a-bit-of-writing

[a-bit-of-writing]

Oh heck yeah, I'm doing this!

Announcing Aug-kissed!

Four weeks of kiss-themed prompts, with three different prompts per week to pick from. Use as many or as few as you want, combine with other events like fandom bingo or @augustwritingchallenge's AUgust, and tag us with your finished product!

All fandoms, ratings, and mediums are welcome! Feel free to snag the graphic and share on other platforms as well!

Week 1: August 4 to August 10

Indirect Kiss | Blow a Kiss | Butterfly Kisses

Week 2: August 11 to August 17

Hand Kiss | Trail of Kisses | Gentle Peck

Week 3: August 18 to August 24

Frantic Kisses | Using Tongue | Hickeys

Week 4: August 25 to August 31

First Kiss | Chocolate Kiss | Kiss Goodnight

[a-bit-of-writing]

Casual [Tony Stark x Reader]

Marvel Tony Stark x Reader ・❥・Your grocery run takes a turn when Tony decides you’re the most interesting thing in the aisle.

You weren’t sure why you’d come to this particular aisle. Maybe the fluorescent lighting had guided you here, or maybe it was because you genuinely couldn’t remember if you were out of dish soap.

You reached for the last bottle on the shelf, fingers just brushing the plastic, when another hand beat you to it.

“Ah, finally. The elixir of life,” a smooth voice said beside you.

You blinked and turned and froze.

Tony Stark. Tony freaking Stark.

A hoodie, sunglasses perched on his head, and an air of someone who didn’t belong in a place with squeaky carts and discount stickers. He twirled the bottle of dish soap like it was a bottle of champagne, squinting at the label.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, already tossing it into his basket — a basket, not a cart, because apparently, even billionaires didn’t commit to big hauls.

“I… uh…” you said intelligently.

“Great, thanks,” he said with a grin, as if the conversation had ended. But instead of leaving, he glanced at the empty shelf and then at your still-outstretched hand. “You wanted that, didn’t you?”

“Well… yeah.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “And here I was thinking I’d be the hero of my own kitchen. Alright, tell you what.” He reached back into the basket and, with a mock flourish, offered you the bottle. “Take it. I’ll find a way to survive without sparkling clean plates.”

Your lips twitched. “Are you sure you’ll survive?”

“Not sure, but I’m a risk-taker.” He winked. “Also, you just made my publicist’s job easier. Imagine the headlines: Tony Stark spotted wrestling average civilian over dish soap in local store. Not a good look for me.”

You laughed despite yourself. He watched your reaction like it was his favorite show, and the grin he gave you felt like sunlight cutting through the harsh store lighting.

“You have a nice laugh,” he said casually, like commenting on the weather. “Tell you what, you’ve officially made my errand run interesting. And I don’t say that lightly. This place is like a desert for my attention span.”

“You do know this is just… a store, right?” you said, amused.

“Exactly,” he said, gesturing grandly to the shelves. “A land of mundanity, and yet here I am, a humble man on a quest for snack foods and cleaning supplies. And now, apparently, good company.”

You felt warmth creep into your cheeks. He noticed — of course he did — and his grin widened.

“Well, civilian,” he said, nodding toward your cart, “I’d say fate just gave me a reason to shop here more often.”

And with that, Tony Stark sauntered off toward the next aisle, leaving you holding the dish soap and wondering how your trip to the store had just turned into a scene from a rom-com movie.

……………

Note: I feel like creating a series of stories focusing on the reader, a civilian, being exposed to that Tony Stark/Avengers lifestyle.

[a-bit-of-writing]

After {Megumi x Reader}

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen  Characters: Megumi x Reader  ・❥・He saved you, but left pieces of himself behind in the blood.

note: this is a continuation from this piece. 

The world is quiet now.

Too quiet.

The ringing in Megumi’s ears is the only reminder that there had been a battle at all. Smoke curls off the ruined ground, a metallic tang of blood and exorcised curses clinging to the air. He can still taste it on his tongue. He can still feel it on his hands.

And behind him, he can hear your breathing – shaky, uneven, alive.

He saved you.

He should feel relief. He should feel anything. But his chest is hollow, the same way it always is when he lets go of the part of himself that’s supposed to care.

---

He walks, not far – just far enough that he doesn’t have to see your face. He knows what he’ll find there if he turns around: the tremor in your hands, the wide eyes, the silent horror. You’ve never seen him like this before.

You asked for it.

Or maybe he wanted to believe you did.

“If it comes down to it… would you save me?”

Of course he would. He’s always been willing to throw himself into the dark for other people. It’s what Gojo mocked him for, what Yuji admired him for. It’s who he is.

But this was different.

This time, he didn’t just save you. He destroyed everything else.

---

His knuckles are raw where he struck the final curse too many times after it was already dead. His shikigami are gone, dismissed almost violently the second he no longer needed them. He can still feel the phantom weight of the Divine Dogs tearing flesh, hear the crunch of bones breaking under Nue’s talons.

It was too easy.

Too natural.

He sinks to the ground near the edge of the destroyed street, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn’t want to think about the way his pulse had raced – not from fear, but from release. From the terrifying freedom of not holding back.

The weight of it sinks into him slowly, like wet sand. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But mostly, he just feels… empty.

---

Footsteps approach. Your footsteps. Hesitant, careful, like you’re approaching a wild animal that might bite.

He doesn’t look up when you stop a few feet away. Doesn’t need to. He can feel your guilt clinging to the air.

“Megumi…”

Your voice wavers, soft and small. He swallows down the words that want to rise – the apologies, the reassurances – because they’d be lies.

Instead, he says nothing.

Because he remembers what he said to you minutes ago, when the adrenaline still burned hot in his veins:

“Why are you sad? This is what you wanted.”

It echoes in his skull like a curse he can’t exorcise.

---

Minutes stretch into an eternity as he stares at the ruined ground, the blood drying on his skin. He should wash it off. He should go to you.

But instead, he sits there, frozen in the dark realization that saving you cost him something he can’t name –  something he isn’t sure he’ll get back.

And the worst part is…

He would do it again.

[a-bit-of-writing]

What you wanted {Megumi x Reader}

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing: Megumi x Reader ・❥・After the battle ends, you realize what it cost for Megumi to save you.

You knew better than to ask for this.

You should’ve left things untouched, should’ve kept your hands to yourself and your questions buried beneath the weight of your chest. But curiosity… it had teeth. And it had sunk them into your throat the moment you whispered the words you never should have dared say.

“If it comes down to it… would you save me?”

