#{{ verse: redo. }}

[spellboundcrown]

i worship a nameless god of rage

click for better quality pls | follow up to this

[chocodile]

How quickly does the shadow take it's victims? Would getting a drop of it on your arm result in it eating your flesh like acid and making more of itself grey goo style? Or is it slower, and it digests/absorbs it's victims alive The Blob style?

It seems there is still some debate among experts about the topic!

[eggdrawsthings]

yeh just here abusing effect layers to distract ppl from the fact that I clearly don't know how to paint a background properly 🤡 please don't mind me 🤡

[ofmusicandmagic-a]

@singingwings bc we talked about Kingdom Hearts verse for Robin

It had been another summer celebration all day; Tempera had been busy with patrols to keep things going smoothly, but now that things were winding down, he could relax. At least in theory.

Robin was the first person he spotted who he knew; he knew she'd done a small concert today but he'd been unable to be in the area at the time. Now, she was sitting and just looking at the stars.

"Do you see something up there?"

[petit-etoile]

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

a  love  that  will  last  forever

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My favorite knight,’ Astarion says breathlessly.

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

‘Your highness,’ you greet him.

‘Please,’ Astarion whispers vampishly.

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

‘Please,’ Astarion insists. ‘For me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Drink,’ he commands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should have known better.

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

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

‘Help me!’ Astarion snaps at Gale.

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

‘No,’ you say weakly. ‘Not here.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Astarion appraises him. ‘I will consider it.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course, my prince,’ you reply.

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

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

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

‘Is this real?’

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

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

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

‘My prince?’

‘Say my name,’ Astarion says.

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

Without hesitation, you say, ‘Astarion.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Take it,’ you say.

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

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

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

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

This is your world.

He is the only thing you have.

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

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

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

‘Yours,’ you agree.

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

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

‘Gods,’ he groans.

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

‘You are incredible,’ Astarion tells you.

‘I am  —  ’

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

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

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

‘I love you,’ you confess.

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

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

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

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

That is   —  

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

[milimeters-morales]

[pridewaited]

starter call. for the silliest guy ever, i need to update my verses and pages

[aureentuluva70]

The first in a series of posts of portions of the Lay of Leithian, Release from Bondage, starting with Canto I!

(I'm not planning on doing the entirety of the leithian from start to finish, mostly just my favorite parts. Which, ok, admittedely might be most of it lol)

>>> Part 2

[wistrea]

and if i give kira her bsd verse back, what then 🤔

[edgymuses]

how we liking the new icon template? yay or nay?

[glassedplanets]

fuck the big three, it's just big me

[jessicas-pi]

I finally found some time to sit down and listen to music and relax and just not think about anything, but the music I was listening to was the new Taylor Swift album and The Prophecy came on and now I will be thinking about how well it fits that really angsty chapter of Time Heals All Wounds for the next 36 hours.

[resonette]

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ would you know me in every life?

a meta regarding: all of major seren's canonical lives in order as to be explored on this blog as of september 27th, 2024. a study of: losing one's religion, the concept of the sacrificial lamb, loss of girlhood, objectification, and the weaponization of the self. WARNING. love & deepspace spoilers as well as love & deepspace canon divergence ahead. these verses serve as a general summary of personal canon and can/will be suspended if there are interactions with a canon or named character featured in any of the memories below.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ briar , the flower maiden.

