nodding at gortash* I'm not telling you shit about your slut. Fuck you for making me third wheel. You guys thought you were so cool and smart and sexy for coming up with your dumb plan well, your stupid romance ruined everything, hope you're happy, harlots.

And then I'd fuck off and die.

#ketheric thorm #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #goretash #durgetash #gortash x durge #enver gortash #dark urge #durge

[petit-etoile]

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.’

　　　　　　𝐈. ﹕previous fic　　　　𝐈𝐈. ﹕next fic

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

[vonderful-time]

everyone always talks about how much durge hated admitting he was in love — or at least respected and admired — enver gortash, but what about gortash?

enver gortash is a man who never once experienced true, unencumbered affection. affection, lust, love — these are all tools for the tyrants hand to use to create a perfect order, a single ruler who would dominate faerûn with an ironclad fist.

gortash, even from when he was young, would never admit to liking anyone. his parents, poor and unfortunate, called him an ungrateful, willing thing, selling him to the hells for a pittance just to never see his demanding face again. the hells, an unforgiving place with an even more unforgiving master, hardened his soul and taught him the most important lesson of all — power is all that matters.

not affection, not lust, and certainly not love.

yet, he grows close to the child of his master’s greatest rival. he knows in his soul that to rule — to truly have power — one must never lighten their grip on anything, and so he uses that closeness — that growing affection he denies — to tighten his tyrants hand around that bhaalspawn’s neck.

but enver gortash, like all his predecessors who wanted everything the world had to offer, was only mortal. a mortal man who was ever so lonely at the top of the world, looking down at the subjugation he brought. so he plays the long con, denying that what he is feeling is anymore than habitual fondness, that the murderous presents his leashed dog brings him don’t warm his heart and that he doesn’t relish in the soft expression of surprise that ravenous beast makes when he doesn’t run away. he is the master of manipulation here, he knows he has the bhaalspawn tightly woven around his finger, he knows he is ruining them.

but just as he had declawed, defanged, and destroyed the child of bhaal, so had that beautiful monster softened his tyrants black hand and made gortash want to rule together.

how humiliating for little enver gortash, to realize how little he had actually grown from that small starved child in the slums longing for a friend. and how utterly tragic that it is his undoing no matter what choices the player makes in this game.

#vonderful rambling #give gortash some love #he’s on my kin list for a reason and i hate it #control issues? me too buddy #durgetash #goretash #enver gortash x dark urge #durge #the dark urge #enver gortash #bg3

[darkenedurge]

. Couldn’t stop thinking about the idea that Gortash likely thought Durge was dead, until Orin confirmed otherwise – so, I got in my feelings and decided to write Gortash being heartbroken because I love angst just as much as I love raunchy shit.

.

Enver clung to the last shred of her he had left. A petty thing, it was, a single shirt – worn, torn, and not the most glamorous thing she’d ever owned. Though, it was often she slept in it – he’d given it to her after all. It had once been his. It was saturated in her scent, intermingled with a hint of his own – ink from his desk splattered the sleeve edges, an inevitable result of her being bent over his desk during particularly heated nighttime rituals. They weren’t always dirty, weren’t always spontaneous, but sometimes blood runs hot.

Enver missed her. Her warmth, her voice. Everything, lest he list it all. His chest tightens as he takes another, sharp, deep inhalation of her scent – the fabric pressed firmly to his nose. He chokes, on a sob or two, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Orin, naturally, had ruined everything. She’s good at that, making the world around you collapse with a simple swing of her blade. Though, it hadn’t just been a swing. Orin had butchered her, mutilated her. Years, months, weeks, days, hours of their time together, succumbed to her hand. Yet another sob is strangled from his throat at the thought, and he feels like he’s suffocating. Drowning.

If it weren’t for duty, for his commitment, Enver surely would have joined her by now. Perhaps in a kinder fashion, he’d never shared her creativity, nor passion for the sanguine arts. He was glad for that, he loved that about her. No, he’d likely spike his own wine with poison – or perhaps drive a blade through his chest. Whatever it took.

But no. He’d suffer your absence at his side tonight, and every night thereafter. Enver was assured he could, at the very least, bury himself in work – perhaps work himself into the grave, even. Anything, that minimised her domination of his brain space.

He knew he’d be lucky if he slept. It’s rare he could, without her. She’d always rake her pretty, slender fingers through his hair – over and over until his eyes fluttered, coming to a close. Still, she wouldn’t stop until she was certain he was taken by the soft, sweet lull of sleep – and even then, her hands remained on him somewhat.

An arm draped over his waist, her head on his chest. Anything, just be touching.

This all felt horrendously cruel. Unreal. In his head, Enver had gutted Orin a thousand times over, and then a thousand times more. Yet, his sick fantasies wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing could.

#baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate iii #bg3 #bg3 durge #dark urge x gortash #durgetash #gortash x durge #bg3 gortash #enver gortash

[zephyrins]

romanceable Raphael route

disclaimer: it's just my thoughts on what we can add to the current plot without ruining or completely rewriting it. I know that fanfics exist for this purpose but let me and Raphael enjoyers have some fun, I'm not asking the developers to actually add this so calm down haters

the first act is perfect. Raphael's introduction is 10\10 and I don't want to change a thing. BUT if you want to romance him you should play along with his little performance, humor him, and don't be rude!!

in the second act, he can appear after the defeat of Ketheric and congratulate us because we deserve to be praised by our favorite devil! if we roll persuasion (or something else idk) successfully he can tell us more about Orin and Gortash or the brain

the tastiest part starts in the third act, we have a lot of room for fantasy. but there are criteria we must meet:

sign his contract, obviously

no additional tadpoles in our brain

no to the Emperor

do not romance anyone (he would be disappointed, how can you like someone else when he is around?)

you can gift Raphael the Annals of Karsus and if his approval is high enough you can ask for something in exchange (maybe help with Karlach's heart or Wyll's dad?) ((but Gale will leave your company))

if you are a bard you can sing him a song (just because you can)

he would be very pleased if you would destroy Gortash's plans and return his stolen items. you will hear a monologue about how foolish the ambitions of mortals are and how Enver was doomed from the very beginning. maybe Raphael even give you something as your prize

you can ask him how to get rid of Mizora, but if his approval is very high he'll appear in your camp anyway and get rid of her by himself (because he's the only devil who can be around his mouse!!)

you can visit the House of Hope but DO NOT touch anything or you can say bye-bye to your romance. If you do everything correctly and have exceptional approval, you'll have a unique dialogue with Haarlep: they'll recognize you as their master's new favorite pet Raphael can't shut up about, but Haarlep is not allowed to have fun with you without Raphael

Korilla will give you a permanent pass to the House from Raphael and tell you he will be waiting for you later (I think here your imagination can go wild about what can happen on that rendezvous)

the ending

our promised dinner!! he will offer you to become his warlock but you can refuse: Raphael won't be mad, he will only laugh giving you more time to play with your freedom

well, thank you for visiting my delusional ted talk, see you later

#i hope no one wrote exactly the same before #honestly i don't want a whole romance line but #a few extra scenes would be enough for me #raphael bg3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 raphael #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael the cambion

[edelgarfield]

gods i haven't seen this parallel drawn before but it is something that drives me insane

everyone knows gortash was sold to raphael by his parents and one can only imagine the awful things he went through. and like i don't think it's too far of a stretch to think that abuse plays a heavy role in what led him to bane, how do you avoid being owned and used for other people's gain? by being the one with all the power and bringing them under your heel.

which is the exact same logic that drives astarion towards ascension. hells, the rite is a contract with mephistopheles, raphael's DAD.

imo gortash is a glimpse of exactly what lies in ascended astarion's future. he's the most powerful man in baldur's gate but he's completely alone. he's sold out and alienated every single person that ever cared about him, his power is the very thing that keeps him from ever being able to trust anyone else, all his allies are transactional and based on mutual gain, and one slip up means a knife in his back. durge, seemingly the one person he genuinely cared about, was taken from him because of the power they held. their affection for him put a target on both of their backs. he had all the power he could ever want and it did nothing to save the person he cared about most.

by the time you meet him, he is far far far too gone imo. i'm not even sure whether he cares about how isolated he is, or if he sees it for the weakness it is. if there was ever a time to convince him to choose another path, it is long gone, now he's too entrenched in his own schemes, that even if he WANTED to change (unlikely), it would spell his death.

if you don't ally with him, his isolation is the very thing that kills him; he believes he has no need of flesh and blood allies bc he has an army of tin soldiers to keep him safe. but once you take out the steel watch he's practically defenseless. he's the most powerful man in Baldur's gate, but you can literally just stroll up to his office and kill him on his own turf and no one comes to his aid. if you do ally with him, it's his ambition that puts the final nail in his coffin, his means to dominate the world turns on him and spells his doom.

and this is exactly what we begin to see happen with ascended astarion. his obsession with power and need for control makes him turn a genuine partnership based on love & mutual respect into one based on control. from party banter, we see pretty much all the companions immediately turn on him. these are people who genuinely cared for him & fought for his freedom, but after watching him ascend they wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. and he doesn't even care! he's so entrenched in his own misanthropic worldview that he only sees the power he's gained & not everything it cost him. the cost of ascension isnt just 7000 souls, it's 7000 souls and the love of every single person who could have ever cared for him.

if astarion ascends how long until he bites off more than he can handle? how long until his enemies realize the best way to get to him is through you? how long until all his allies turn on him? (if you choose to control the absolute, the answer is somewhere between a few days and a few weeks). all the power in the world can't protect you from your own hubris and astarion has it in spades.

whether you view durgetash & durgestarion platonically or romantically I see it as two opposing narratives held together with Durge as the lynchpin. durgetash is abt being doomed by that narrative, two people who genuinely cared for each other but were the wrong people at the wrong time to save either of them. had they met earlier, if one of them had been slightly less entrenched in their roles, perhaps they could have been saved, they could have lived and had something real.