Megumi had looked at you then, really looked. Eyes too dark, too hollow, for someone so young. There was something wrong about the way his silence wrapped around your question, as if he were choking on all the things he wouldn’t say.

He didn’t answer then.

But you knew.

And now – here – you finally have your answer.

The battlefield behind you is quiet, smoldering. You don’t look at the curses. You can’t. You don’t even know how many he killed. Only that they’re gone, and you’re still here.

Your legs are trembling, slick with blood that isn’t yours. Your throat burns with every breath, but you’re breathing.

He didn’t let you die.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Megumi stands a few paces away, back turned to you, shoulders rigid, jaw tight. His fists are stained with something dark, maybe it’s blood, maybe it’s regret. His shikigami are gone, dismissed the moment he realized the worst had passed.

You step toward him, but your voice cracks before it reaches the air.

He doesn’t turn.

Only speaks. Quietly. Bitterly.

“Why are you sad?” His voice is low, controlled but sharp, like he’s holding himself together with nothing but sheer will.

“This is what you wanted.”

The words strike harder than any curse ever could.

You flinch.

“I didn’t want this,” you whisper. “Not like this. Not if it meant—”

“Me losing control?” he cuts in, finally facing you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes burn. “Because that’s what it took. I had to stop holding back. That’s what you wanted. To be saved.”

He laughs once, bitter and joyless. “You wanted to see what I could do if I stopped caring about the rules. So I did.”

Your stomach twists. “Megumi—”

“I became the kind of person I didn’t want to be.” His gaze is flat. “For you.”

He steps closer, and you don’t move. You can’t. Not with the way his pain has twisted into something darker, heavier.

“I killed them all. Brutally. And I didn’t feel anything until it was over.” His voice is too calm. “That’s what scares me.”

You reach for him, but he steps back.

“I did it because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you,” he says. “So don’t look at me like that. Don’t act like this wasn’t what you wanted.”

Tears slip from your eyes without permission. “I didn’t want to break you.”

His jaw clenches.

Too late.

And somehow, in the silence that follows, you both understand the truth neither of you will say.

You lived.

He changed.

And something between you – something fragile and unspoken – died.

[a-bit-of-writing]

Hello. I'm just wondering, do you do Attack on Titan crossovers?

I've never done crossovers before, never really been interested in them, to be honest 😅

[a-bit-of-writing]

Hello! Could I ask for some Astarion with prompt no. 85. Fake Dating from your list? 🤭 I feel like it could be very fitting for an x reader type of scenario.

Thank you in advance!

oh this feels like the perfect story for my Astarion x Reader collection! Here you go!

Astarion x Reader WC: 597 ・❥・“Then lie to me a little longer, darling — just until I forget it’s pretend.”

It started with a tavern and a lie.

You were in the heart of a tiefling-run village outside the Shadowlands — one of the few neutral havens left. The group needed safe passage, resources, and trust. Unfortunately, the locals were cautious… and suspicious of strangers traveling with half a dozen heavily armed companions.

And Astarion — sweet gods — was being watched like a hawk. Too charming, too pretty, too not-from-around-here.

You’d seen the glances. The bartender’s flirtatious pour. The guards who lingered when he passed. The village leader who invited him to “stay a little longer” while the rest of you handled supplies.

Astarion, naturally, loved it.

You, naturally, hated it.

So when the tiefling woman on watch narrowed her eyes and asked, “And who’s he with?” — you didn’t think.

You just grabbed his arm and said, “Me.”

Astarion blinked.

“Oh?” the tiefling asked, arching a brow. “You two?”

He turned to you slowly, smile curving like a blade. “Why yes,” he purred, slipping an arm around your waist like it belonged there, “quite attached, in fact.”

You didn’t breathe until she walked away.

And that should’ve been it.

A quick cover story. A passing moment.

But then Gale overheard. And Karlach grinned so wide you feared she might throw a celebration. “Finally!” she’d bellowed. “Tension’s been thicker than Wyll’s dramatic speeches!”

Astarion, the bastard, leaned into it with flair. “You know me — I do love a good performance.”

And just like that, the lie snowballed.

---

Two nights later, you were still pretending.

Well. Pretending.

Which is how you found yourself seated by the fire, Astarion’s arm once again looped casually around your shoulders, his fingers toying with a lock of your hair like it was just something he did. No big deal. Just a casual, possessive display of affection.

You tried not to combust.

“You’re stiff,” he murmured beside your ear, voice low enough the others couldn’t hear. “You’re going to give us away.”

“I’m trying to focus.”

“On what? The fire? Or the way my thumb just brushed your neck?”

Your breath hitched.

He chuckled.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“Liar,” he said smoothly. “You’re quite fond of me. Just terrible at admitting it.”

You turned to glare at him, only to realize how close he was. His nose nearly brushed yours. His lips curled, pleased.

And for a second — just a flicker — he wasn’t performing.

Neither were you.

You turned away first.

He let you.

---

Later that night, you were alone — staring into the river, trying to get your racing thoughts to settle — when footsteps approached.

You didn’t have to turn.

“You always sneak off when you’re overwhelmed,” Astarion said. “Adorable.”

“I needed air.”

“Or distance.”

You glanced at him. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged. “To maintain the illusion.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s no one here to see.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped beside you, quiet for once.

After a while, he said, softly, “This didn’t start as anything real.”

You didn’t respond.

“But I find,” he went on, “that I’m growing strangely… fond of the illusion.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His face in profile, moonlight soft on the sharp angles. His expression unguarded.

No smirk. No act.

Just Astarion.

“I didn’t think you got attached,” you said quietly.

“I don’t,” he replied. “Which is the problem.”

You turned back to the water, heart tight.

“It’s still fake,” you whispered, unsure who you were trying to convince.

He stepped closer. Not touching, but near enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

“Then lie to me a little longer, darling,” he murmured. “Just until I forget it’s pretend.”

[a-bit-of-writing]

Once I'm caught up with all my requests (including those in @lllumoria), I'm going to partake in another writing challenge.

[a-bit-of-writing]

What the hell…. {Gojo x Reader}

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen  Pairing: Gojo x friend!Reader  ・❥・You show up to Gojo’s hotel room bleeding, clutching takeout, and with a stray dog in tow.

The hotel door burst open like the scene of a crime.

You staggered in, blood running down your cheek, half-eaten takeout clutched in one hand like your life depended on it, and – because your life clearly wasn’t already enough of a mess – a tiny, dirty white dog trotted in behind you like it owned the place.

“...Oh,” Gojo said from where he sat cross-legged on the bed, blindfold around his neck, TV remote forgotten in one hand. “That’s new.”