born to an unknown mother and father, the flower maiden is a young woman born to the beautiful kingdom of philos. chosen by the god astra to be HIS sacrificial lamb, a messiah, a vessel of HIS will, she is destined to die in every life so that the citizens of philos may continue on. watched over by the witch corrine, the flower maiden's name is rarely spoken, the first aspect of her to be forgotten. corrine is at peace with the fact that her granddaughter must die in order for philos to survive, so corrine keeps her away from the world, hides her in fields of beautiful flowers so that she may never grow attached to the outside world, never make connections so that she has no reason to fear her own death. when the ice comes for her skin, and for her bones, briar is scared, but she does not take action so long as her grandmother is there. she is scared, but at least she is not alone.  she prays to astra every night for a companion, someone her age, someone who can keep her company.  HE  does not provide. when corrine passes, her body one with the earth, her skin and bones fertilizer for the flowers, briar's fear returns, and she researches her grandmother's magic to find the worst: the truth about what was happening to her, about her life, about her destiny. a fate she couldn't run away from even if she wanted to. in panic, she reads the stories of the philean people, learns the legend of the foreseer, and fixates on the gem of his staff. the creatio protocore, an item of true divinity, something that will save her. ( all she wants is a chance, just a single chance; she does not know yet that astra is a cruel god. every morning she prays to HIM. ) when she climbs the foreseer's tower, she meets the enigmatic demigod and, fearing not even death, attempts to steal the protocore over, and over, and over again. he tells her that she must treat the jasmine, to make it bloom, and she laughs at him : is that all it takes? she has nurtured flowers back to life over and over again; she has tended to the toil, purified the water, treated their sick leaves, banished the infectious insects. there is no one who knows flowers better than she does, and yes, she is somewhere foreign and cold, with not even light surviving in the tower of thorns, but she is not afraid. she prays every morning to astra for the patience and the strength to make the jasmine bloom again.  how little she knows , how little she knows that each statement she makes to HIM , every attempt at asking for HIS help, turns HIS eyes to the tower of thorns, where HE watches the first of HIS tools fall from HIS control . in searching for her father god's approval, the flower maiden dooms both herself and the foreseer. the jasmine is a message - love, beauty, purity, sensuality, modesty - and a reminder - CAN YOU REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE? the flower maiden learns that she is not the first of her lives to seek out absolution. many of her lives die willingly, slain at the hands of the philean royalty; others die with a fight, pleading, mocking, begging, asking astra WHY ?  and this time, rather than the god, the flower maiden's eyes look to HIS foreseer instead, whispering a quiet . . . why? why her? why does she have to be the one to die? has she wronged astra? and the foreseer tells her that tools of astra are not allowed to love. the flower maiden and the foreseer both defy astra's rule that night, but not without intervention. how could she have forgotten something like this, she thinks, she wonders, she craves? how could she have forgotten all of the lives before this one, and how will she forget all of the lives after this one? as the tower of thorns crashes down around her, her heart forever within reach of the creatio protocore, their bodies but dust and intertwined in the eternal mountain, she understands she never had a choice. she is a tragic maiden with no hope of happiness, and when she dies, held in the foreseer's arms at the bottom of the wreckage of the tower of thorns, philos survives another cycle. and the people celebrate.

⸻⸻⸻  maren, lemuria's beloved, princess of philos.

experiencing the wrath of astra after her initial betrayal of HIS goal, the flower maiden becomes the princess of philos, a bird in a cage held captive by astra's most devoted. she is, here, still unaware that she is to die for the betterment of her people, but she notices how those around her mourn her while she is still alive. a bright and sunny girl, they name her maren, after the star that represents the ocean, and as a result, she goes to the beachsides, the ocean horizon, and the sands of time often. the salt of the water waves her hair and brightens her smile, and her chest does not ache, for she is not ill. she runs and dances in the replications of the saltwater sea, tossing it up around her feet and ankles, running from overprotective nursemaids.  (  they do not tell their princess that the oceans have all but dried up; that this visage of oasis exists because she wishes for it to. the king forbids such things. astra's word is absolute.  )

the first time she meets the man on the beach, she is not a girl but a woman; her hair is long and her eyes are kind and he looks at her as if he's seen a ghost, and she is used to this, because her people gaze upon her as if she is a corpse that speaks, that walks, that breathes. she asks his name, and he does not give it to her, but she tells him that she is maren, and when she says that, the way he looks at her is as if she's answered his question incorrectly.

when she looks at him, her hands are stained red. she wonders why that is.