& durgestarion is the opposite, had they met any earlier, they would have brought each other to ruin. two doomed people, once beyond saving, meeting at the perfect time and finding the strength in each other to break their chains, to choose a path for themselves. where before durge failed to save gortash (& every person they ever cared for) they can save astarion now (& all their other companions).

& the real tragedy is by the very constraints of the narrative, you cannot save them both. if durgetash hasn't been the people they were, Astarion would never have his chance at freedom, he would've been consumed in cazador's ritual with no one to mourn him. but in order to orchestrate the events that allow astarion his chance at freedom, gortash is long past the point of no return. it takes MULTIPLE extremely unlikely events and literal divine intervention to free Durge from Bhaal's clutches. The chance of the same happening for Gortash is infinitesimally small.

it's abt the cruelty and chaos of the world, how fate, destiny, and chance intersect to either bind us or set us free. it's abt second chances, walking through the ruins of your past mistakes & choosing to build something from the rubble, it's abt how love & loss are two sides of the same coin, how sometimes the only choice available is to love, & that love won't save you, but it's there and it leaves its mark.

thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #enver gortash #durgestarion #durgetash #bg3 spoilers

[tragedybunny]

I really enjoyed your Consensual Non-Consent fic. I really want to read something like that written by you!

Well, this isn't CNC, but it is in the realm of kink! Thanks to @bhaalbaaby for the beta! To my tag list, totally cool if this isn't your thing, no pressure.

༺Sweet Relief - Astarion x F!Reader ༻

༺Summary༻ Reader is stressed and nervous. Astarion knows just what they need to relieve it.

༺Warnings༻ Spanking/Impact Play, D/s dynamics, PiV sex

༺Word Count༻ 1523

The common room at the Elfsong was empty, a rarity. The rest of your group was downstairs, celebrating your latest victory over Orin by letting off some steam. A well deserve respite after all that had happened since you’d arrived in Baldur’s Gate. You couldn’t match their excitement, looking ahead to the last hurdle to overcome before confronting the Absolute for good: Enver Gortash and his Steel Watch. Thinking of it coiled your muscles into tense springs and turned breathing from instinct to labor. 

You excused yourself from the impromptu festivities and headed back upstairs, Astarion following you without having been asked, a sweet gesture on his part. You didn’t want to ruin his evening as well. He was right at your heels, shutting the door behind the two of you. Arm wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest. “Everything alright, love?” He purrs against your ear. 

The feel of his words playing across your skin made you shiver and squirm, and you nodded in answer. “Just…anxious, I suppose,” you add. 

“Well, I know a way to take care of that.” You could hear the suggestive grin that was no doubt plastered on his face. 

“Astarion,” You started to protest, but he guided you across the room to the set of beds the two of you share, tucked in a corner, a makeshift private space, arms still firmly around your waist. “I don’t know if this is really a great solution.” Since you had ended Cazador, Astarion had been increasingly amorous with you. 

“I think it’s the perfect one. Pull your pants down.” The words were firm without being sharp, but they were unmistakably an order. Another development of his newfound erotic interest: control. 

“But what if the others come back,” You protested, legs already pinned against the edge of the mattress and Astarion. 

“That sounds like backtalk, my pet,” His lips caressed your ear, teasing the point of it. As a half-elf, it’s not nearly as sensitive as his, but it still provoked a soft moan. Searing kisses burned their way down your throat, his hands remained locked on your waist, waiting for you to obey. 

Heat burned underneath your skin from arousal and the potential embarrassment of being discovered. “They could see,” You whispered meekly, heat flowing from your skin to your core. 

“Definitely backtalk,” He affirmed, “what am I going to do with you?” His hand abandoned your waist, digging in the drawer. You swallowed hard when a black strip of leather struck the mattress in front of you. 

The belt had come from a crate of goods Figaro Facemaker had sent as a thank you. Astarion immediately grabbed it, giving you a look that had left your small clothes damp. You noted he hadn't worn it once, making his intended use of it extremely clear. “Pants down, and if you have any further protests, I have a scroll of silence I’ve been dying to use on you.” You trembled but in a way that felt divine as your will submitted to his. 