You blinked at him. Wobbled a little. Then dropped the takeout on the dresser with a thud and mumbled, “Don’t ask.”

Which, obviously, meant he was going to ask.

He stood immediately, all six-foot-something of sarcasm and soft panic, crossing the room in three long strides.

“I was gonna ask how the food run went, but I feel like I got my answer.” His fingers ghosted near your face, not touching yet. “That’s your blood, right?”

You snorted and winced. “Unfortunately.”

“And the dog?” He gestured toward the shaggy little gremlin sniffing the corner of the hotel rug.

“Long story.”

“You’re bleeding on the carpet.”

You swayed a little again, and that wiped the smirk right off his face.

“Alright, that’s it.” His tone dropped. Hands went to your shoulders – firm, grounding – and he nudged you toward the bathroom. “Sit. Talk. Let me play doctor.”

“You are not allowed to say that while I’m bleeding.”

“I specifically am allowed. Article 6 of our unofficial friendship agreement.” He flicked the light on. “Subsection A: ‘Gojo Satoru may be a menace, but he’s your hot menace in a crisis.’”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“And you’re dripping on my socks. Sit down.”

You obeyed more out of exhaustion than trust, but he moved gently. Tugged off your coat. Grabbed a warm towel. Crouched between your knees with all the exaggerated focus of someone trying very hard not to let the panic in his chest show on his face.

“What happened?” he asked, dabbing carefully around the cut on your forehead.

You hesitated. “Cursed spirit. Low-grade, but I didn’t see it at first. It came at a kid. I got between them. Took a hit.”

He froze. Just for a second.

You caught it.

“You took a hit?” he repeated slowly. “You let something get that close to you?”

“It was either me or a seven-year-old, Satoru.”

He looked up, lips pressed into a line. “I would’ve taken both hits. You know that, right?”

That shut you up. And he knew it. Which was exactly why he said it.

After a beat, he stood and rifled through the med kit, tossing you some gauze and a disinfectant wipe.

“You’ll live,” he said, slipping back into casual. “But I reserve the right to be dramatically overprotective for at least 24 hours.”

You leaned back on your palms, eyeing him. “That a rule, too?”

He grinned. “Subsection B.”

The dog barked once from the corner, as if to remind you both it existed.

Gojo glanced over. “And him?”

“He was hiding in a crate behind the dumpling shop. Don’t look at me like that, he followed me home.”

“You’re bleeding, limping, and adopted a dog mid-fight.”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s a liability.”

“He’s literally cleaner than your last date.”

Gojo clutched his chest. “Wounded.”

“Good,” you muttered.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, softly: “You scared me.”

The room went quiet.

Your gaze dropped. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But next time, maybe don’t trade your ribs for someone else’s. I like your ribs. They keep the rest of you standing upright.”

You huffed a laugh, but your heart stung. Just a little. “You care too much.”

He didn’t deny it. Just walked over, crouched again, and rested his hand on your knee.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “I do.”

The dog barked again.

Gojo didn’t look away from you when he added, “But you’re not naming it anything stupid. I draw the line at ‘Mochi.’”

[a-bit-of-writing]

Fall apart {Chūya Nakahara x Reader}

………This is a REQUEST based of my CREATE YOUR OWN STORY post.………

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs Pairing: Chūya Nakahara x Reader wc: 1,085 Rating: +18 ・❥・Chūya doesn’t just want to make you fall apart – he wants to learn you. Every moan, every tremble, every spot that makes you lose control. With teasing fingers and filthy praise, he takes his time dragging you under… 

Your back hits the mattress with a quiet thud, the world reduced to the slow glide of his fingers up your inner thigh and the weight of his body hovering over yours like a promise.

He doesn’t say much at first — not with words. His mouth is busy tracing along your throat, teeth dragging where your pulse stutters under his touch. You feel it — his breath, his focus - like you’re the only thing in existence he’s willing to give this kind of attention to.

“Sensitive,” Chūya mutters, smirking against your skin as your hips twitch under his touch. “You always are, aren’t you?”

His hand slides between your thighs like he owns the space, two fingers slipping easily through the slick heat of your pussy. You bite your lip hard, but the low groan he gives when he feels how wet you are nearly undoes you.

“Gods,” he exhales, voice thick, hungry. “I could spend all night just figuring you out. Watching what makes you fall apart for me.”

One finger circles your clit — light, barely-there touches — and your spine arches like it’s involuntary. It is. He chuckles softly, cruel in how tender it sounds.

“Here,” he says, pressing firmer, dragging slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“And here,” he adds, pushing two fingers inside you, curling up in just the right way. Your breath catches with a choked sound, nails digging into the sheets.

“That’s it,” Chūya murmurs, gaze fixed on your expression, like he’s trying to memorize it. “That little sound right there — fuck, you don’t even know what you do to me.”

You try to respond, but all that escapes is a whimper, broken and breathless as he sets a pace meant to wreck you. The drag of his fingers, the way his palm grazes your clit with each thrust. He’s meticulous, like he’s sculpting something out of you with every motion.

“Don’t hold back,” he growls, suddenly lowering his mouth to your chest, biting just under your breast as his fingers pump faster. “I want to hear everything.”

You moan for him then, head falling back, and he fucking beams against your skin - cocky and pleased and possessive.

“You’re close,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped gravel. “So fuckin’ pretty like this. You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

Your answer is a gasp, a sob of his name, and he doesn’t stop. If anything, he works you harder, mouth finding the curve of your throat again as your body tightens, ready to snap.

Then—

“Good girl,” he whispers, and you shatter.

Your legs tremble violently, thighs clamping around his hand, but Chūya doesn’t pull away. He rides out your orgasm with slow strokes and low praise, murmuring things in that husky voice of his that make your skin flush with heat.

When you finally come down, breath shaky, his lips brush yours — soft, unhurried, almost gentle.

“…and we’re just getting started,” he smirks, licking his fingers before kissing you again, tasting you on his tongue.

You’re still trembling from your orgasm when he pulls back just enough to look at you — hair tousled, pupils blown wide with lust, lips flushed from kissing and biting. His shirt is gone now, tossed somewhere behind him, and when he shrugs out of his pants, the heat between your thighs pulses at the sight of him.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” Chūya murmurs, voice lower than before, huskier.

You nod, but it’s barely a motion. He chuckles, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll take it slow,” he lies with a grin, gripping your hips and dragging you toward him. “At least at first.”

His cock slides against your pussy, thick and hot and already leaking. He groans at the feel of you — wet, warm, still fluttering from the high he gave you moments ago.

“You’re so ready for me,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Fuck — look at this mess. You came just from my fingers.”