every time she escapes from her maids and ladies in waiting, she goes to the beach to see him. and every time she arrives, he is there, waiting. there is something pleasant about the consistency, as if she knows he will always be around to see her. when she goes, she greets him like an old friend, and every time she sees him, she stands closer to him. she shows him her magic, how she can create things with brightness and kindness and love, and he calls her a witch as a playful response. she tells him she'd sometimes rather be a witch than a princess, and he tells her she should be careful what she wishes for. 

he shows her the ocean, the lack of it, and the truth of his people. when she sees that the ocean she has been playing in is an allusion, fabrication, and falsehood, she mourns it. her hands dig in the sands until they bleed, and she cries; she cries so intently that one might think she was trying to refill it with her tears. this is your fault, he wants to say, but when she cries, the space where his heart might be clenches around nothing, and rather than blame her, rather than grit his teeth and demand her penance, he sits with her while she cries, and when she is done, her head rests on his shoulder, her body exhausted and her mind feeble. she is soft here, as she was when they first met, and it is then that he decides that she must know what she has done.

whether or not she pays for her crimes is not up to him.

rather than bring her to the ocean, he brings her to the city, where he wears robes of black and purple, hidden by the shadow of the moonless night. they laugh and run through the streets together, and he takes her away from the city. surely, the guard will find themselves in a panic as their immortal princess disappears, but maren holds her breath as she leaps from her window, safe in the lemurian man's arms. when she touches him, she leaves behind a stain of red. 

in the desert, she learns the plight of their people; she cries again when he tells her that the lemurians wish to return to their world, and she wails when she learns it is through her hands that the oceans she beloved so intensely have dried up. in her dreams now, the waves are red, and her eyes are crazed, and she rips the heart from the body of the dying god, laughing all the while -- those laughs become sobs when she realizes her god is missing, her god is gone -- why does she worship a god other than astra? the sea is red because she is bleeding, because she is holding his heart to her chest and they are bleeding, together.

in her dreams, his body becomes seafoam, and while she does not remember, he tells her the truth.

long before she knew the body of the flower maiden, and long before she knew the body of the prince's classmate, she was his beloved, his devoted. long before she knew the comforts of astra's hearth, she found safety in him, and he in her. the people of lemuria are without homes because of his love for her; he is bound to her, subservient to her, because she was bound him, subservient to him, once to him long ago. in this body, she does not remember his kiss or his touch or his love, but she sees it in his eyes, and knows that he is telling the truth.

when he tells her that astra's devoted have used her as a bait for him, luring him in like a siren's song, the anger that manifest only in her hands when she bit into his heart is evident in her eyes again. they have taken him because he loved her, and she knows, no, she knows, that astra challenges another god because he is afraid of the power the lemurians might have if they return to their ocean, if the moon returns to the sky and challenges his dominion of the night again. she is young, and she is angry, but she has a duty: if the man rafayel can come to her and confess this to her, and if the god rafayel can give up his people for her, so too can she.

when she tells him that the magic of the philean mages has turned her into a witch of the abyss, she is angry; how dare this magic be used for silence, agony, and evil? how dare he sacrifice his corporeal form, becoming seafoam, so that she might return to her waking world? she must have died alongside him in her grief, she believes, for she does not remember asking of his scales, and she does not remember living beneath the cascades of the ocean. surely, she thought, the abyss witch does not just live in my dreams.

he does not want her heart, he tells her, for he does not have the stomach to take it. but maren is a vengeful, angry girl now, her agony born of grief, of pain, of tyranny. how dare astra harm innocent people. how dare he tell her that she must suffer in silence, immortal so that she can bless his people with her gift, when he has no hesitation in eliminating an entire civilization simply for challenging his own pride? 

rafayel turns and walks away, leaving with her the knife.

and she plunges it into her own chest.

when he turns over his shoulder to find their blood leaving his chest - for her heart is his, and his heart is hers - he exclaims something she does not remember. how her body falls backwards into the sand, her hair glowing against the dark night, how she laughs and laughs when she realizes that this prophecy that rafayel speaks of can be made manifest: if astra is going to take away an entire civilization because he is threatened by them, then so can she.

so. can. she.