Backing off, he gave you space, and you hurried to comply this time, fumbling with your laces and letting the pants fall to the ground. Taking you by the shoulders, Astarion bent you over, face pressed into the mattress. It’s almost shamefully lewd, the only thing bared to him were holes, bent over and waiting to be fucked. He hummed appreciatively, nails skimming over the curve of your ass. “There’s a good girl,” Your thighs were becoming slick at this point. “But I can’t overlook how long it took you to comply with one simple request. I think you need a little lesson, wouldn’t you agree, darling?” Languidly he retrieved the belt from the bed, letting you get a good look at it. 

Behind you, he fiddled with the buckle, making a purposeful amount of noise for you to hear. This was a new dimension to the escalating play between you. You swallowed thickly. “Yes, love.” 

His body covered yours, pressing down on you, how much he was enjoying this was readily evident. He rutted his hips against yours, erection straining through the fabric, teasing your soaked folds, making sure you knew how much he wanted this, and you whimpered. “Very wise of you,” His voice tickled your ear. 

Then his weight disappeared, and you're left with the emptiness of anticipation. 

The sting of leather was utterly different from the barehanded smacks you received in the past, sharp, concentrated. You hissed, and the first tears gathered in your eyes, but your mind floated away. A gentle hand stroked your hair. “Bearable, pet?”

You struggled back to reality for a moment. “Mhmm.”

“Words, sweetheart,” He insisted, and you knew if you didn’t answer, the game would come to an end. 

“Sunrise.” You managed, and the grip on your hair tightened as the next strike came, a singing line of pain on your skin. 

Face buried in the mattress, you yelped, no longer concerned with what your companions would think if they stumbled in right now. The struggles and fears faded away, and your body relaxed into a pliant plaything. There’s nothing but Astarion, the pain, the ecstasy, and the promise of release. 

You don’t count the strikes, instead reveling in every one as a single heady moment. They left behind little echoes of burning skin, marks that would remind you later when you try to sit. You must be making noise, but you’re not sure, the mattress under your face moistened with tears. The emptiness between your legs was painful, yearning to be filled by the one you’ve given control of yourself to. 

Then there was stillness. “You did so well,” Astarion praised, and your heart fluttered. “You’ll listen to me the next time I tell you to let me take care of you, right?”

“I will,” You promised, not daring to try to look at him. 

Fingers caressed the welts along your ass reverently before dipping down to your aching slit. A single digit slid inside you, and you rocked back, instinctively craving friction. “You’re all worked up, you poor little thing. Let’s get you some relief.” 

You whined at the loss when he removed his finger and he gently scolded you. “Be patient. You don’t want another lesson tonight.” 

Silently suffering, you waited as you heard him open his pants. Finally, you felt the tip of his cock teasing your hole. “Please,” you begged. 

He answered with a thrust and a groan as he pushed inside. “Gods, you’re soaked. So ready to be a good girl for me.” 

His hips ground against yours, setting the marks on your skin deliciously on fire. You’ve forgotten what words are as you moaned desperately. Pace quickening, he slid one hand between you and the mattress, fingers searching out your clit, leaving you panting. 

Fingers mercilessly worked you until you were right at the edge, the other hand playfully smacking you. You whimpered from the myriad sensations overwhelming you. “Come for me, beautiful.” 

You didn’t hesitate after his permission, clenching around him with a mewling cry. He continued to play with you as he chased his own release, slamming into you with wild abandon, rougher each passing second. Until at last, he stilled and with a throaty growl, spilled himself into you. 

There was no time, there was no space. Arms lifted you onto the bed, lying you on your side, lips kissing your cheek. “Sunrise,” You’re exhausted, but you knew he’d want to hear it. 

Nimble fingers gently pulled your clothes off as you shifted around to assist. His icy touch made you shiver and giggle slightly when it brushed your skin. “Sorry love, the water isn’t much better.” He kissed you as the touch of a marginally warmer rag began to clean your skin. 

What you wanted to say was that it didn’t matter because it was him touching and taking care of you, but you sighed happily instead. You almost lamented the loss of the evidence of your coupling, but the marks remained, you insist if it should happen, no magic would be used to heal them. “Can you sit?” 

The haze dissipated, and you managed to sit up enough, feeling the sweet sting of your marked skin. He pulled a nightshirt over your head, another soft kiss as a reward. “What would you like now, my love?” 

Leaning your forehead against him, you breathed him in, companion, lover, friend, ally, that piece of you that was missing and finally found. “Snuggle me, read to me.” Rarely did you ask for that, as much as you loved his voice, it seemed like a drain on his time. Only when your day had been particularly rough, but it felt like the perfect thing for the moment. 

“Of course my sweet.” Before long, he’s slipped off his clothes and joined you under the covers, reading softly as you curled up on his chest. 