You try to speak, to say his name or anything coherent, but then he starts to push in.

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

He stretches you slow — inch by inch — but the pressure is deep, insistent. He’s not teasing anymore. His hands grip your thighs, and he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and locked on every reaction.

“Gods, you feel good,” he groans through clenched teeth. “So tight—fuck, I missed this.”

You cry out softly as he bottoms out, and Chūya stills, letting you adjust, thumbs brushing over your skin in a rhythm that almost feels tender.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. “That’s it… there you go.”

When he starts to move, it’s slow but heavy. Deliberate. His thrusts are deep, hitting just right with every roll of his hips, and the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. You cling to him, nails raking down his back as he buries his face in your neck.

Every moan you let slip, every sharp breath, makes him snap his hips harder.

“Taking me so well,” he growls, thrusts picking up pace. “Like your body was made for this.”

You’re already getting close again. You can feel it, that tension winding tight and fast.

He knows it, too.

“Yeah?” he pants. “That spot right there’s makin’ you lose it, huh?”

You whimper, and Chūya slams into you harder, rougher, pushing you closer to the edge.

“You gonna come for me again, baby?” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Come all over my cock this time?”

Your body arches, back bowing off the sheets, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. He fucks you through it, through the second orgasm that hits harder than the first, gripping your thighs to keep you open for him, to keep watching you fall apart.

And then it’s his turn.

“Shit—fuck, I’m—” He growls low in his throat, slamming in once, twice more before spilling deep inside you, hips stuttering as he groans out your name like a prayer he’s breaking on.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breaths tangling together. Your heartbeats. The aftershocks in your limbs.

Then Chūya leans down, brushing a kiss to your lips, warm and slow.

“…Told you,” he mumbles, a satisfied smirk playing at his mouth. “I could spend all night learning what makes you fall apart.”

And something in his voice tells you you’re far from done

[a-bit-of-writing]

Hello! I saw your prompt list and was wondering id you think you could do a reader insert with prompt 22(“You’re so sensitive here… and here. Gods, I could spend all night learning what makes you fall apart.”) with Chuuya Nakahara from Bungou Stray Dogs?

Considering the oneshot is a little over 1k words, I'll be sharing it on a different post in an hour or two!

[a-bit-of-writing]

Fandom List

Even though I have a Masterlist, these are the fandoms I’m familiar with from the top of my head, most of them I haven’t written for and I’m 100% sure I’m not listing everything 😮‍💨

Anime

My Hero Academia … Jujutsu Kaisen … Bungou Stray Dogs … Naruto/Shippuden… Attack on Titan… Black Butler … Blue Lock…One Piece…The Apothecary Diaries …Demon Slayer…Dragon Ball Z…Spy x Family… Tokyo Revengers…Dungeon meshi…Twisted Wonderland…Chainsaw Man…Pokémon … Trigun … Neon Genesis Evangelion… Bleach

Video Games

most of these are in series, so I’m just including the franchise

Baldur’s Gate 3… Five Nights at Freddy’s … Genshin Impact… Love and Deepspace … Outlast … Rain World … The Last of Us … Resident Evil… Red Dead Redemption … The Witcher … Grand Theft Auto … Legend of Zelda … Fallout… Call Of Duty … Fortnite…

Tv Shows/Movies/Books

Alien… House of the Dragon… Game of Thrones… Lord of The Rings… Rings of Power… The Hobbit … Marvel movies … DC Movies… 911… Harry Potter… Bridgerton… Stranger Things… Squid Game… The Walking Dead … Arcane

[a-bit-of-writing]

hi there! I adore your writing and have spent the last couple days binging your blog haha. was wondering if you were still taking requests, maybe some Shadowheart x Oathbreaker tav? bonus points for a dragonborn haha. thanks for all your work for us!

Sorry for taking too long with this! Though you didn't specify gender, I made Tav female to add a little something more to the story itself. 

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3

Characters: Shadowheart x Tav

Summary: Shadowheart isn’t sure what draws her to the Oathbreaker who keeps to the edge of the firelight. But in the stillness of camp, where gods no longer watch, Shadowheart offers something different: understanding, temptation… and the kind of vow that no divine ever sanctioned.

A damp hush clung to the crash of the River Chionthar below, its silver ribbon half-seen through ragged trees. Night insects thrummed; the camp’s lone brazier popped, scattering sparks that drifted like dying fireflies before winking into dark. On a felled log by the flames sat Tav – the paladin who had sworn her life to Tyr and then shattered the promise. Her cloak smelled of rain and ruin; soot dulled the once-radiant symbol on her breastplate until it looked like a bruise.

Across the clearing, Shadowheart hovered at the liminal edge where torchglow surrendered to moon-paled forest. She watched Tav the way a cat eyes a wounded hawk – fascinated by power that might yet surge. But there was something else in the cleric’s gaze tonight: an ache she would never name aloud.

Tav felt it even before she looked up. “Come to lecture me?” she muttered.

Shadowheart stepped forward, boots soft against the moss, voice a silken rasp. “Hardly. Tyr’s wrath is your burden, not mine.”

“Ex-Tyr,” Tav corrected, forcing a smile that cut more than it concealed. “He made His opinion clear.”

Moonlight caught on the holy symbol of Shar at Shadowheart’s throat, turning the obsidian teardrop to quicksilver. Her fingers brushed it, more reflex than devotion. “Gods are fickle friends.” She gestured to the empty log beside Tav. “May I?”

A shrug. “Suit yourself.”

She sat, close enough that Tav could feel the heat the cleric always carried as though Shar’s shadowed fire burned under her skin. For a span only the river measured, they listened to water and wood-pop without words.

“What did you save?” Shadowheart asked at last, voice pitched low so the others sleeping beyond the canvas walls would not stir. “Or… who?”

Tav’s breath caught. “A boy. Barely fourteen. He’d stolen bread; the magistrate demanded his hand. Tyr’s doctrine called it just compensation. I called it cruelty.” She scraped a gauntleted thumb along the edge of her greave, leaving a gleam that guttered like regret. “I drew steel against the executioner, broke my oath of obedience, and they branded me a traitor.”

“And the boy?”

“Ran.” Tav’s laugh was a shard of glass. “I never even learned his name.”

Shadowheart considered that in silence. A breeze toyed with a lock of her hair, silvering its black braid. “You chose mercy over order. Tyr valued law above love, so He cast you out.” Her lips curved, but the shape was bitter. “Much like Selûne did when she cast Shar from her light.”

Tav’s head lifted. “Do you feel sympathy for me?”

“I feel kinship.” Shadowheart met her stare without flinching. “We are both daughters unrecognized by the gods we once served.”