⸻ her imperial majesty maeve, lonely star, queen of philos.

giving the immortal maiden power and control over others is what gives her power and control over herself, astra learns, and so HE tries again: this time, rather than nobility, HE keeps her where HE can find her, and HE inflicted upon her a sickness again. this time, it is the stars and not the ice that plague her, and HE keeps her away from those who would try to heal her. within the walls of the palace does she reside, a student at the academy, and though she will not survive to see her graduation day, she perserveres. 

HE sends her someone to comfort her, so that when she dies, her purity in immortality will be passed on to HIS people, and that boy is an enigmatic star cast across a galaxy. he holds her hand when she is dying, and despite astra's wishes, he loves her - or at least, he tries to. he fights with a blade blessed by HIS will, and when the starry-eyed girl's pulse runs cold, her fingers limp in his grip, astra scowls. tools of astra are not supposed to fall in love, so says the story, but even these ones are rebellious. HE learns that the immortal girl that holds the aether core in her heart is a powerful girl, magnetic to those around her, as if her soul is worthy of freedom even when her body is not. 

the god of fate grits HIS teeth and tries again.

this time, HE gives the boy that saved her responsibility: something to pursue rather than the girl. and this time, he gives the girl strength and duty: they must stay distracted. placing her into the line of war means that it increases the chances she has to die; so long as her body perishes in noble sacrifice, philos' journey will continue, and the loop of time will continue all the same. the girl's name is maeve, named after a noble sacrifice that a girl made forever ago, a girl whose duty lies in protecting her people and her prince. the prince's name is rarely spoken in lieu of his highness, but maeve has earned the honor of calling him by name, their swords crossing in a synchronous, resonant dance. over and over again do they train, pushing one-another to their limits, and she earns the title of gladis knight, the highest honor a swordswoman of her skill can obtain. to be the prince's noble protector, and more selfishly, to stay by his side.

tools of astra are not to fall in love. but that does not stop them, yet again. when the king tells the prince that he will be married to another girl, maeve is quiet, pleasant: she knows how to keep a secret, and so she promises to be his secret, if he allows. (  the prince refuses. he will not wed. not if it is not to his gladis knight. the first person he has loved since chasing a ghost.  )

confronting the king, the prince discovered the plot of the devoted of astra: the king, his priests - for so long, all have been watching the immortal soul that continues to reincarnate: different bodies, different shapes, different women. the prince, appalled, staggers backwards away from his father, and while the memories of the girl he knew before begin to dissipate into mist, blending the maeve of then and the maeve of now, he is resigned: he will defeat his father in combat and personally find the way to save the philean maiden. 

as prince, he scours the archives for hours, and he finds them in bits and pieces: the legend of the foreseer and the gardener's bodies encased in ice; the philean princess who took her own life to return to the ocean to philos, the weary classmate and now - his gladis knight. his leader of the lightseekers.

it must be him, he decides: he must go and be the one to save her. and in doing so, he gives her everything: his crown, his kingdom, his people. he promises that he will return, and when he does, he will save her from the curse of their false god. maeve kisses his knuckles and tells him that when he returns, she will await him with open arms. 

while serving as their queen, maeve is known to be relentless. she is firm and sturdy, enigmatic and charismatic. she is brave and kind and gives her everything to her people. they tell her that she is not fit to sit upon the throne, that it does not fit her ( as if they are describing her position as an ill-fitting pair of pants ). she laughs at them and holds them to her standards - they are the standards her prince would have, as the king before her. unaware to that which is to befall her, maeve is beloved by her people: her common people. and when the power moves from the upper class to the commoners - when she becomes the people's queen, the devoted of astra act.

devotion is power, after all. those who are devoted to a concept or cause gain power, and those who are devoted to a person give that person power. whereas the king before her may have been beloved by the upperclass, they were few in number, and so the power he obtained came only from those who were sworn to him by their duty.  (  but in the end, were they truly devoted to the crown, or the person who wore it?  )  as the commoners grew to love their queen for the way she entered the villages and streets, bought food for those who forgot their wallet or were struggling to make ends meet, talked with those who needed her most - she grew in power. the crown glowed upon her head, her eyes golden and bright, her magic immeasurable. skilled with a sword and with the magic of the divine, the high queen was quickly becoming a threat. so astra calls for her death.