When your companions eventually returned, they were blissfully unaware of what occurred. All they found was their tired leader, asleep next to a vampire who was glaring at them and mouthing to be quiet. 

tag list:

@micropoe10  @writingmysanity @mxxny-lupin @azu21

 @tallymonster  @dependsonthedream @sunfire-ancunin

@bambamwolf87 @fayeriess @lumienyx @lisrelly

@elora-the-slutty-songstress @bhaalbaaby @spacebarbarianweird

@satanicspinosaurus @darlingxdragon

#bg3 #astarion #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x reader #x reader #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #my fanfic #my writing

[maegalkarven]

Empty Prayers AU pt 4.

Aftermath of the Urge trying to take a hold on Nemo.

Characters: Enver Gortash, Astarion, Durge (Nemo).

Dark Urge x Gortash, implied/hinted Dark Urge x Astarion.

It would be easy to hate Nemo, if not for this, not for the way Bhaal commands, demands and straight up takes control over his body.

If not for the fact what apparently he, Gortash, is the reason of Bhaalspawn's defiance.

It started with him.

It started with Nemo, the perfect murderer created out of the god's flesh, caring for him.

Which would be considered a sin in Bhaal's eyes. And it was considered just that.

And this is where it led them both.

Nemo is in the heap of blankets on the floor; his companions are like birds or small animals, really. The moment bhaalspawn's head hit the surface - gently as the vampire lowered him down - they immediately went into building this freaking nest of pillows and blankets around the man.

Like it would help, like a small comfort provided to Nemo in his restless feverish sleep would change a thing. Would fix a thing.

Adding the God of Murder into the seemingly endless list of people Enver despises is a useless thing, yet he does it anyway.

Nemo is his, not some mad god's. He made his bhaalspawn stray from Bhaal's intended path and he will keep him there. There and alive, because Nemo is-

Nemo is-

He is not allowed to die. Not after the mess he made, not after the mess Enver got dragged into because of him. Not after everything they have created and everything they have lost and those small scraps they have gained back.

Nemo has to stay alive, because without him alive Enver has...What, two allies? Some old contacts, some half-assed alliances, some services he is not able to pay for?

His plan is lost, his Steel Watch is stolen, a puppeted by the Brain Florrick hunts him down like an animal, and it's all because of Nemo.

That's what caring for someone brings him. A failure.

There's not a sign of banite activity in the city; all dispersed, disappeared as if there was never such a thing as the Church of Bane. Where Lord Bane commanded them to move Enver has no idea, but Lord Bane clearly decided to wash his hands of this mess.

Gortash heard there was a fight in the Steel Watch Foundry: what Steel Watcher attacked some of the faithful, what they had to flee. Perfect creation, that of his Steel Watch. Now in the wrong hands, overseen by the True Souls.

The weapon you can't use should be destroyed, as much as it pains him to bring that particular feat of his genius down.

He will rebuilt the watch, make it invincible to any outsider's influence. With time, but Enver will fix things. And he needs no gods for that, no allies.

Well, maybe one ally.

A pathetic excuse of a man; pale, with hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, battling his father for control even in his sleep.

Nemo, the cause of the entirety of Enver's latest misfortune.

Nemo, his perfect-

Nemo moves, trying to break a hold of the chains tying him down. A low, pained growl erupts from his chest. His fingers move, long, sharp claws at the end of them reaching for something. Digging into his own flesh, bloodying the blanket he is tucked into.

"No, no, no," the other spawn, the vampire spawn comments. "This will not go. Leave these poor hands alone, you little monster."

There's the undeniable affection in his voice, as well as the noticeable amount of concern. Astarion reaches out and forces the palms open with his own, surprisingly strong fingers.

Enver takes his time observing the vampire, the way the man handles his lover. Ever since he has found Nemo lets the vermin bite him, he has known no rest.

He asked why, mocked, tainted, but apparently this was the hill Nemo decided to die on.

"We are alike," he kept repeating over and over again like a broken music box. "More alike than you could ever understand."

It felt like a slap, like a hit it was intended to be.

Nemo too blames Enver for his downfall. He cares, but does not forget who made him fall out of his father's graces.

Some part of bhaalspawn has to hate Gortash for it.

And this...spawn, this Astarion; Enver isn't sure the man himself is aware, but he is clearly interested in Enver's lover the way Enver does not approve of. Nor should he tolerate.

"You don't really have to worry about that," the pale elf comments, as if sensing Gortash's ire. "He has already turned me down."

So the elf made a move on Nemo, and Nemo refused. Good.

Wait, turned down how?

"And what exactly were you proposing?" He can't help but ask.

Enver has a bad feeling about it, the unkind type of a suspicion.

What cause Nemo would have to refuse? He didn't use to deny himself a little fun here and there, no matter how big of a bloodbath it ended up in.

After all, he, Enver Gortash, was the only lover who bedded Bhaalspawn and lived to see the day.