The air tightened between them, rich as incense. Tav’s pulse throbbed in her throat. “Kinship. That’s… unexpected.”

Shadowheart’s smile turned sly, secret. “Is it? You watch me when you think I do not see. You hover close in battle, guarding my flank – Oathbreaker instincts, perhaps.”

Tav flushed. “Old habits.” But her fist closed on the scorched ribbon of her tabard as if to hide the truth blazing beneath.

Shadowheart leaned nearer until Tav could count the gold flecks in her smoke-green eyes. “The others call you fallen.” Her voice fell to a whisper that stroked along Tav’s ear. “I see someone still standing.”

Tav’s breath shuddered out. Memories of hymns and honorifics – now only ghosts – crowded her mind, begging to be born again. She shook her head. “Standing on what? A crumbled foundation. I don’t know who I am without the oath.”

“Then forge something new,” Shadowheart urged, surprising even herself with the fervor in her tone. “Your oath chained you. Breaker is not a curseword, Tav – it is a key.”

Tav turned, and the brazier’s glow sculpted the planes of Shadowheart’s face: high cheekbones, a mouth made for both prayer and sin. Tav’s hand drifted, half-unconscious, to brush a stray lash from that cheek but she stopped, gauntlet hovering. “I burn everything I touch these days.”

Shadowheart caught the steel fingers, guiding them until cold metal kissed the warm curve of her jaw. “Then scorch me,” she murmured. “And see if I flinch.”

Something inside Tav – steady even in battle – fractured. She closed the gap, forehead resting against Shadowheart’s. The cleric’s sigil pressed cold between them; Tav’s tarnished emblem warmed against Shadowheart’s leathers. They were a tableau of rival creeds locked in hush.

A heartbeat.

Two.

Shadowheart’s lashes lifted. “Do it,” she breathed. “Choose again.”

Tav’s lips found hers – slow, uncertain… then hungry. Shadowheart tasted of dusk berries and defiance. The kiss was not gentle; it was honest, raw as a confession. When they parted, Tav’s gauntlet slipped away, fingertips now bare, trembling.

“By the Weave,” Tav whispered, half-reverent, half-afraid. “What have we done?”

Shadowheart’s thumb traced the crimson brand on Tav’s collarbone – a stylized set of broken scales. “Something neither Tyr nor Shar wrote into their scriptures.”

A distant howl rolled across the treetops – wolves or worse. Tav flexed her hand, reaching for the sword propped beside the log. Shadowheart’s palm stopped her. “Rest. Others will stand watch.”

“I don’t deserve rest.”

“Then take it for my sake,” Shadowheart said, softer than star-light. “If you will not fight for yourself, fight because I ask it.”

Tav closed her eyes, and for the first time since the brand seared her flesh she felt the tightness in her chest ease. When her lids lifted, fear and longing waged civil war behind her gaze. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Shadowheart’s smile was dusk slipping toward dawn. “Not penance. Not purity.” Her fingers threaded with Tav’s. “Only the promise that when the world tells you to kneel, you will remember tonight and stand against it.”

Tav swallowed hard, then nodded. “I swear it. No gods required.”

Shadowheart squeezed once, sealing the vow in flesh and shadow. Above them, the moon drifted behind a veil of cloud, but the brazier guttered on – ember-bright against midnight-black – its light enough for two souls who had learned to see in darkness.

[a-bit-of-writing]

How they react to seeing Reader breaking down {Wyll, Astarion, Gale, Lae’zel}

This is a request from my main blog (@a-bit-of-writing ) featuring a reader who’s breaking down from their usual sunny/optimistic self and how the companions react to it.

Wyll

He notices but doesn’t push (at first)

Wyll is perceptive, especially when it comes to people he cares about. He’ll notice the subtle changes first: the forced smiles, the distant gaze, the silence where laughter used to be.

He won’t confront you immediately. He’ll observe — give you space.

“You’ve been quieter lately. Not like you. …Not that I mind a little peace and quiet, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss your laugh.”

He’s gentle about it, not invasive. He’s been taught to lead with kindness, not pressure.

Once he knows it’s serious, he shifts into steady support

When he realizes it’s not just a bad day – that you’re really struggling – his tone becomes steady, his warmth unwavering. He’ll sit with you in it, no grand speeches, no magic fixes. Just presence.

He stops trying to cheer you up and focuses on being there.

“You don’t have to smile for me. You don’t have to say a word. Just… stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hero complex makes him want to fix it, but he reins that in. He understands that this isn’t a battle he can fight for you but he can fight with you.

He shares his own pain — to show you you’re not alone

Wyll doesn’t often speak about his own regrets or loneliness. But your breakdown would open that door. Quietly, hesitantly, he’ll begin to offer pieces of himself—not to shift focus, but to remind you he understands.

He speaks plainly, without dramatics.

“There were days I didn’t believe I deserved anything better. Days I looked in the mirror and only saw what I’d lost… or what I’d become. You ever feel that way?”

He doesn’t pity you. He relates to you. And that matters.

His affection grows deeper, not distant

Some would shy away from the intensity of someone unraveling. Wyll doesn’t. If anything, he draws closer. More careful. More devoted. Not because he sees you as fragile but because he sees your strength even when you can’t.

He flirts less during this time — not because he’s lost interest, but because his love becomes more protective. More reverent.

“You don’t have to be the light all the time, you know. Even the sun rests. I’ll keep the fire burning till you’re ready to rise again.”

Long-term: he’s patient, loyal, and will wait as long as it takes

Wyll isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re struggling. Not when you’re quiet. Not when it’s hard. He will wait. Fight for you. Sit beside you through every storm. Because once he loves — he chooses.

He’ll keep offering small joys — stories, warmth, reminders of who you are.

“You once told me I was a hero. But you — you’re the one who kept hope alive when everything went dark. I haven't forgotten. And I never will.”

Astarion 

His first response is deflection — sharp, defensive, and a bit cruel

Astarion senses the shift. He absolutely notices your sudden quiet, your lack of spark and it scares him. So his first instinct is to mock it, to distance himself emotionally.

He’ll say something sarcastic to cover his panic.

“Well, this is new. Have we given up the role of radiant optimist for something more… dreary?”

There’s venom, but it’s hollow. He’s not being cruel — he’s terrified. This is how he protects himself.

When he realizes it’s not a mood — it’s a descent — his mask slips

Once Astarion really understands what’s happening — that this isn’t passing sadness but something deeper — his tone shifts. Not immediately into comfort, but into a rare, raw honesty.

He’ll sit near you without knowing what to say, awkward and unsure. But he stays. That’s the tell.