she is sitting on her throne when they kill her, and she knows they are coming. maeve may have briefly had the gift of foresight, but of this, she is unsure. the dreams come to her as nightmares; the blade pressed underneath tender flesh. but she smiles as they kill her, and she tosses her head back, shrieking out a wail: one that goes beyond the cosmos, the night sky, and to the tender deepspace tunnel. it reaches the halls of celestia, where she knows astra sits, and she wails: I WILL KILL YOU, it says, despite carrying no syllables. as the high queen is murdered atop her throne, she gives the god of fate her own prophecy: astra will die by the immortal maiden's hand.

and the lonely star of philos, the prince's guiding light, snuffs out.

���⸻⸻⸻ seren amphelos, deepspace hunter.

this time, the immortal soul is reincarnated outside of astra's reach. it is still unknown how this happened - perhaps the backtrackers and their breaking of the time loop caused such a thing; perhaps the deepspace tunnel had something to do with it. despite this, the immortal soul is not born to a family in philos, but instead to a family on earth. ( and perhaps, just perhaps, that is the beginning of the end. the end of astra's prophecies coming true, and the beginning of the immortal soul's. ) born to damian and lyra amphelos, two researchers at the ever corporation, as part of a long-term project regarding protocore syndrome, aether cores, and the connection between the deepspace tunnel and the emergence of the evol gene. immediately handed over to the research project in exchange for money and advancement in their field, seren was placed alongside other infants who were purposefully impacted with protocores - aether cores, as they were called - into different organs. while other children may have received them in the lungs, liver, stomach, eyes, or brain, seren received hers in her heart, which severely impacted development of necessary cardiovascular functions, but did not kill her. the trial - known as the UNICORN TRIAL - took place over the span of two years before it was shut down. thirty children entered the program on day one. only three survived.  by the time josephine blew the whistle on the operation, only seren and caleb could be saved by her, the unnamed third child taken away by another researcher to be lost to time. she thinks of him, often, josephine does, but with two children to tend to, there was no time to accept the fate that not everyone could be saved. she only hoped that they did not continue the unicorn trials in her absence. how she wishes it was enough to shut evercorp down, but it wasn't. nothing ever is. while caleb grew up a physically affluent and brave young man, seren's childhood was not as prolific. struggling with the aether core in her heart, josephine falsified her medical records to say that she had a rare and dangerous tetralogy of fallot. the surgeries and treatments she had as a child, in the care of a doctor that josephine personally knew and trusted to help revert this brave little girl back into her best self, were under this impression and seren, innocent as she was, knew no better. by the end of the second surgery, they had moved the aether core into a place where it would allow seren's heart to begin working at slightly lesser than a normal level, and the therapies afterwards - respiratory therapy, physical therapy, psychiatric therapy - helped her, in her teen years, become someone whose health could be managed with medication and diet and exercise only. modern medicine was a marvel, wasn't it? it is here that she meets zayne ( and not the foreseer ) , and rafayel ( and not the sea god ) , and xavier ( and not the prince of her kingdom ) , and caleb ( and not subject 0205 ) , and sylus ( and not the missing relic of the unicorn trials ) . it is here that she learns the truth, finally, and has her eyes peeled open to the nature of what this otherworldy being has done to her. it is here that fate is defied, replaced with a prophecy that seems to fit her soul better, and it is here that a bleeding heart must find itself in the company of those who can heal it, lest she lose a fight to this god once more.