"Night of passion, of course!" The vampire makes a dramatic gesture. "There I was, offering him the best night of his life, and then he just...brushed me off. Said I'm better off without him snuggled up to my insides."

Well, that's...something.

Gears turn in Enver's mind, quick and relentless and cruel in that.

"Anything else he said?" Asked almost innocently, as if he doesn't care.

He cares so fucking much he wants to end Nemo's life while he's asleep. To strangle him or stab through the heart, or better yet, gain control over Absolute again, toss this damn astral prism away and make Nemo love him.

Make bhaalspawn see only him, care only for him. He wouldn't take all the free will of his favorite monster, of course not, just enough to not let him stray away, just enough so he would stop seeing other people for...well, people.

Now it's the vampire spawn who's watching him, unblinking. Enver suppresses the urgent need to stab him now.

"Yes," the spawn mulls it over. "Nemo said a single night with him is not worth it." there's a crease between his brows now. "Worth what, I wonder?"

Enver doesn't have to say anything. He can just get up and leave; away from this conversation, away from these ugly feelings, from the awful pathetic man who causes them, from the way Nemo makes him weak; wanting and needing and hurting-

"He would kill you," falls off his lips faster than he catches his thoughts. "He kills everyone he brings into bed, with just one single exception." This exception currently sitting next to the vampire, feeling like shit.

He felt so special, knowing Nemo killed all his other lovers, so mighty, so in control.

Knowing Nemo willingly strayed his hand to keep this vampire spawn alive is worse than if it would happen by accident, if Bhaal's hold simply...slipped.

The elf's face contorts, eyes growing wide, lips parting, but no sound comes.

"Oh," he finally lets out after a pause what feels like eternity. "All of them?"

"Yes."

"All but you?"

"Obviously."

"So is this why?" The man turns to the spawn on the floor. "He didn't want to- And I thought- But this means-"

"It means nothing," Enver snaps and there's anger in his voice, and irritation, and command, and-

The elf looks back at him, his expression slowly turning smug.

"Oh, but it does," he hums and this would be a perfect moment to strike. He can say Nemo did that, not like Nemo could testify otherwise. And how poetic it would be, Nemo not wanting to kill a spawn, the higher power moving his hand... "And don't think of killing me now, no one would believe Nemo did that."

"I can make it look convincing enough," Gortash tries regardless.

A spawn laughs into his face.

"I will raise ruckus what will wake up everyone in this house and then beyond. I will not go down quietly, especially not now," a defiant stare that stretches into eternity.

"You think you own him, don't you? A poor little Bhaalspawn, haunted by his father for the crime of having a lover. Your perfect little pet, your bloodthirsty attack dog," the spawn leans closer. "Well, let me tell you something, lordling. Nemo belongs to no one. He is his own damn person and he will stay exactly that."

This actually surprises Enver; he had expected the elf to voice his claim on the man in question, and instead this fool rushed in to defend Nemo's integrity.

And Nemo isn't even awake to hear it.

What an idiot.

"He will never choose you, you have to know that," his words are sure, have to sound sure. He can't allow the spawn to see the uncertainty underneath.

Regardless of what this nobody says about it, Nemo indeed is his; his lover, his ally, his. No one else will see Nemo for who he truly is, no one will understand him like Enver does-

"We are alike. More alike than you would ever understand."

His face has to give it away, for the vampire smiles; sharp teeth glaringly obvious, predator lingering in the unnatural redness of the eyes.

"Will he not?" The bastard hums. "Maybe he won't, or maybe he will. We won't know till I try. And if, per chance, Nemo does choose me, whatever is it you'll do then, lordling?"

Enver hits him straight into the jaw. He can't help it, it's almost instinctual, this knee-jerk reaction of his.

They descend into the flurry of kicks and hits, a mess of limbs and teeth and bad intentions.

Then someone clears the throat.

"Very sweet of you two to provide me some entertainment," the voice is raw and hoarse from the strain it was under before, but it's unmistakably Nemo's.

Astarion moves to push Gortash away.

"Darling," he exclaims, ever the opportunist. Enver would admire him for that if he wasn't so damn angry. "You're awake!"

"So I am," the bhaalspawn agrees, his golden eyes meeting Enver's. "Had fun while I was down?"

There's suspicious glint in his eyes Gortash matches with his own. A single, troubling thought breaches his conscience; just how much of the conversation to pass did Nemo hear?

***

Everything is a blur, everything hurts. Nemo can't even tell up from down and left from right. He struggles to open his eyes to no avail and fears for the worst, until-

"Anything else he said?" A familiar voice, a beloved voice, but sounding...strained?

Why?

"Yes," Another familiar voice, the one Nemo grew to be accustomed to. Somewhat comforting, this voice. "Nemo said a single night with him is not worth it. Worth what, I wonder?"