“I’m not… good at this. The comforting. The caring. But I notice. You’ve gone quiet. And I hate it.”

He doesn’t ask you to be happy again. He asks you to talk to him. Because he feels helpless otherwise.

He’s afraid you’ll leave — or worse, disappear from the inside out

Astarion has abandonment trauma. Seeing someone he cares about emotionally shut down triggers that fear. He’ll begin clinging in his own way — more teasing, more barbed jokes, more hovering.

He won’t say “I’m scared.” He’ll say things like:

“You don’t get to break now, darling. I’ve only just gotten used to you.”

But there’s a plea underneath. “Please stay. Please don’t fade.”

Small gestures, deep meaning

Once he realizes words won’t fix this, Astarion begins to act in smaller, unexpected ways. He’ll bring you food without fanfare. Offer to clean your gear. Sit closer at night. It’s clumsy affection, but it’s real.

He shows up even when he doesn’t understand what you need.

“I don’t know how to fix you. But I’m here. And I’m… trying, gods help me.”

That’s the greatest intimacy he can offer: effort. Not performance. Real effort.

 If you let him in—even just a little—he breaks first

If you open up to him, if you trust him with your darkness, it breaks something in Astarion. Because someone as good, bright, and lovely as you just let him see what you hide. And to him, that’s sacred.

He’ll try to laugh it off, then go quiet. Too quiet.

“You shouldn’t have told me that. Not because I don’t care but because I do. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

And when he really means it:

“I’ve clawed my way out of darkness. I know what it feels like when it whispers to you. If you’re going to fall, fall toward me. I’ll catch you — clumsily, but… I’ll try.”

Gale

He sees it immediately and treats it like a sacred secret

Gale is perceptive in the way of scholars and poets — he sees subtleties. He’ll recognize the cracks in your smile, the fatigue in your voice, the way you pause too long before answering. But he won’t rush in with questions. He’ll wait, watching with quiet concern until the right moment to speak.

He might approach it gently, over tea, over books, over starlight.

“I notice things. Not just in the stars or in spellwork—but in people. You… aren’t quite yourself lately. Would you like to talk about it?”

He gives you the space to not be okay. No judgment. Just a safe harbor.

His reaction is compassionate, never condescending

Gale would never suggest you “cheer up.” Instead, he’d normalize your pain, offering philosophical reflections that are both grounding and comforting.

He speaks in metaphors — light and shadow, storms and silence — but always with sincerity.

“Even the sun rests, my dear. Even the Weave frays. There is no shame in being… still. In being soft for a while.”

He reassures you that your value does not fade with your smile.

“You, in sorrow, are no less radiant. Only quieter. And I will sit with you in that quiet as long as you need.”

He tries to bring you back gently with joy, not pressure

He doesn’t want to pull you out — he wants to walk with you through it. He might read to you, share arcane stories or magical curiosities just to make you smile. He offers warmth through shared wonder.

His flirting slows, becomes sweeter, less performative.

“I’ve missed your laughter. I don’t expect it but I look forward to its return. Like waiting for the first bloom of spring.”

If you cry in front of him? He won’t rush to fix it. He’ll witness it. That’s love to him.

 He opens up, too — so you know you’re not alone

Gale has his own darkness. And when you begin to break, he shares more of it, not to compare, but to let you know you’re not the only one walking through shadows.

His confessions are quiet, offered like gifts.

“There were days I feared the world would forget me. That all I was, all I am, would disappear. And still, I carried on. And now I see you. And I want to carry with you, if you’ll let me.”

He doesn't see your sadness as fragile. He sees it as real, and real things are worth staying for.

When he says he’s staying, he means it

Gale’s love is intentional, lasting, and utterly faithful. If you break down, he doesn’t waver. He simply settles beside you, hands gentle, voice soft, waiting for you to find your breath again.

He will stay up with you at night. He will keep the silence warm.

“You don’t need to shine to be loved. Sometimes, existing is enough. You are enough.”

And when you’re ready to stand again, even shakily — he’s right there.

“Let’s take one step. Just one. Together.”

Lae’zel 

Initial confusion, followed by frustration

Lae’zel is used to strength. She respects it. When you — someone she likely viewed as emotionally resilient — begin to fade into silence, she notices. And she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Her first response might be sharp. Defensive. Confused.

“You are not yourself. Why? What weakness has taken root in you?”

It’s not cruelty — it’s fear in disguise. You were a constant. Your unraveling threatens her idea of control.

“You do not cry. You fight. What has changed?”

She tries to snap you out of it because that’s what she would want

Lae’zel believes that pain is meant to be crushed, not carried. She doesn’t coddle. Her instinct is to provoke a reaction, to push you back into action.

She gives tough love before she even understands what gentle love looks like.

“Sitting in your sorrow will not serve you. You must move. You must act. That is how we survive.”

It’s not graceful but it’s her version of showing concern.

When you don’t react — that’s when she begins to understand

If you don’t fight back — if your silence lingers — Lae’zel’s armor begins to crack. She realizes this isn’t laziness or weakness. It’s something deeper. And she begins to see you.

That’s when she quiets down. Her tone shifts.

“You are not broken. Just… tired. Worn.”

She sits closer. Doesn’t touch but stays close, ready. Watchful. Protective.

Loyalty becomes her language of comfort

Lae’zel doesn’t know how to say “I love you” or “I’m here.” But she knows how to guard you, how to stand between you and the world while you regain your footing. And that’s what she offers.

She’ll position herself at your back in combat without being asked. Sharpen your blade while you sleep. Watch you out of the corner of her eye.

“Rest, if you must. I will not let anything touch you.”

And if someone else comments on your changed demeanor? She’ll shut them down instantly.

“Her strength has not left her. It is only… hidden. And it will return. You will not question it again.”

If you let her in — even a little — she becomes fiercely protective

If you choose to open up to her — say just a few words about what’s weighing you down — Lae’zel won’t say the perfect thing. But she’ll offer you something far rarer from her: trust.

She might look away while saying it, but it will land like an oath:

“You are strong. Even now. Especially now. You need not prove it to me.”

And in her own hard-edged way:

“You are not alone. Not while I breathe.”

[a-bit-of-writing]

after reading your writing and seeing that your requests are open i can't help myself but to request something💘 but no pressure!!

i loved how you did the flirting headcanons, so could i ask something similar for Wyll, Astarion, Gale and Lae'zel (or whoever you feel like!!) for a tav/reader that is like, not exactly the class clown, but always there to share a laugh and some joy, that really tries her best to keep happy or at least keep her companion's spirits up, always there to comfort when needed, that thinks laughter is the best medicine, loves hugs and just tries to always have hope and some light... and how would the companions react when she, maybe privately, breaks down? she that was never seen sad or like hurt because she never really showed her deepest emotions to others? how would the companions (even better if they are crushing💘) comfort her? maybe angst that ends in fluff? tysm in advance!!