⸻⸻⸻  amaris , godslayer, divine throne of verdure.

when seren amphelos is slain, there is chaos; with no herald of goodness to protect them, philos crumbles. she was supposed to be the one. wasn't she?

the tears of mourners fall to the earth - of ice and flame and light and energy - and from the earth, another being awakens. born a young maiden, astra's failure to influence these reincarnations means one thing only: when amaris is born, she remembers the loneliness of briar and the grief of maren and the pride of maeve and the sacrifice of seren. when amaris is born, and she becomes a woman, it is her who storms the gates of the divine heavens, bearing with her the blood of a freshly-bled heart. how dare you, she says as she ascends the divine tower, the loneliness of the flower maiden guiding each footstep. i can do this journey on my own, she believes. how dare you, she says as she steps over the corpses of all of those versions of her who have become before, grieving as the princess did. i must do this for those i have wronged. HOW DARE YOU, she shrieks as she echoes her own voice of a past once lived: I WILL KILL YOU! AND HOW. DARE. YOU, she asks as she approaches him upon his throne, her weapons surrounding her on all sides, legacies of lives beautifully lived.

their fight is legendary: she is just mortal, but she dances like a god (  of course she does; she was made in his image  )  and the blades, pistols, staves, knives, fists, and MORE, MORE, MORE - puncture divine flesh over and over again. he is three times her size, but the bigger they are, the harder they fall. ALL OF PHILOS , AND EARTH , AND THE DIVINE GALAXY SURROUNDING THEM trembles as they wait for the outcome, for one of two things will happen:

IF THEIR DIVINE LORD is victorious, the time loop will continue, and the maiden will be punished with her death OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN, dying so that they might have their immortality. A MARTYR, so that philos might know nothing of their own mortality. she is dying so they do not have to, and it's not fair, not fair, not fair, not fair. 

IF THEIR MARTYR ASCENDANT is victorious, she will break the time loop and rise to the highest peaks of divinity. THERE WILL BE REPARATIONS: the foreseer will be able to grow jasmine on his windowsill, the god of lemuria will be able to dance among the waves without giving up his own heart, the king of philos will rule as the people's prince, the conqueror of fate will be able to lay his weary blade down and rest. THERE WILL BE HARMONY, for the souls of all mankind will sing in unison, no longer bound by a disharmonious opening note. THERE WILL BE FREEDOM, for all of mankind will know that they are not longer part of a divine machine, something grandiose and elegant, something righteous and unobtainable. mortalkind will know the face of their god.

her blade plunges into astra's chest.

SHE accepts the divinity that leaks out of him in the same way that he took HERS from HER. SHE rips his heart from his bones and feasts upon it, each bite consuming more and more of the divine until HER corporeal form changes: SHE is a mortal, made divine, and with it, SHE too rips out HER own heart, throwing it down into the cavernous abyss, so that no other may trample HER in the way SHE has trampled fate. crawling atop his HER throne, amaris brings HER knees to HER chest, a blanket of starlight wrapping around HER, and as SHE sleeps for the first time in eons, HER soul at peace, knowing that when SHE wakes, there will be no more pain or suffering or strife.

how tired the goddess is now, but SHE will not be forever. to hell with fate and destiny and fortune. there will be no more need for that in the world of the present, for mortalkind will decide all things: when to have children, when to die, when to live, when to rest, when to work. SHE grants them their free will in exchange for their immortality, and they know that if at any point they become too reliant on what they would consider their goddess, SHE will remove their gift, and they will die. they climb the highest mount for HER guidance, and in return, they bring HER flowers, but SHE cannot make decisions for them. no - SHE is a mother, sister, friend, mentor, goddess. SHE is not a master or creator. forever, SHE will protect philos and the surrounding worlds as they tried to protect HER, for it was never anyone's fault other than their oppressive god.

in HER eternity, they keep HER name: amaris. amaris the abundant, goddess of the cosmos and keeper of verdure. SHE is known for HER reclusive nature, thought it is said that SHE walks among the mortals on occasion, dressed as a woman with white hair, a gardener who keeps flowers.

and the goddess likes that SHE is known for having flowers.

[melien]

𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚

[endawn]

resisting ? you always resist.

[astarionsilverbough]

oh i should’ve reread all this before i dove back in 💀 would y’all hate me if i rewrote the last three chapters lmao