Well, well, well, would you look at that.

An interesting conversation the two of his favorite people are having. It would be a shame to reveal he is awake now; surely that can wait.

And it does indeed wait.

#empty prayers au #durgetash #dark urge x gortash #dark urge: nemo #bg3 astarion #I'm putting them all into the Situations and enjoying it #Gortash is my fav I say as I make him as miserable as possible. As I ruin all his plans #take his cult away. his power. his everything #Nemo waking up and hearing Astarion defend his integrity: it better not awaken anything in me #joke's on him it's already too late for that #this is NOT a love triangle. this is idiots not knowing how to navigate relationships because they have evil tendencies and trauma (tm) #are they ooc? mayhaps. Do i care? hm. not that much

[veilkeeper]

still thinking about my little pet theory that gortash could see recordings through the scrying eyes. can you imagine? the goblin camp is destroyed - utterly annihilated by some ragtag group of upstarts, but it doesn't matter, the goblins are inconsequential at best. so he carries on. goes to moonrise with orin, tells ketheric to shape up and get the prism.

but then as soon as he's back in the city, he gets a message that moonrise is gone too, ketheric is dead, killed by the very same ragtag group that demolished the goblins. so now he has to look into it, see what godsforsaken little wannabe heroes keep trying to ruin his plans.

and its durge. the person who started all of this with him, the person he built this whole hoax with, the person he wanted to rule the world with. the only person he wanted to rule the world with. who he thought was dead, who he mourned for, who he seethed that he couldn't take his vengeance for.

they're destroying everything they built together, but gods, he can worry about that later. they're alive, and he'll get them back, one way or another. but for now, it's enough to just see them.

#durgetash #bg3 #mine

[sky-kiss]

Scars

A/n: Soft!mangled Raphael getting some snuggles. gif belongs to @red-dead-sakharine. Because they are INCREDIBLE. Sequel to this.

Raphael x (GN) Tav/Durge

You watch him pace the length of your shared room.

He's always struggled to settle, a testament to his heritage. Like Mephistopheles, he runs hot and cold, thoughts racing, schemes forming; his features twist in response to some voice in his head. You can't read his thoughts traditionally, but you don't need to: Raphael is still trying to parse his fall from grace. That orderly, fanciful mind struggles to justify his image of himself (proud, regal, kingly) and the mangled ghost in the mirror (scarred, maimed, a pauper prince). 

You rest your chin on your pulled-up knees to conserve body heat. You won't pity the cambion. Pity is everything he fears and loathes. You lift your hand, turning it this way and that. Blood cakes under the nails, in the beds, between your fingers…you feel it drying near the corners of your mouth, itching and flaking away. 

You'd made a ruin of the incubus…but it's the nearest thing you can offer to a gift, and Raphael smiled. It made the mess worthwhile. You scrub the back of your hand across your mouth. It only makes things worse. 

Raphael pauses. The cambion tips his head to the side, watching you, eyes narrowed. In the past, he was vocal. Now, he's…different. It's your fault, and some childish part of you wants to argue that you're trying to make amends, but…

…a devil's memory is long. Their grudges are eternal. 

You are, and remain, his damnation first and savior second. 

"What?" You demand too sharply. Your throat burns, either from the cold or Haarlep's blood. 

"Look at you," Raphael purses his lips, growling the words. "A mongrel; a beast. What became of you? You were brighter before." 

"So were you." 

"Mmm. And what, pray tell, could have been the cause of my meteoric rise and fall? At whose feet might I lay the blame?" 

How many times have you had this argument over the past six months? You've lost count, and it's lost its edge. A part of you, petty, too aware of his foibles, wants to scold him for it: he was more creative in the old days. Now they haunt the same battleground, both too cowardly to make a move. You are caught in each other's orbit: the ruined king and the abandoned godling. 

You scrub at your mouth again, and he scoffs. The cambion crosses to you and snaps his finger. Before you can register what he's doing, he's pressed a wet rag to your skin, scrubbing the mess away. His touch is brusque but…a welcome change of pace. If nothing else, he's warm. 

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play with your food?" He doesn't ask you to turn your head; he grips your jaw and moves you as he pleases. 

You grumble, reaching out to settle your hands on his shoulders. The scarring on his torso is worse, much worse, and you feel the puckered skin flex under your touch. "Didn't have one." 

Raphael squeezes your chin. "The point remains. Such a mess." 

Despite yourself, you smile. Raphael's eyes darken, fixing on the blood-flecked across your teeth. 

"Open." He orders. 

And you were made to follow orders, weren't you? Bhaal's, the Absolute's, Gortash…the headiness of his tone and the lowness twists something in your belly. Raphael presses his thumb to your lower lip. A sharp nail scrapes across your teeth, careful, ever so careful, clearly away the remnants of your…indulgence. The cambion tilts his head to the side, pressing deeper into your mouth. 