Took me a bit to get to this but it’s DONE!

You can read the piece HERE over at @lllumoria

[a-bit-of-writing]

Iron & Roses {Black Buter}

Fandom: Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji)

Characters: Sebastian Michaelis x OFC

Summary: A widow walks into the Phantomhive estate with blood on her sleeves and a secret on her tongue. Sebastian expects a case but what he finds is a woman who sees through him and doesn't flinch.

She arrived with blood on her hands.

Not metaphorical blood — actual blood, dampening the white lace cuffs of her sleeves and trailing along the hem of her otherwise pristine traveling gown. Her face was unbothered, eyes calm, lips unpainted but faintly stained with something dark. She stood at the front of the Phantomhive estate like she belonged there.

Sebastian opened the door himself.

“Miss,” he said with a shallow bow, voice silk wrapped in formality. “You appear… misdirected.”

She didn’t flinch beneath his gaze. Most mortals did. There was something not quite right about his eyes, his smile, his stillness.

“I was told this household handles problems the police cannot.” Her voice was smooth. Unhurried. Almost musical. “I have one.”

She handed him a folded letter sealed with wax, which he accepted without lowering his gaze.

It smelled like iron and roses.

-——————-

Ciel Phantomhive took the case.

The woman — Miss Evelyn Hargrave, a widow of three months — claimed her husband had been murdered, but the killer was not a man. Not something human. She saw its eyes, she said. Heard it speak in a language older than Latin. And it wore a stolen face.

Ciel was intrigued. Sebastian was not.

He was… interested in her.

Not for her beauty, though she possessed a cold, classic sort. Not for her poise, though she moved like someone taught to dance before she could walk. No—he was interested because she should have been terrified of him. And she wasn’t.

She spoke to him like she saw through the mask.

And worse, like she wasn’t impressed.

-——————-

“You are not what you pretend to be,” she said softly one evening, as he poured her tea in the library.

Sebastian looked up from the silver teapot. “Neither are you.”

A pause. A smile. Her fingers curled around the porcelain cup.

“You’re dangerous,” she said. “But not to me.”

Something in him shifted.

That was not a compliment. It was a statement. A threat. Or worse—an invitation.

-——————-

He began to watch her more closely after that.

Followed the trail of her husband’s murder, yes. Identified the occultist who had summoned a low-ranking demon, yes. Dispatched said demon with surgical precision, yes.

But always, he circled back to her.

Evelyn Hargrave. A woman who mourned too quietly. Slept too little. Knew too much. He found an old tome in her luggage. Marked in the margins. Annotated. A spellbook.

Ah. So she’d dabbled. Not foolishly. Not recklessly. Deliberately.

“I know what you are,” she told him on the last night. “You won’t admit it, of course. You wear the butler’s skin too well.”

Sebastian stepped closer. Close enough that the flame of the nearby lamp flickered. His eyes glowed — not brightly, but just enough.

“And what am I?” he whispered.

She didn’t blink. “Hungry.”

His smile widened. “Careful, Miss Hargrave. You’re beginning to sound like temptation.”

Her lips curled. “Am I?”

-——————-

The case was closed. The murderer gone. Her home—empty.

She left the estate in the morning mist, a black veil lowered over her face, scent of rose oil lingering behind.

Sebastian watched her carriage disappear down the drive.

Ciel sipped his tea beside him. “She unsettled you.”

“No, young master,” Sebastian said. “She interested me.”

“A rare thing.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared after her.

Not with longing.

With curiosity.

And perhaps, deep beneath it all…

…with appetite

[a-bit-of-writing]

Because it's been a while since I last wrote a story about Astarion 🤗

Lessons {Astarion x Reader}

Characters: Astarion x Reader 

Summary: You try to flirt. You really do. But when Karlach dares you to sweep someone off their feet, and you choose Astarion of all people, things go exactly how you'd expect: poorly, hilariously, and then… dangerously well. 

Blame the wine, blame the boredom, blame Karlach’s booming dare but mostly blame Astarion’s grin glinting at the edge of the firelight, practically asking to be challenged.

The night had turned companionable after a brutal skirmish with gnolls. Everyone alive, everyone bruised. Wyll poured a celebratory bottle of Dragon’s Crush. Gale lectured on planar theory until even he grew tired of hearing himself. Then Karlach, cheeks flushed bronze with drink, slammed her mug down and declared:

“Right! We’ve exchanged war stories and arcane gobbledygook – time for something fun. Show us your best flirt, bookworm.” She jabbed a thumb at you.

Across the fire, Astarion straightened like a cat scenting cream. “Oh, do include me. I adore games that end with somebody blushing.”

Shadowheart muttered something about children and bedtimes, hiding a smirk behind her cup.

You coughed. “I’m not exactly stage material.”

“Come on!” Karlach insisted, eyes bright. “Pick a target. Sweep them off their feet.”

Your gaze flicked around the circle – Gale, Wyll, Shadowheart. Tempting, but the silver‑haired vampire spawn was already leaning forward, ruby eyes flicking between you and the bottle with predatory anticipation. And frankly, you were tired of being the one who reacted to him. Time to return serve.

You took a steadying breath, stepped toward Astarion, and summoned your sultriest voice – an untested weapon.

“Tell me,” you purred, “do you always wake up this charming, or did you sip a charisma potion in your sleep?”

Silence.

Then: Shadowheart’s snort, Gale’s polite clap, Karlach’s whoop!

And Astarion?

Astarion stared.

A single eyebrow rose, sculpted and deadly. Then laughter welled up – bright, genuine, bubbling out of him like uncorked sparkling wine. He braced a hand on his knee, eyes crinkling. “Oh, my sweet summer star. That was… adorable.”

Heat crashed into your cheeks. He tapped your nose with one cool fingertip, the gesture maddeningly tender.

“Adorably earnest,” he amended, voice dropping half an octave. “Like a kitten trying to roar.”

That stung, but the warmth in his gaze softened the barb – he wasn’t mocking to wound; he was amused. And maybe – just maybe – impressed that you’d dared at all.

Karlach was cackling. “Give her a break – first time’s rough!”

Astarion turned to the group, palms out. “I’m merely appreciating the effort. But…” His eyes slid back to you, dangerous again. “If you’d like a demonstration, kitten, I could show you how it’s actually done.”

You folded arms across your chest. “Enlighten me.”

Murmurs rippled around the circle. Even stoic Shadowheart leaned forward a fraction.

Astarion rose with the grace of spilled silk. “Observe.” His voice smoothed into velvet. “Lesson One: Proximity.”

He didn’t stride – he drifted. One step, two, closing the space until the fire blurred behind his shoulder and his cool scent – cedar, smoke, hint of blood – wrapped around your senses. He stopped just outside touching distance: enough room for heat to pulse between bodies, not enough for breath to settle.

Your pulse skipped. He heard it – judging by the satisfied quirk of his mouth.

“Lesson Two,” he continued, lifting a hand but not quite touching your cheek, letting anticipation thrum, “Intention. Your words fluttered like moths, darling. Pretty, but harmless. Instead” – his knuckles grazed the air beside your jaw – “you speak like every syllable knows where it wants to land.”

Your throat tightened. The camp faded; only him, the flicker of firelight dancing across pale skin, the hush of everyone holding breath.

“Lesson Three: Tone.” His next words fell warm against your ear, lower than laughter, smoother than wine. “Low and languid, like a secret slipping beneath the door.” A chill crawled your spine, chased by a bloom of heat.

He withdrew just enough to let you focus on his eyes – deep garnet, reflecting flame. “Lesson Four,” he whispered, “Eye contact.” He held your gaze, unblinking, unabashed, until the air felt charged enough to spark. “Stare as though you’ve already memorized the color of their last sigh.”

Your knees wobbled. Astarion’s smile flashed fang – dangerous, but the kindness of a hunter granting a fatal thrill to its prey.

Then, masterfully cruel, he stepped away. The cold rush of lost proximity stole your next breath.

He pivoted to the group with a grand flourish. “And that, loves, is how one flirts.”

Silence. Then Karlach let out a war‑whoop that sent embers spiraling skyward. Gale applauded with academic enthusiasm. Wyll whistled low.

Shadowheart merely nodded, impressed despite herself. “Excruciatingly effective.”

You pressed a hand to your flaming cheeks, trying to claw back composure. “Show‑off.”

Astarion bowed. “Only when inspiration strikes.”

Karlach elbowed Gale. “Your turn, wizard!”

But conversation blurred in your ears; your heartbeat drummed too loud. The scent of cedar still clung to your skin like phantom hands. You’d thought his flirtation an act, a weapon. Now you weren’t sure what terrified you more: the idea he’d been performing, or the possibility that he hadn’t.

—————

Most of the camp had retired. Shadowheart took first watch; Karlach slept sprawled by the dying fire like a contented bear. Gale and Wyll snored mutually supportive harmonies.

You lingered at the river’s edge, cold water lapping boots, trying to cool blood still thrumming hot.

“Kitten,” Astarion called softly behind you.

You turned. He strolled closer, but not as a predator – hands tucked behind his back, shoulders loose. “Come to critique my technique?” you asked, aiming for levity.

“On the contrary. I came to apologize, perhaps.” He stopped beside you, gaze tracing the moon’s reflection on the water. “I may have been… heavy‑handed.”

You huffed a laugh. “Was that your polite way of saying ‘cruel’?”

“Cruelty is useful,” he mused. “But only when it serves a purpose. Tonight’s spectacle benefited no one but my ego.” He paused, eyes flicking to you. Something unguarded shimmered. “I forget, sometimes, how… sharp my edges are.”

Wind stirred his hair; the moon painted silver across his cheekbones. Vulnerability suited him – beautiful and unsettling.

You rolled a pebble beneath your boot. “For what it’s worth, I knew it was a performance.”

“Was it?” he asked, voice nearly lost to river rush.

Silence pooled. You risked a glance: his gaze remained on the water, but tension threaded shoulders that usually lounged. The question hung heavier than mere flirtation. Was it just a performance?

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

“Neither do I,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then, with a sigh, he shook off the softness and straightened, renewed mischief in the tilt of his lips. “Regardless, the lesson stands. Would you care to practice? I’m an excellent tutor – patient, hands‑on.”

You barked a surprised laugh. “Hands entirely off, thank you.”

“Tragic.” He clasped dramatic hand to chest. “But I can behave. Sometimes.”

You considered. “Fine. Teach me step one again.”

Astarion brightened. “Proximity. Simple.” He stepped close – then closer – until boot tips nearly brushed. “Now, you try.”

Your pulse fluttered, but you met his gaze and purposefully closed the final inch until your shoulders were almost touching his chest. Heat flared in his eyes – approval, hunger, something softer.

“Lesson two,” you said, lowering your voice just enough that it vibrated between you. “Intention.”

His breath hitched.

Emboldened, you lifted a hand – not to his cheek, but to the collar of his shirt, where one dangling silver clasp glinted. Your knuckles skimmed fabric. “This is crooked,” you murmured, and straightened it with excruciating slowness.

Astarion’s eyelids fluttered. “You’re a quick study.”

“Lesson three,” you continued: “tone.” You let the next words drop – warm, bare truth. “You disarmed me tonight.”

He inhaled sharply, expression caught between grin and awe. “Did I?”

“Lesson four.” You held his gaze, letting him see everything unhidden: the thrill, the fear, the defiance. “Eye contact.”

Seconds stretched, taut as bowstring. Then – you stepped back. The air cooled, but satisfaction bloomed in your chest.

Astarion released a shaky laugh. “Oh, well played, darling.”

You offered a short bow. “I learn fast.”

He regarded you, eyes glimmering. “We may have to call tonight a draw.”

“Wasn’t that the point? Mutual embarrassment?”

“Hardly embarrassing,” he countered, voice velvet again but soft velvet, worn, warm. “Quite… exhilarating.”

He extended his hand – palm up, invitation rather than command. After a heartbeat, you placed yours atop. His grip was cool, steady, strangely gentle.

“For the record,” he said quietly, thumb brushing your knuckles, “no potion could make anyone this charming. It’s all me.”

You laughed. The sound loosened something inside both of you. His shoulders dropped a fraction, yours lifted. The river whispered secrets around your ankles.

“Come,” he said, tugging lightly. “Let’s get you back before the gnolls hear your hammering heart and mistake it for a dinner bell.”

“My heart isn’t hammering.”

He smirked, leading you up the bank. “Lie better, kitten.”

[a-bit-of-writing]

Ooh! 👀 I’m always down to read your Astarion fics! I look forward to reading what you come up with! 😊 — Shadow Anon

Nice to hear you enjoy them!

Speaking of which-- I just uploaded a new Astarion story in my BG3 sideblog @lllumoria