You set your teeth on this skin, eye burning. 

"How curious is my monster…" Raphael sits back. He pulls his hand free, but you don't allow him to get far. You shuffle nearer, press yourself to him to leech his warmth. Claws pluck at your hair. "... you've bitten me once already…" 

And the thought flits through your head, cruel and resigned all at once: what alternative does he have left? What do either of you have left?

You don't say this. It's better to pluck Raphael's free hand from where it rests between you. There are scars and burns here, stretching across the wrists, down towards his palm. 

You hold his gaze, pressing your lips to the worst of his scars. 

#raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael x durge #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #my stuff #raphael x reader

[animentality]

It's so fucking sickening how, when the Dark Urge tells Gortash that they have rejected their father, he immediately says, "This changes nothing."

"This changes nothing."

Just let that sink in, because...for most ships, the three little words are "I love you."

In Durgetash?

"This changes nothing."

I don't care that you aren't the Chosen of Bhaal anymore. You're still my equal.

I don't care that you're no one now. You're still someone to me.

I don't care that your destiny has changed. Share it with me anyway.

Like..."you ruined me" is still the goat, but.

This changes nothing.

Hmm.

(He's lying because he always believed in you, he respected you for resisting and controlling your urges, and he never saw you as a mindless bhaalspawn, he saw you as a person first, and now you're free, and this changes nothing, but that's a lie, because it changes everything, it just doesn't change how he feels about you.)

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #enver gortash #dark urge #durgetash

[gunpowdercarousel]

I feel like BG3 has some really interesting themes of emasculation

Throughout the game it's rare to find a major male character that's depicted as traditionally strong or even 'strong' in any way without having some crippling weakness or insecurity. Even just beyond the simple fact that all three male origin characters have EIGHT STRENGTH, there's deeper stuff.

Wyll: The legendary Blade of Frontiers, a folkloric hero and champion of the people, who is powerless before his master - a woman. She literally treats him like a dog - a puppy even - and is always there to drag him back down the instant he gets too confident in himself. His questline is mostly defined by his sense of powerlessness, especially in the face of the seemingly untouchable woman he serves.

Gale: Used to make love to a literal goddess, only for her to dump his ass. He nearly killed himself trying to figure out a way to win her back, only to be left with a curse that's basically ruined his life. And the first interaction between them we see in the game is her telling him via messenger to kill himself for her sake. And he is totally willing to do so.

Astarion: On the surface, he seems like a suave and confident flirt; a rake. He's full of himself, has a zest for life, loose morals, and overall just seems like a debaucherous playboy, when in reality he's deeply traumatized from two centuries of being tortured, abused, and used. He feels broken and powerless, and is so thoroughly desperate for some degree of power that he'll try reading the Necronomicon without a second thought just in hopes it'll help him.

Ketheric Thorm: A man defined by his relationship to the women in his life. He lost his mind when his wife died and somehow lost it AGAIN when his daughter died. He gave up everything he had - his own identity - to try and bring her back, only for her to hate and scorn him. And in the end, his skull is crushed to pulp by his daughter's girlfriend. The same woman who he drew his immortality from. His awesome power - his indestructability - was something he siphoned away from a woman.

Raphael: The scheming, suave, smooth-talking devil who seems untouchably powerful and impossibly smug throughout the entire game. And yet, when you finally infiltrate his House of Hope, you find out he's really completely terrible in bed, has low self-esteem, and is desperate to prove himself. In many ways he's pathetic. Impressive in the beginning, certainly, when you're utterly powerless before him, but by the time you actual visit his manor you see him for what he truly is: an angry, little man full of hot air.

Cazador: A victim of his own master, who's just desperate for power. Despite being a terrifyingly powerful vampire lord and one of the most powerful and influential people in the city, he just comes across as pathetic and whiny when you finally meet him in person.

Meanwhile, if you look at many of the women in the game - Vlaakith, Mystra, Zariel, Mizora, Shar - they're god-like in power, if not the most morally righteous people in the world, to say the least. Hell, the main villain of the game - the Absolute - is depicted with a feminine voice.

It's just kind of interesting to me how the game depicts so many men in the game as being weak, ineffectual, or pathetic. And yet for the Origin boys it doesn't do it in a scornful or negative way. It just depicts them as flawed people and victims, either of themselves or of circumstance. It doesn't try to show the male heroes being especially strong or cool, it's more than happy to depict them as soft and weak and vulnerable.

It's the seemingly impressive male villains that the game likes to tear down and expose for being pathetic weaklings, which - of course - I'm fine with xD

I'm sure I've missed some other characters, like Gortash or whatever, but these are the main ones that came to mind.

Anyway, just a random thought.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #wyll #wyll ravengard #wyll bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion