moonselune

[moonselune]

Hello! If this request is weird feel free to disregard but could I request something, whatever format you think is best, where Tav has chronic pain/fatigue and they generally hide it pretty well, though they do still lag behind some days- and through some tadpole or magic weirdness someone gets temporarily body swapped with Tav (maybe a tougher member of the group like Lae'zel) and they realize how much harder Tav is working just for basic functioning and masking it. (I love your work, thank you<3)

OOooo this is so interesting!! and thank you so much, that's so sweet! I did this more as a drabble and I hope you like it!

Most days, you keep up.

You’ve learned how to pace yourself, how to push through the pain without letting it show. You lag behind on occasion, but you make up for it in other ways—strategy, quick thinking, keeping morale high when the others start to waver. You may not be as fast or as strong as Lae’zel or Minthara, but you pull your weight. You make sure of it.

That doesn’t stop them from noticing.

“Lae’zel, slow down,” Shadowheart murmurs as the party treks through uneven terrain, but Lae’zel merely scoffs.

“If they cannot keep up, they should train harder,” she replies, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “Strength is something we build, not something we beg for.”

Minthara hums her agreement. “Pain is temporary,” she says. “Weakness is a choice.”

You don’t argue. You could, but what would be the point? They do not understand. They can’t understand. The pain in your joints, the way your muscles ache even when you wake up in the morning, the exhaustion that clings to you even on your best days.

So you grit your teeth. You keep walking. And you pretend their words don’t hurt.

—

The magic mishap happens fast. One moment, you are rifling through a strange arcane tome, and the next, the world shifts and bends in on itself. The feeling is nauseating—like being unspooled and rewoven, like your very bones are rearranging themselves.

And then, just as suddenly, you are staring at yourself. Or rather—Lae’zel is. Because you are now her. There’s a moment of silence as the party stares. Astarion lets out an incredulous laugh.

“Well,” he says. “This should be interesting.”

“Unacceptable!” Lae’zel’s voice rings out, except—no. Your voice rings out, spoken by her, in your body.

She clenches her fists—your fists—and glares down at herself.

“This form is fragile,” she hisses. “We must undo this immediately.”

But magic like this is messy, and Gale is already grimacing as he flips through his notes.

“It might take some time,” he admits. Lae’zel grumbles under her breath.

“Then we train,” she decides. “I will strengthen this form while I am trapped in it.”

But she doesn’t make it five minutes.

The first thing that hits her is the fatigue. Even standing still, she feels the weight of it pressing down on her limbs, making her movements sluggish, her reactions slow. Then comes the ache—a deep, gnawing pain that digs into her joints, curling around her bones like an iron vice.

She tries to push through it. She always pushes through pain.

But no amount of discipline or mental fortitude can prepare her for the constant, grinding discomfort, the sensation of moving through molasses, the frustration of knowing she is strong but not feeling it.

And worse than anything—she remembers. She remembers snapping at you when you lagged behind. She remembers calling you weak.

But this is not weakness. It is not laziness or lack of will. It is a battle, fought every day, in every breath, in every step. She lasts an hour before she stumbles.

Not a dramatic fall—just a simple misstep, her knee nearly buckling beneath her. It is such a small thing. But she suddenly understands exactly how much you have been hiding.

—

By the time Gale figures out how to undo the spell, Lae’zel is seething. Not at you. Not anymore.

She is furious at herself. At her own ignorance.

When the magic finally reverses, and you are settled back into your own body, you turn to face her, unsure of what to expect. For once, Lae’zel is quiet. Her jaw is tense, her posture stiff. And then, slowly, she speaks.

“You are stronger than I gave you credit for.” Her voice is measured, her words precise. “And I was a fool to dismiss you.”

You blink, taken aback. “That almost sounds like an apology.”

She scowls. “Take it or leave it.”

You huff a quiet laugh. It isn’t much. It isn’t even enough. But it is something. And as you continue forward, Lae’zel walking just a little slower beside you, you think—maybe that’s all you need.

a little drabble for y'all, it was so nice to write it, work has been so hectic so this was a nice break. Hope you guys enjoy it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

Hey I just read your fic with the bg3 characters x reader dealing with the abusive ex and it was Amazing loved reading it so so so much so I was hoping you could do the same just with arcane characters!

Thank you so much ! I am so glad you enjoyed it xx the comapnions being protective over tav is always a popular one.

Unfortunately, I have not watched Arcane (ikikikik I should) but thank you for thinking of asking me x

[moonselune]

May I request the Dark BG3 companions with their lover getting like seriously hurt or sick? Maybe someone meant to get the companions but we got caught in the crossfire? 👀

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Dark!BG3 | Caught in the Crossfire

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin, GrandDuke!Wyll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, coercion, injury,

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

The gala was meant to be a night of triumph, a celebration of Minthara’s iron grip over the Underdark. The grand hall of the conquered stronghold was bathed in deep purples and shimmering obsidian, lit by chandeliers crafted from the bones of those who had opposed her. The finest drow nobility, influential traders, and warlords of the Underdark gathered in their most lavish attire, drinking wine as dark as blood and feasting beneath the banner of their merciless queen.

You stood by her side, as always, watching with a quiet sort of forced admiration as she moved through the crowd—imperious, beautiful, dangerous. Minthara thrived in this environment, basking in the power she had claimed through conquest. Her laughter was sharp, her every movement dripping with confidence as she listened to the flattery of those who sought her favor.

But the revelry was not destined to last.

The first scream cut through the low hum of conversation like a knife. Then another. A guard crumpled, an arrow lodged in his throat. Chaos erupted as figures in ragged cloaks burst through the arched entrance, weapons gleaming in the dim light.

Rebels.

Minthara’s expression barely flickered—if anything, she looked amused.

“Fools” she scoffed, her voice carrying over the noise. “You dare bring this pathetic resistance here?”

With a flick of her wrist, she signaled to her warriors, and the hall became a battlefield. Blades clashed, spells sizzled through the air, and guests scrambled for safety. You moved instinctively, cutting down an attacker who lunged for you, your blade sinking deep into his gut. You don't remember their face. You had forgot how to do that long ago.

Minthara was a vision of carnage. Her dual swords danced through the rebels like a cruel wind, her strikes precise, deadly. She laughed as she fought, taunting them as they fell at her feet, as if this was nothing more than a game to her.

It was over in minutes. The last of the rebels collapsed in a pool of their own blood, and Minthara flicked the gore from her blade, standing victorious. Expecting raucous applause at her victory.

But the room was silent.

The guests weren’t rushing to congratulate her. They weren’t cheering her triumph. Instead, they stood frozen, eyes wide with horror.

Minthara’s smirk faltered. And then she turned—to you.

The warmth of blood soaked your side, sticky and spreading. At first, you didn’t even feel the pain, only the slow realization that something was wrong. One of the rebels must have landed a strike, a lucky one. A deep wound, just beneath your ribs. Your vision wavered slightly as your knees buckled.

Minthara was at your side in an instant, faster than you had ever seen her move. Her hands caught you before you could hit the ground, her grip strong but trembling.

“No,” she snarled, her voice a mix of fury and something dangerously close to panic. “No, no, no—not you. Never you.”

Her gauntleted hands pressed against the wound, but there was too much blood. Too much slipping through her fingers. Her breathing was ragged, her usual composure shattered.

The silence in the room thickened as the realization dawned on everyone present—this wasn’t Minthara the conqueror, the ruthless drow who ruled with an iron fist.

This was Minthara, afraid.

Her lips curled back into a snarl as she snapped at the onlookers. “Why are you all standing there?! Get a healer! NOW!”

But you could barely focus on the growing commotion. Your head felt heavy, the edges of your vision blurring. You reached up, fingers grazing her face—her normally pristine, composed expression now twisted with something raw and desperate.

“You’re… ruining your gala,” you murmured, trying for a smirk. It was weak, your voice barely above a whisper. Minthara let out a sharp breath, half a laugh, half a sob.

“You think I care about that?” she hissed, pressing her forehead to yours for the briefest moment.

She had lost countless warriors. Countless lovers. She had never mourned them. But you? You were different. The last thing you saw before darkness took you was her furious, determined eyes. Minthara wasn’t going to let you die. Not here. Not like this.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

The air was thick with the scent of blood and burning incense. The battle had been swift, the outcome inevitable. The Sharrans, under Mother Superior Shadowheart’s command, descended upon the Selûnite sect like a storm, cutting them down before they could so much as utter a prayer to their forsaken goddess.

You had fought alongside them, as you always did. Not because you wanted to, but because you had no choice. Shadowheart had claimed you, bound you to her side with chains stronger than steel—devotion, obligation, love twisted into something unrecognizable. You could never tell where your own desires ended and hers began, but it hardly mattered. She was your world now. Whether you had chosen it or not.

The battle was almost over. The last of the Selûnites were being hunted down, their screams echoing through the ruins of their sanctuary. You had cut down your share already, your blade stained with the blood of those who prayed for mercy. But now, standing before you, was a woman—no older than Shadowheart, trembling but determined, her silver-lined robes torn and bloodied.

She wasn’t even holding her weapon correctly.

You should have finished her. It would have been easy, a simple flick of your wrist. But something in you faltered.

She looked at you—not with hatred, not even with fear, but with understanding.

"You don’t want this," she whispered. "You don’t have to do this."

Your grip on your weapon tightened.

She was wrong. You had to do this. Shadowheart had made sure of that. You had spilled too much blood in her name to stop now. You had buried every doubt, every hesitation deep inside you, where she couldn’t see them.

And yet—

You hesitated.

It was enough.

The Selûnite surged forward, desperation driving her blade, and pain exploded through your abdomen as the sword buried itself deep.

You gasped, staggering, your fingers slipping from your weapon as you fell to your knees. The pain was sharp, but it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as the weight of realization crushing down on you.

You had let this happen. You had let this happen.

The woman backed away, her hands shaking, as if she couldn’t believe she had actually landed the blow. You heard a sharp intake of breath behind you—a moment of silence before Shadowheart’s scream shattered the air.

The battlefield shifted.

Darkness surged from her, tendrils of void magic lashing out in a violent storm. The Selûnite barely had time to react before Shadowheart’s power tore through her, ripping her apart in a violent burst of necrotic energy. The others who remained suffered the same fate—crushed, incinerated, erased from existence.

The entire battlefield had gone still. Even the Sharrans hesitated, watching in silent fear as Shadowheart moved toward you, her entire body trembling with barely-contained rage.

She fell to her knees, pulling you into her arms, pressing her hands to your wound. Dark magic coiled around her fingers, seeping into your skin, into your veins. It burned. Gods, it burned.

"You idiot," she snarled, her voice shaking. "Why did you stop? Why did you hesitate?"

You coughed, blood spilling from your lips. The pain was unbearable, but you didn’t fight it. You didn’t fight her.

"You hesitated," she repeated, her hands gripping your face now, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes—once filled with nothing but cold certainty—were raw, desperate. Afraid.

You had never seen her afraid before.

A shuddering breath left your lips. You barely recognized your own voice when you spoke.

"I deserved it."

Shadowheart flinched as if you had struck her.

Her grip on you tightened. Her healing magic was working, you could feel it, but it was a cruel thing. A punishment wrapped in salvation. She would not let you go—not to Selûne, not to death.

"You are mine," she hissed, pressing her forehead to yours. "Do you hear me? You are mine, and you do not get to die for them."

The shadows curled around her, consuming everything but the two of you.

You closed your eyes, feeling yourself slipping. But she wouldn’t let you fall.

She never would.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

God of ambition Gale:

The moment it happened, Gale knew.

A shift in the air, the way the Weave twisted and turned upon itself like a wounded thing. Mystra had come with purpose, with divine precision, her retribution meant to cut through him like a blade of pure, celestial wrath. But something went wrong.

The magic—vast, merciless, intended for him—collided into you instead.

Gale barely had time to register the way your body seized, your back arching as agony ripped through you. A scream tore from your throat, raw and strangled, the sound of it so human it left him breathless.

For the first time in a long, long time—Gale Dekarios felt fear.

Not the fear of mortality, of losing himself, of fading into nothingness. No, this was something else. Something worse.

It was the fear of losing you.

The magic flayed you from the inside out, burning through every nerve, carving itself into your very bones. It was not meant for you. Your body was not meant to contain such power, not meant to endure a god’s anger.

He moved without thought, catching you as you crumpled forward. You convulsed in his arms, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

“No, no, no, no,” he murmured, hands pressing over you, feeling the fevered heat of your body, the pulse beneath your skin fluttering like the wings of a dying bird. He called upon the Weave, but it resisted him, like trying to mold unyielding stone. Mystra’s work. Mystra’s punishment.

Mystra’s cruelty. His vision blurred with rage.

“Damn you,” he spat into the empty air, knowing she was watching, knowing she had done this simply because she could. “You wanted to punish me, is that it? Then strike me! Don’t—” His voice broke, an edge of desperation cutting through it.

You whimpered against him. The sound shattered something in his chest. For the first time in years, Gale felt powerless. And he hated it.

He gathered you against him, ignoring the blood soaking through your clothes—your blood. The warmth of it seeped into his hands, onto his robes, staining him in a way that felt sickeningly human.

“I can fix this.” The words slipped from him, almost manic, a fevered whisper against your skin. “I can make it right. I will make it right.”

His hands trembled over your form, magic crackling violently in his palms. The Karsite Weave would obey him. He would force it to, twist it, bend it to his will. No one—not even her—would take you from him.

He willed the energy into you, golden threads of raw arcane light, his power—not Mystra’s. He tore away her influence, pulling at the magic that had embedded itself into your very marrow, ripping it out by sheer force of will.

You screamed.

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. I can fix you. I can fix you. I can fix you.

The pain was unbearable—for both of you. He knew it hurt, knew he was putting you through hell just to undo what she had done. But he had to. He had to make you better.

His breath was ragged, his fingers digging into your skin.

“I won’t let her take you,” he whispered against your ear, voice fraying at the edges. “I won’t lose you. You are mine.”

You gasped, body shuddering violently as the last vestiges of Mystra’s curse were wrenched from you. The magic dissipated into the air, leaving only silence in its wake.

Gale exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against yours. He could feel your pulse—weak but steady. You were alive. He had saved you.

A shiver ran through him, something dark curling in his chest. He had forgotten what this felt like. Mortal fear. True loss. True pain.

He despised it.

But he would make sure it never happened again.

His fingers ghosted along your cheek, his grip possessive.

“You won’t have to feel pain like this again,” he murmured, voice soft yet frenzied, the ghost of something dangerous lurking beneath his tone. “I can make you stronger. I can make you more. You wouldn’t have to suffer—not like this. Not ever again."

That's when fear hit you.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

The night had begun as nothing more than a game.

Astarion had indulged the rival lesser vampire with the same kind of amusement one would afford an overeager pup. He had let them posture, let them swing their blade and spit their threats, let them believe they had a chance.

How adorable they had been, puffing their chest, sneering with a confidence that was entirely unearned. And Astarion, in his vanity, had been generous. He had let the fight stretch on, toying with them, never once breaking a sweat. Let them hope. Let them dream.

And oh, the satisfaction it brought him, watching their confidence swell. Watching them believe, even for a moment, that they could win against him.

It was all just a game. Until the scent of your blood filled the air. The instant it reached him, the smug smirk slipped from his lips.

Something primal gripped his spine, cold as death, hot as rage. A chill of wrongness snaked through his veins as he turned—and the sight that greeted him stopped his heart entirely.

You—collapsed against the damp stone of the alleyway, your body slumped unnaturally. A jagged wooden stake jutted from your side, blood darkening your clothes, pooling beneath you. The crimson spread too quickly, soaking into the filth of the street, too much, too fast, too wrong.

Your breath hitched, weak and shallow, and Astarion’s entire world collapsed.

“No—no, no, no, no—”

His own voice barely registered. He was at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees, his hands hovering over you, shaking.

He hadn’t shaken in centuries. His throat tightened. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The rival—he had been playing with the rival. Not paying attention. Not watching you.

And now—now—

Astarion sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands frantic as they moved over you. He barely registered the splinters in your skin, the jagged edges of the stake still embedded in your flesh. His mind screamed at him to think, to act, to do something, but his thoughts were chaos, his body frozen in a rare, terrifying fear.

Then, your lips parted—just barely, the faintest gasp escaping. That single, broken breath snapped him out of it.

Astarion bit his own wrist open without hesitation, his fangs tearing through flesh, drawing deep, dark blood. It welled to the surface instantly, and he pressed the wound to your lips.

“Drink,” he whispered, his voice raw, pleading. “Drink, my love, please—”

Your lashes fluttered. Your lips parted a fraction more, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thought—

Then, the warmth of your tongue against his wrist.

Astarion let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, one hand cradling the back of your head as you swallowed. Yes, that’s it. His fingers trailed over your cheek, along your jaw, brushing away a smear of blood. You’re still here. You’re still mine.

“Good, my sweet thing,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing. “That’s a good pet.”

Your breath steadied, just barely. He could feel it working—his ancient, powerful blood seeping into your wounds, knitting flesh, coaxing your body back from the brink.

But not fast enough. The stake was still there, still inside you. Astarion exhaled, pressing a kiss to your temple before he moved.

“This will hurt, darling,” he warned, voice quiet.

And with one swift, brutal motion, he yanked the stake from your side. A scream ripped from your throat. You arched against him, body convulsing, your blood spilling anew.

Astarion hissed at the sight—at the sound—but he didn’t let you go. His arms tightened around you, cradling you close as your body shuddered against his.

“You’ll be alright,” he promised, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re mine, and I do not let go of what’s mine.”

Your breath was ragged, pain still thrumming through you—but your eyes finally met his. And for the first time since he had seen you fall, something inside him eased.

Astarion let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing against your lower lip, wiping away the last trace of blood. His expression softened for the barest moment.

“You foolish, foolish thing,” he murmured, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Getting yourself hurt—like this.”

A moment passed in silence. Your chest still rose and fell erratically, your body still weak, but—

You were here. You were alive.

Astarion exhaled again, but this time, his demeanor shifted. The panic drained from his face. The softness in his expression hardened into something else entirely. Astarion laughed.

It was low, dark, sharp.

“Oh, but him,” he purred, his voice shifting from quiet worry to something cruel, something deadly. “Oh, my sweet, foolish rival.”

His eyes lifted, burning with glee now.

“He thought this was a game.” A pause. A slow, wicked grin curled his lips. “But the poor dear never realized—I was the one writing the rules.”

Astarion ran a hand through his hair, blood still drying on his fingers, his clothes disheveled. He turned, gaze gleaming with violent delight as he spotted the pitiful excuse for a vampire attempting to flee.

A laugh—full, indulgent.

“Oh, darling,” Astarion mused, voice light and laced with poison. “Do be a dear and wait right here, will you?”

His gaze flickered back down to you, his smile softening—just slightly.

“You rest now, my love,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll be right back.”

Then, with a flash of movement, he was gone—his laughter echoing through the night as he vanished into the darkness.

And somewhere in the distance—his rival began to scream.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Naturtist Halsin:

The town burned.

Flames licked at rooftops, swallowing timber and stone alike, thick plumes of smoke curling toward the heavens. The sky was painted in shades of orange and red, firelight reflecting in the river that ran through the settlement—the very river that had once been a thriving, untamed thing before the villagers had tamed it. Before they had built their dam.

Before they had drowned the forest to fuel their greed.

Halsin stood amidst the carnage, towering, powerful, his golden eyes gleaming in the fire’s glow. His staff was clutched tightly in his hand, though he hardly needed it—nature bent to his will, his fury, his justice. The town had reaped what it had sown.

Men and women screamed, running from collapsing buildings, their cries swallowed by the roar of the inferno. Some tried to flee, stumbling into the river, but the waters had turned against them too, rising in furious waves to drag them back.

Halsin’s lips curled in satisfaction.

But you—

You had slipped away, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You understood Halsin’s rage. You knew the destruction these villagers had wrought upon the wilds, the lives they had stolen. And yet—watching them burn—watching their homes crumble around them, hearing children wail—

You couldn't stand by and do nothing.

Your feet carried you to the nearest building, the flames already biting at its edges. The heat was suffocating, sweat slicking your skin as you kicked the door open. Smoke rushed toward you, thick and acrid, clawing at your throat.

Inside, a woman cowered, her face streaked with soot and terror. She clutched a child to her chest, coughing violently.

“Come on!” You reached for them, tugging them toward the exit. The woman hesitated for only a moment before stumbling forward, her child whimpering in her arms. You led them through the doorway, shielding them from the worst of the heat, and shoved them toward the street. “Run! Get out of here—go!”

The woman barely managed a breathless nod before disappearing into the smoke.

And then—

A crack.

A groan of splitting timber.

Before you could move, before you could think—

The ceiling collapsed.

Searing heat engulfed you as flaming debris crashed down, blocking the exit. Smoke surged inward, thick and choking, burning its way down your throat and into your lungs.

You stumbled back, coughing violently, trying to breathe—trying—

But there was no air left.

The flames crept closer, embers stinging your skin. Your head spun, your vision swimming, black spots blooming in your eyes. You tried to call out, tried to scream for help—

But no one heard you.

Your knees hit the floor. Your body slumped forward. The last thing you saw was the flicker of flames dancing across the ruined ceiling before darkness took you.

You awoke coughing, choking on the remnants of smoke that clung to your lungs. Your body trembled with every breath, pain lancing through you, your throat raw and scorched. You weren’t in the burning town anymore. The scent of fire and ash still clung to you, but beneath it was something softer—earth, damp moss, the crisp air of the wilds.

The Grove.

Strong hands rubbed slow, soothing circles against your back, easing the spasms that wracked your body. You coughed again, gasping for air, and a deep, familiar voice murmured, “Breathe, my heart. Just breathe.”

Halsin.

You tensed, bracing for his wrath. You had defied him. Had undone his justice, saved the very people he had sought to punish. You expected fury, chastisement—expected him to rage at your stubbornness, your refusal to see his justice through.

But as you turned your head, blinking against the haze of exhaustion, you saw—

Not anger.

Relief.

Halsin’s face was stricken, his eyes dark with emotion. His broad hands never left your back, grounding you, as if he feared you might slip away again.

“You foolish, reckless thing,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something unfamiliar.

You opened your mouth to speak, to offer some kind of explanation—But you never got the chance.

Halsin’s lips crashed against yours, fierce and desperate. His hands came up to cradle your face, calloused fingers trembling against your soot-streaked skin.

There was no calculated passion in his kiss—no slow seduction or teasing words. It was raw, messy, needy.

Like he had almost lost you.

A startled sound left your throat, swallowed by his warmth, his desperation. His body pressed close, solid and here,grounding you as his lips moved feverishly against yours. And then, you tasted something on his lips—salt.

Tears.

Halsin broke the kiss with a sharp breath, resting his forehead against yours. His fingers curled against your skin, as if anchoring himself.

“You almost—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I could not—”

He exhaled a shuddering breath, his grip tightening around you, his entire body trembling.

It hit you then—he had been afraid. Halsin—mighty Halsin, who had felled beasts, razed villages, and commanded nature itself—had been afraid. For you.

Your chest ached, whether from the smoke or the weight of his emotions, you weren’t sure. Slowly, your hand lifted, fingers threading into his hair. He let out a breath, leaning into your touch, pressing a kiss to your palm.

“You stubborn, impossible thing,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it—only exhausted fondness. “You are mine, do you understand? Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.”

You nodded weakly, unable to form words.

Halsin exhaled, pressing another lingering kiss to your forehead before wrapping you fully in his arms. He held you there, against the warmth of his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. For the first time since you had collapsed, you let yourself relax, melting into his embrace.

The town still burned. Justice had been dealt. But Halsin had something far more important to hold onto now.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Grand Duke Wyll:

It had been too long since you had walked the streets of Baldur’s Gate as yourself—not as the spouse of the Grand Duke, not as an ornament by Wyll’s side, but as an ordinary citizen, free to disappear into the crowd.

Draped in a modest cloak, your face hidden beneath the hood, you moved through the bustling market unnoticed. Merchants called out their wares, the scent of roasted nuts and fresh bread filled the air, and laughter rang through the streets.

You let yourself breathe it all in.

For just a few hours, you weren’t confined to the gilded halls of the palace. No suffocating politics, no looming presence of your husband’s watchful eye—just you, among the people.

And then you saw them. A small group gathered by the fountain, their voices steady, determined. They had no weapons, no magic—just banners and pamphlets, parchment fluttering in the wind. Spreading awareness of the tyrant that ruled over them.

The murderous, tyrannical Grand Duke.

You stepped closer, weaving through the market stalls until you stood near the edge of the gathering. One of the protesters, a young woman with fiery eyes, raised her voice above the murmur of the crowd.

“He has made a game of murder! His own staff disappear overnight, their bodies never found. He rules with bloodied hands!”

The words sent a sharp thrill through you. They were right.

The people of Baldur’s Gate knew. They weren’t all cowed into submission. There was still resistance. Hope. A smile ghosted across your lips.

And then the guards arrived. They didn’t issue a warning. They didn’t ask questions. They descended like wolves, overzealous and hungry for violence.

The first to fall was the speaker, her body crumpling beneath a vicious blow from an armored fist. Blood splattered across the cobblestones. Panic surged through the crowd as the guards waded in, striking indiscriminately, shattering the peaceful gathering in an instant.

Someone shoved you, and you staggered back—but it was too late. A mailed fist caught you across the jaw, sending you sprawling. Your vision swam, the taste of iron blooming on your tongue.

You tried to rise, but another blow struck your ribs. A boot slammed into your side. Again. Again.

Your disguise worked too well. They didn’t recognize you. You were just another faceless rebel in their eyes.

Pain blurred everything—your head spun, ribs screaming in protest. The last thing you felt was rough hands dragging you across the stone before the world went black.

You woke to the stench of rot and damp stone. Chains clinked in the darkness. Soft groans echoed through the dungeons—others were still alive. You tried to move, but agony flared through your body. Your face was swollen, one eye forced shut. Your lips were split, your breathing shallow.

You couldn't speak.

Footsteps.

Boots clicking against the stone floor. A slow, deliberate pace.

Then—his voice.

"Well, well," Wyll drawled, his tone laced with cruel amusement. "What do we have here? A pack of seditious little rats, scurrying in the streets?"

The guards chuckled, shifting nervously under his gaze. You forced your good eye open, blinking through the haze of pain.

Wyll stood before the cell, arms folded, his crimson cape draped over one shoulder. His expression was one of mockinginterest as he surveyed the battered prisoners.

And then his gaze landed on you. He stilled and the amusement bled from his face. For a heartbeat, there was silence.

"Open the cell."

The guards hesitated. “My Lord—”

"NOW."

Keys fumbled against the lock, the door creaking open. Wyll was on you in an instant, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your bruised face with a gentleness that contradicted the fury rolling off him in waves.

“By the Gods,” he whispered. “What have they done to you?”

You tried to speak, to reassure him—I’m fine. It’s nothing. But the words wouldn’t come. A shuddering breath escaped him. Then, his head snapped up, his gaze locking onto the guards responsible. They took a step back.

“Seize them.” The remaining soldiers hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Wyll’s voice turned deathly quiet. “Now.”

There was no disobeying the Grand Duke. The guards who had beaten you were dragged forward, their eyes wide with terror. One of them dared to stammer out, “We—we didn’t know, we—”

“You should have known.” Wyll cut him off, rising to his feet. “You should have known better than to lay a finger on what is mine.”

The weight of his wrath settled over the chamber.

“You will be executed,” Wyll said, voice steady. “Publicly. As a warning.”

The condemned men paled, their struggles futile as they were hauled away. Wyll didn’t spare them another glance. Instead, he turned back to you, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice thick with something raw. “I won’t let this happen again.”

And as he carried you from the dungeons, the dying screams of the guards echoed behind him.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Some dark!BG3 for y'all, Wyll's hit a bit too close to reality icl. Hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

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[moonselune]

Can you write something for redeemed durge and shadowheart preferably with how durge adjust to having a family/ interacting with shadowhearts fam?

aweee yess this is so cute

Shadowheart x Durge!reader | A New Family

The first time you meet Arnell and Emmeline, you are so tense you feel like your spine is made of iron.

Not because they are cruel—on the contrary, Shadowheart’s parents are kind in a way that unsettles you, gentle in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache. But they are still parents. And parents are supposed to protect their children. What will they think when they look at you? Will they see the woman their daughter loves, or will they see the monster you used to be?

They know about your past. Of course they do.

Shadowheart had told them, in careful words, about what you were, what you did, the blood you had spilled. You don’t blame her. They deserve to know. But she also told them about the way you have fought against it, the way you chose to walk away from the destiny forced upon you. The way you have chosen her, again and again.

Still, it doesn’t make it any easier when you step through their door, your hand wrapped tightly around Shadowheart’s, and meet their wary eyes for the first time.

At first, things are… polite. Too polite. Every conversation feels measured, careful, as though they are testing the ground beneath them before stepping forward. Emmeline asks you questions, but she does so cautiously, gauging every reaction. Arnell watches you with quiet intensity—not out of hostility, but out of protectiveness. He has already lost his daughter once. He will not lose her again.

You don’t fault him for it. If anything, you respect it.

But Shadowheart sees you. She sees the stiffness in your posture, the way you keep a careful distance, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like you are expecting to be called to battle at any moment. So she does what she always does. She grounds you.

She never lets go of your hand, her grip a steady warmth against your skin. When you sit down to eat, she presses her knee against yours beneath the table. When she speaks of you, there is no hesitation, no shame—only love, only devotion. And it helps. It helps so much.

Slowly, things begin to shift.

Arnell still watches you carefully, but now, there is something softer in his eyes. Emmeline still measures her words, but she starts placing extra portions on your plate without asking, as if she has simply decided you must be hungry. The gestures are small, but they speak volumes.

The realization creeps up on you slowly. That you are starting to relax. That you don’t feel the urge to reach for your weapon every time someone enters the room. That this place—this small, simple home filled with laughter and quiet conversations—is not something you need to defend yourself against.

That it might just be safe.

That night, after dinner, you sit beside the fire with Shadowheart curled against your side, her head resting against your shoulder. Emmeline sits across from you, quietly darning a tear in one of your shirts. You don’t even remember giving it to her, and the realization startles you.

It’s such a simple thing. Something a mother would do for a child. Something no one has ever done for you.

Shadowheart shifts against you, tilting her head up to press a soft kiss on your cheek. The gesture is so tender it makes your throat tighten, makes your fingers twitch against your thigh.

“Your childhood,” she says suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “They never gave you one.”

Arnell and Emmeline both look up, their expressions unreadable.

Shadowheart doesn’t look at them—her gaze is fixed on you, her fingers curling around your own, tracing the creases of your palm.

“They didn’t let you be a child,” she continues, so quiet you almost don’t hear her. “They trained you. Like a weapon.”

Arnell inhales sharply, and his hand clenches at his side.You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say. She’s right. And you don’t know what to do with the grief in her voice, the sorrow in her eyes. She looks away from you then, turning to her parents.

“They never had a family,” she says softly. “Not like this.”

Another silence stretches between you all, heavy and unspoken.

And then Emmeline, without so much as a second’s hesitation, says, “Well, they do now.”

You freeze. Your breath catches.

Arnell nods beside her, his expression softening. “It doesn’t matter what you were made for,” he says simply. “You’re ours now.”

It’s too much. Too big. You can feel Shadowheart watching you, but you can’t meet her gaze. Your fingers tremble where they rest against your thigh. You don’t know how to have this, how to accept it.

But then Shadowheart’s hand is on your cheek, gently turning you to face her.Her eyes shine in the firelight, soft and steady, as if willing you to believe it.

You swallow thickly, your fingers twitching at your side. You want to say something, to acknowledge what they have given you. But the words don’t come.

Emmeline just smiles, like she knows, like she understands. Like she isn’t waiting for words you don’t have. Instead, she pats your knee and turns back to her sewing, as if it has already been decided.

And maybe it has. Shadowheart squeezes your hand, her lips brushing softly against your temple.

“I love you,” she whispers.

And as you close your eyes, resting your forehead against hers, you realize—

This is what family feels like.

So wholesome honestly, love a bit of my shadowheart. Sorry for being a bit awol recently, my ankle is mangled and work is chaos lmaoo but I love escaping on here. So hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

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[moonselune]

hiya!!

could u write for that prompt u already did, with muscular woman tav, wearing a wavemother robe, but with Jaheira, Karlach, and Shadowheart? Thanks!

yesssssssssssssssss this was so fun to write!

Karlach:

You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands over the silken fabric of the Wavemother’s Robe, feeling a little ridiculous. The garment is light, flowing, and drapes over your frame in a way that feels almost foreign. You’ve never worn something so delicate before—so soft, so utterly not made for someone like you.

You glance at yourself in the small mirror shard you keep in your tent. The robe barely reaches past your knees, and with your broad shoulders and powerful frame, it seems like it should be out of place on you. Yet… it isn't ugly. Just different.

Still, you can’t shake the nagging thought in the back of your head—what if it looks wrong? What if Karlach sees you and—

You shake the thought away and step out of your tent. The second you do, Karlach freezes. You blink at her, confused. She was mid-step, having clearly been about to approach, but now she just stands there, staring. Her mouth is slightly open, her golden eyes locked onto you like a predator that’s just spotted prey.

And then, steam—actual, literal steam—starts rising off of her skin.

“Karlach?” you ask, feeling more self-conscious than before. “You okay?”

She makes a small, strangled noise in the back of her throat.

You frown. “Do I look stupid?”

"Stupid?" Karlach finally manages to choke out, blinking rapidly like she’s trying to reboot her entire system.

Her hands are twitching at her sides, fingers flexing like she can’t decide whether she wants to reach out and touch you or just explode where she stands.

“You—you absolute goddess.” Karlach breathes the words out in pure reverence, eyes raking over you so intensely that you actually feel hot under her gaze. "How—what—fuck.”

Your brow furrows. “You like it?”

Karlach laughs. It’s a breathless, wild thing, like she can't believe you even asked. “Like it? Babe, I am fighting for my life right now.”

You blink. “…What?”

“Do you—do you even know what you look like right now?” Karlach gestures wildly at you, practically vibrating. “You're a foot taller than me, built like a gods-damned mountain, wearing that.” She swallows hard. “Do you have any idea what that’s doing to me?”

You stare at her. Then glance down at yourself. Then back at her.

“…No?”

Karlach makes another strangled sound. Then, before you can react, she lunges. You barely have a moment to brace yourself before you’re body-tackled back into your tent, landing on your back with an "oof!"

Karlach is already crawling over you, her hands hot against your skin as she yanks at the silken fabric, her breathing ragged.

“I—I should—I should help you take this off,” she stammers, but her hands are moving before she even finishes the sentence.

You let out a stunned laugh. “That desperate, huh?”

Karlach growls, low in her throat. “Babe, I am about to combust.”

She isn’t lying—there’s actual heat radiating from her, and her engine is whining with the strain of keeping it together.

You smirk up at her, reaching up to cup her flushed face, fingers brushing over the cooling vents on her cheeks. "Guess that means I should wear this more often, huh?"

Karlach groans. "Please don’t, I will literally die."

You laugh, only for her to kiss you so fiercely that all your thoughts vanish in a haze of heat, silk, and strong hands pulling you closer.

Shadowheart:

You take a deep breath, adjusting the Wavemother’s Robe as it drapes over your body. The fabric is soft, flowing in a way that feels foreign against your battle-worn skin. It barely reaches past your knees, and the loose, delicate sleeves do nothing to hide the sheer power of your arms. You feel wrong in it—too big, too solid, too much of everything this robe wasn't made for.

With a sigh, you step out of your tent, bracing yourself for whatever reaction you’re about to get. You don’t expect to find Shadowheart completely frozen in place.

She stands a few feet away, lips slightly parted, silver eyes wide as they slowly drag down your body and then back up again, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

“…Shadowheart?” you say, feeling even more self-conscious.

No response.

You shift your weight slightly, watching her, and that’s when you notice—her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, white-knuckled. Her jaw has gone slack. And her knees—her knees are actually, visibly weak.

You narrow your eyes. “Are you okay?”

She finally seems to snap back to reality—only she doesn’t look at your face. No, her gaze is locked firmly lower, just slightly south of where your collarbone dips beneath the robe’s neckline.

You follow her line of sight. Then, after a pause, you slowly cross your arms over your chest. Shadowheart’s lips press together, her eyes still glued downward. You snap your fingers in front of her face.

She flinches, blinking rapidly, as if being pulled from some sort of trance. “I—uh—”

You raise an eyebrow. “Were you staring at my chest this entire time?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Shadowheart—normally so composed, so controlled—actually flushes, a deep pink creeping up her pale cheeks. “No.”

You deadpan. “You absolutely were.”

Shadowheart clears her throat, straightening her posture in a pathetic attempt to regain dignity. “I was simply… admiring the craftsmanship of the robe.”

You narrow your eyes. “Uh-huh. The craftsmanship.”

She clears her throat again, glancing away. “Yes. The, uh… stitching is very fine.”

You take a slow step toward her, watching as her pupils dilate slightly. “You’re still staring.”

Shadowheart swallows, her voice quieter now. “Can you blame me?”

You smirk, amused by her rare flustered state. “I could if you were being a little less obvious about it.”

Shadowheart exhales sharply, her hands twitching at her sides as if she desperately wants to touch but is restraining herself. Then, after a pause, she exhales and looks up at you with something unreadable in her expression—an almost challenging glint.

“Perhaps I should be punished for my bad manners,” she murmurs, voice deceptively soft. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You feel your smirk widen, a slow heat curling in your chest. “Oh? Is that so?”

Shadowheart tilts her head slightly, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “I am but a humble servant of Shar, after all. I do enjoy a little… discipline.”

Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the insecurity you had felt earlier is a distant memory. Shadowheart isn’t just attracted to you—she’s weak for you.

And, well… maybe you can use that to your advantage.

Jaheira:

The Wavemother’s Robe feels wrong from the moment you put it on.

It’s soft, flowing, and light—too light. The way it drapes over your broad shoulders and cinches at your waist feels alien, unnatural. You tug at the fabric, scowling, adjusting the way it falls over your muscular frame, but it doesn’t help. You are a warrior. You’re built to cleave through enemies, to stand tall on the battlefield, to strike fear into those who would dare cross you. Not to wear something that makes you look like a damn priestess.

You glance at yourself in the mirror—well, as much of your reflection as you can see in the dull metal of your weapon. You could be intimidating in this, you suppose. It still shows the power in your arms, the strength in your stance. You could be some ancient warrior-goddess, draped in divinity, untouchable and terrible in your beauty.

…Or you could look ridiculous.

You exhale, shaking your head. This was a mistake. You should just take it off before anyone sees—

“Are you coming out, or are you just going to hide in there all night?”

Jaheira. You freeze, eyes widening slightly before you curse under your breath. There’s no escaping this now. Steeling yourself, you push open the flap of your tent and step out.

And Jaheira stops dead in her tracks. She had been approaching with her usual effortless confidence, arms crossed, brow raised, ready to tease you about how long you’d taken. But now?

Now she just stares.

Her mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out. Her sharp green eyes drag over your form—slowly, like she’s cataloging every inch of you, every detail. She’s standing stiffly, her jaw tight, her fingers twitching at her sides.

You hesitate. “…Jaheira?”

Nothing. Not even a blink. She is utterly, completely frozen.

You shift, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “You’re staring.”

At that, Jaheira blinks—like she’s just remembered how to function—and immediately scowls. “I—what—no, I am not.”

You smirk. “You absolutely are.”

“I am merely—” she cuts herself off, clears her throat, then attempts again. “—merely assessing your choice in attire.”

“Uh-huh.” You tilt your head, stepping closer. “And?”

Jaheira opens her mouth, then closes it. Her lips press into a firm, thin line, like she’s physically forcing herself not to say something she’ll regret. But then—gods help her—her gaze dips again, and you can see her willpower crumbling before your eyes.

A faint flush creeps up her neck.

You raise an eyebrow. “Jaheira… are you flustered?”

Her eyes narrow. “Of course not.”

You step closer, watching as her shoulders stiffen, watching as her gaze flickers—just briefly—to the way your muscles flex beneath the fabric.

She inhales sharply through her nose.

You let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Oh, this is fantastic.”

Jaheira groans, pinching the bridge of her nose as if physically pained. “Do not make me regret ever looking at you.”

You smirk. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”

She exhales, long and suffering, but now she refuses to meet your eyes—her pride won’t let her. Instead, she folds her arms behind her back, straightens her spine, and in the most dignified voice she can muster, says, “Well. I suppose you look… decent.”

Your grin widens. “Decent?”

She scowls. “Acceptable.”

You step even closer, lowering your voice. “Jaheira.”

She glares at you, and yet her ears have turned red. “Fine,” she snaps. “You look devastating. Now get away from me before I embarrass myself further.”

You laugh, throwing an arm around her shoulders despite her protests. “You already embarrassed yourself, my love.”

Jaheira groans into her hands, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into you just the slightest bit. And if you catch her sneaking another glance at you later that night—well, you’ll let her have that small victory.

hehehe I love writing my simpy horny girls. Also idek what I was on complaining that the Lucille font had changed, clearly my mac was just having a moment. Anyway hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

Hey! Just a question. I sent a request a few months ago (don't even remember when exactly), but I don't know if it got lost, if you have so many you still haven't gotten around to it, if you discarded it because you didn't like it or if I sent it as anon and missed when you posted it. It was about the BG3 ladies reacting to Tav/Reader (preferably female, but no gender is ok too) telling them she doesn't want to have kids.

Could you tell me which one of all the scenarios it is? Hope I didn't come across as impatient or anything. Your writing is incredible and I understand that posts like yours take a lot of time and effort. Thanks a lot!

Tumblr acc does eat my inbox up like a starved person. I only delete asks if they go against the rules or the inbox is not open. I definitely remember coming across this ask but I cannot find it anywhere in my inbox, please feel free to send it in again xx

[moonselune]

hey moony, can i bribe you with coffee, and if so, how much does it need to be? i am literally starving and i need more jaheira in my life.

(and actual picture of me, suffering) :(

awh, I mean I have never thought about opening commissions, is that something people would be open to? It feels so presumptious of me, but I guess if people want to skip the queue - idk lmk what y'all think

to ease your suffering there is some more jaheira coming soon!

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 15)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Wife!reader

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part ten part eleven part twelve part thirteen part fourteen

CW: Blood, gore

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Kyorlin adjusted his hold on Lythaera, his arms cradling her swaddled form tightly. Her small body was cocooned in dark fabric, preventing her from thrashing or trying to escape, but it didn’t stop her from wriggling in frustration. She glared at him with fiery defiance, her expression so much like her mother's that Kyorlin couldn’t help but smirk despite the situation.

“You can glare all you want, but you’re going to listen,” he said, his voice firm yet softened with an almost brotherly tone.

Lythaera grumbled, her lips pursed in a pout, but she stilled.

“Good,” Kyorlin said, adjusting her slightly as he began his tale. “Do you know why you’re so important, Lythaera?” He didn’t wait for her response. “It’s because of who we are—who you are. You’re descended from Liakyre, an aasimar, and a daughter of the goddess Eilistraee.”

At the mention of the name, Lythaera’s brow furrowed deeply. “Bad,” she said simply, her voice muffled slightly by the fabric.

Kyorlin chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You only think she’s bad because that’s what Lolth and her priestesses have drilled into you. That’s what all of us were taught. But Eilistraee fights for our freedom, Lythaera. She doesn’t want us chained to the darkness.”

Lythaera squirmed at his words, her little face scrunching up in disapproval.

“No!” she declared vehemently, her voice rising. “Eilistraee betrayed Mother Lolth! She is an insult to all drow kind!”

Kyorlin sighed, rolling his eyes. “By the Abyss, you sound just like your mother.” He smirked a little at that. “She drilled that into you well, didn’t she?”

Lythaera gave him a triumphant glare, as much as her limited movements allowed.

“Fine,” Kyorlin said, shifting into a softer tone as he continued. “But let me tell you the real story—the one Lolth doesn’t want you to know.”

He began walking again, the sound of his boots echoing softly in the quiet tunnel.

“Liakyre was an aasimar, born of Eilistraee and a mortal man. She was a beacon of light, meant to unite drow and surface dwellers alike. But Lolth, ever the schemer, saw an opportunity. She seduced Liakyre with promises of power, twisting her into a weapon to use against her own mother.”

Lythaera tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

“Eilistraee tried to save her daughter, to bring her back to the light,” Kyorlin continued. “But Liakyre was too far gone. She led armies of drow to slaughter in Lolth’s name, spreading chaos and death. In the end, Eilistraee was forced to make an impossible decision. She killed her own daughter to stop her terror.”

“No,” Lythaera whispered, her voice small but defiant.

“Yes,” Kyorlin said firmly. “And she grieved, Lythaera. She grieved deeply. But she didn’t give up. She turned her focus to Liakyre’s children—our ancestors. She wanted to lead them into the light, to free them from Lolth’s lies. But Lolth had other plans. She kept us in the dark, downtrodden, using us as pawns in her endless schemes.”

Lythaera shook her head, her tiny hands balled into fists against the swaddling.

“Any of Liakyre’s descendants who showed power, she hid,” Kyorlin said, his tone growing more intense. “She used them for her gain, ensuring they never realized their true potential. And then, your mother came along.”

At the mention of you, Lythaera stilled completely, her eyes wide.

“Your mother,” Kyorlin said, his voice softening, “was something Lolth couldn’t hide. Her power was too great, her will too strong. Lolth bound her to House Baenre to ensure her loyalty, to keep her in the cycle. And now she’s doing the same to you.”

“No,” Lythaera said again, but her voice wavered this time.

“Yes,” Kyorlin said, his voice steady. “But you, Lythaera—you’re going to break that cycle. Eilistraee is fighting for you, and so am I. And whether you believe it or not, you’ll see the truth soon enough.”

Lythaera’s lips trembled, but she didn’t say anything more. Kyorlin glanced down at her, his expression softening.

“You’re stronger than you know, little one,” he said quietly. “And I’ll make sure you live to realize it.”

As he continued down the tunnel, the crystalline spider hidden in Lythaera’s robes clicked softly, its presence a silent promise that her true family was coming for her—and that Lolth’s wrath was close behind.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The air in the Underdark is thick, heavy with the promise of violence. Every shadow seems alive, every faint sound echoing like a war drum in your ears. You move with purpose, your body still weary from the ordeal of giving birth mere hours ago, but your resolve burns brighter than the pain. Lolth’s presence lingers around you, an invisible shroud of power and rage, fuelling your every step. Minthara strides beside you, the sacred cocoon bound securely to her chest, its silken threads pulsing faintly with life.

She shifts uncomfortably, still adjusting to the weight and balance of carrying a newborn in such a way. In all this horror it is the one thing you manage to find amusing, a small smirk tugging at your lips despite the grim circumstances.

"Not so easy, is it?" you murmur, your tone teasing. "At least now you understand what carrying a child feels like."

Minthara huffs but says nothing, her focus sharp and her sword hand steady. Her other hand briefly touches the cocoon as if to reassure herself the baby is safe. She may not voice it, but her protective instincts have already wrapped around the child as tightly as the silk encasing her.

Ahead, the meeting point comes into view. Melinoe and Lesaonar wait in the shadows, their forms barely visible until you draw closer. Melinoe stands tall, her daggers sheathed but her posture radiating readiness. Lesaonar, as always, looks slightly out of place, his bow slung over his shoulder more for show than practicality.

As soon as they see you, Lesaonar's jaw drops. His gaze flickers between your face, still pale but determined, and Minthara’s chest, where the cocoon rests.

“Are you serious?” he exclaims, his voice carrying just a hint of a whine. “You just gave birth! I bet you don’t even have a name for her yet, and you’re out here?”

“Keep your voice down,” Minthara growls, her eyes narrowing. Though she doesn't answer him, it is true, neither of you had yet thought of a name for the babe. “Do you want to alert every Seldarine lackey in the Underdark?”

Lesaonar throws up his hands but lowers his voice, leaning closer.

“Fine, but you can’t expect me to pretend this is normal! A newborn strapped to your chest like some kind of battle talisman, and her,” he gestures to you, “barely able to stand, yet charging into battle!”

“I’m standing just fine,” you snap, your crimson eyes glinting dangerously. “And we don’t have the luxury of time, Lesaonar. Kyorlin has my daughter, and I will not let her be offered to that false goddess.”

Melinoe steps forward, her sharp eyes scanning you briefly before settling on the cocoon. Her expression softens, something akin to awe flickering across her features.

“That’s… sacred silk,” she murmurs. “The babe is blessed by Lolth herself.”

Minthara nods stiffly. “The healers believe she’ll break through the cocoon when she’s strong enough. Until then, she stays with me.”

Lesaonar pinches the bridge of his nose. “You two are insane. Absolutely insane. And yet, here we are.”

“Here we are,” you agree coldly and Lesaonar cannot help but shrink within himself, remembering what happened to the duegar when he last say you in this state. You press them, “What have you found?”

Melinoe takes over, her tone brisk. “We’ve tracked them. They’re heading to the surface, but the Seldarine forces are larger than we anticipated. They’re attacking in waves, clearly trying to stall us.”

Lesaonar crosses his arms. “We believe Kyorlin is offering Lythaera to Eilistraee. To appease her, to gain her favour.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You don’t reply immediately, but the way your fists clench speaks volumes.

“Then we don’t have time to waste,” you say finally, your voice low and full of menace. “We press forward.”

Minthara’s hand briefly brushes yours as you both step past Melinoe and Lesaonar. The bond between you, forged in blood and strengthened by shared purpose, is unshakable.

Moments later, as the cavern walls narrow and the echoes of distant footsteps reach your ears, the seldarine ambush springs. It begins as all chaos does—sudden and violent. Melinoe tenses, her blades drawn in an instant, and Lesaonar stumbles back, fumbling for his bow. From the shadows, a group of Seldarine extremists surges forward, their weapons gleaming in the faint light.

“Ambush!” Melinoe hisses, already disappearing into the darkness, her movements swift and silent.

Minthara steps in front of you instinctively, her blade raised, the silk cocoon swaying slightly with her movements. You call forth your magic, the air around you crackling with power as bolts of energy fly from your fingertips. The extremists rush toward you, their chants mingling with the clash of steel.

The cavern is alive with chaos as the battle rages. Minthara fights with a ferocity that borders on reckless considering what is attached to her, her longsword cleaving through enemy after enemy with sheer brute strength. Her strikes send enemies staggering backward, her presence alone forcing them to reconsider their approach. Each movement is a calculated offense, her aggression an unrelenting tide.

Melinoe, on the other hand, is a shadow slipping through the battlefield. Silent and swift, she darts between enemies, her twin daggers flashing as they find vulnerable necks and exposed arteries. Her movements are elegant, each kill precise and clean. She’s almost invisible in the gloom, a predator among prey.

You stand at the center, the eye of the storm, waves of magical energy radiating from you. Bolts of eldritch power streak through the air, cutting down foes before they can even reach you. Shields of dark energy deflect incoming attacks, but your focus is split. Melinoe stays close, circling you protectively, dispatching anyone who dares approach too close.

Lesaonar, meanwhile, cowers behind you, clutching a delicate-looking bow that’s clearly seen little use. He occasionally looses an arrow, though his aim leaves much to be desired.

“I’m a courtesan, not a warrior!” he complains, ducking as an arrow narrowly misses his head.

Melinoe glances at him over her shoulder, a sly smile on her lips even as she plunges a dagger into an enemy’s throat. “This is why I love you, husband. You’re so… pathetic.”

Lesaonar straightens indignantly, sputtering. “Pathetic? I just saved your life!”

Minthara, cutting down another enemy with a vicious swing, snorts loudly. “How? By hiding behind your sister and missing half your shots? Melinoe, I’ll never understand what you see in him.”

Lesaonar pouts, offended, and turns to you for support. “Sister! Tell them I’m not useless!”

You sigh, hurling another bolt of magic that sends an attacker flying.

“Lesaonar,” you say, your tone dry, “you are still lovingly pathetic. But Minthara and Melinoe can save their bickering after we’ve dealt with this.”

“Thank you!” Lesaonar says, relieved—until your words sink in. “Wait, what?”

Melinoe laughs softly, delivering a swift kick to an enemy’s knee before slashing his throat. “Even your sister thinks you’re pathetic, darling.”

Lesaonar groans but doesn’t have time to argue as the battle intensifies. Minthara shouts over the chaos, “Focus! Unless you want to be dragging your husband’s corpse back to the infirmary!”

Lesaonar’s eyes widen, and he ducks behind you again as another wave of enemies closes in. You roll your eyes but can’t help the faint smirk tugging at your lips as you unleash another spell. Despite the chaos, the banter provides a strange sense of normalcy, a reminder that even in the heat of battle, your peculiar family dynamic remains unchanged.

But as another wave of attackers begins to close in, you feel a surge of frustration at their persistence.

“Enough of this pointless rabble,” you mutter under your breath, clenching your fists. The air around you crackles with energy, and with a sharp gesture, you summon two towering driders from the shadows.

The first drider steps forward, its spider legs clicking ominously against the stone floor. Its twisted form is unmistakable: it was once the acolyte who betrayed you and Minthara on your wedding day, forever cursed for her insolence. The second drider emerges a moment later, and Minthara and Melinoe both freeze in shock.

“Valindra?” Melinoe’s voice is incredulous as she stares at the familiar face twisted into a monstrous form. “She was supposed to be on the front lines.”

Minthara’s eyes narrow. “She made it back months ago. Why is she—” Her gaze shifts to you. “What did you do?”

You glance at Valindra, her monstrous form looming over you, and shrug nonchalantly.

“She made a comment about Verona,” you say simply, referring to Valindra’s daughter, the head of your mistress’ guard. The latter the only ones trusted to hold down House Baenre in their absence. “I didn’t like it.”

Minthara stares at you, her expression torn between disbelief and amusement. “You cursed her into a drider over a comment?”

“Of course,” Melinoe murmurs, shaking her head with a smirk. “This kind of pettiness is usually beneath the Mistress, but when it comes to Verona…”

Minthara chuckles, despite herself, and raises an eyebrow at you. “You’re full of surprises.”

You turn and glare at them both, your crimson eyes flashing. “Do you two mind? We’re in the middle of a battle.”

“Don’t mind us,” Minthara says with a faint grin. “We’re just marveling at your ability to hold a grudge.”

Melinoe smirks. “It’s inspiring, really.”

You shake your head, ignoring their teasing as you stride forward. The driders loom behind you, their presence enough to send a ripple of fear through the enemy ranks. Whatever doubts or distractions linger are banished by the renewed urgency of the fight.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The battlefield falls eerily silent in the aftermath of your summoned driders' rampage, their monstrous forms casting long, jagged shadows in the flickering light of glowing fungi. The air is thick with the scent of blood and the tang of magic, and yet you find no satisfaction in the victory. Your crimson eyes scan the ground, noting the shattered remains of enemy weapons and the lifeless forms of the Seldarine extremists. They had been reckless in their assault, and now you understand why.

“They targeted the mounts,” Minthara growls, stepping beside you. Her voice is low, almost a snarl, as she adjusts the silk sling cradling the newborn. “Ours and theirs. They wanted to slow us.”

Your gaze shifts to the remains of the spiders you rode in on, their legs curled inward in death. The extremists’ mounts are no better, their bodies strewn across the battlefield as if the attackers had slain their own to ensure you would be forced to continue on foot. Your fists clench at your sides, magic sparking along your fingers.

“This will cost us time,” Melinoe murmurs, returning from the shadows where she had been scouting. Her voice is calm, but her sharp eyes betray her concern. “If we wait for another scouting party to find us, we’ll lose hours. By foot, it’ll take half a day to reach the surface.”

“A half day?” you snap, your voice echoing through the cavern. “By then, Kyorlin will have done whatever twisted ritual he has planned. Lythaera…” You can’t finish the sentence, your rage surging at the thought of your daughter being offered up to Eilistraee.

Lesaonar shifts uncomfortably behind you. “Sister, calm yourself,” he says hesitantly, gesturing to the blood still staining your fresh robes. “You’re going to reopen your stitches from labor.”

You whirl on him, your eyes blazing. “Calm myself? You expect me to be calm when my daughter is in the hands of traitors? When we have no mounts and precious little time?”

Before Lesaonar can respond, your attention is drawn to a faint, pained groan nearby. One of the extremists is still alive, clutching at a bloodied wound as they murmur prayers to Eilistraee. In a few swift strides, you are upon them, your hand gripping the front of their armor as you drag them upright.

“Where is my daughter?” you demand, your voice a low growl that reverberates through the cavern. “Where is Kyorlin taking her?”

The extremist’s eyes are unfocused, their lips moving in a ceaseless prayer. “Eilistraee’s light… she will guide us… guide her…”

Your patience snaps. The raw power coursing through your veins surges outward as you hurl the extremist to the ground, a blast of magic tearing through their chest and silencing their prayers. The echo of the strike reverberates through the cavern, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.

“Enough of this,” you hiss, your hands trembling with the lingering energy of your spell. The glow of your magic reflects in the widened eyes of your companions as they stare at you, their expressions shifting from frustration to astonishment.

“Behind you,” Minthara says softly, her voice tinged with awe.

You whirl around, magic sparking at your fingertips, but the sight that greets you stops you in your tracks. Emerging from the shadows is the crystalline matriarch, her massive, shimmering form radiating an otherworldly light. Her multifaceted eyes glint like prisms, and her eight legs move with deliberate grace. Behind her, two large crystalline spiders flank her, their chitin glistening like polished gems.

The sight is both awe-inspiring and deeply familiar. Memories flood your mind—of your youth, when you sought refuge in the crystalline caverns, earning the respect of the matriarch and her brood. Now, as she looms before you, it is clear her presence is no coincidence.

The matriarch’s towering form looms over you, her crystalline body shimmering faintly in the dim light of the cavern. Her multifaceted eyes glint like polished gems, reflecting your bloodstained, exhausted figure in sharp fragments. She steps closer, her long legs clicking softly against the stone floor, her movements deliberate and cautious.

You stand still, allowing her approach, your breath catching in your throat as she lowers her massive head toward you. One of her sharp yet delicate legs brushes against your arm, the touch oddly tender for such a fearsome creature. It’s as if she can sense your exhaustion, the deep ache in your body from giving birth just hours ago, and the raw, protective desperation that fuels you.

The matriarch chitters softly, the sound reverberating through the cavern. You’ve heard it before, long ago, when you sought refuge among her brood as a young drow. Her presence was a sanctuary then, and now, that same comfort washes over you. She knows. She understands.

You reach out, your hand trembling slightly, and place it against her crystalline surface.

“I need you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “She’s gone. I need her back.”

The matriarch lets out a low, resonant chitter, and her antennae twitch in what feels like acknowledgment. Without hesitation, she shifts her body lower, settling herself into a position that allows you to mount.

Minthara steps forward, the silk cocoon cradled protectively against her chest. She hesitates for a moment, her gaze flickering between you and the matriarch. You nod, and she moves with careful precision, climbing onto the matriarch’s broad back beside you. She adjusts the cocoon, ensuring it is secure before placing a steadying hand on your arm.

“Are you sure about this?” Minthara asks, her voice low.

“I am,” you reply, though your voice wavers slightly.

Behind you, Melinoe and Lesaonar stand before the two smaller crystalline spiders that flank the matriarch. Both creatures are imposing, their jagged legs clicking as they shift impatiently.

“I don’t like this,” Lesaonar mutters, eyeing the spider nearest him with open apprehension. “These aren’t battle spiders. They’re…” He trails off, his face pale. These spiders were notoriously savage and Lesaoanar was not going to disregard that over convenience.

“They’re my allies,” you say sharply, your tone leaving no room for argument. “They won’t harm you.”

Melinoe steps forward without hesitation, her daggers still in hand. She places a hand on the spider’s smooth surface, her expression calm despite the obvious danger.

“If they’re with us, then I trust them,” she says simply. She climbs onto the spider’s back with practiced grace, casting a glance over her shoulder at Lesaonar. “Come on, darling,” she says, smirking. “It’s not so bad.”

Lesaonar groans but reluctantly approaches the other spider. “This is not what I signed up for,” he mutters, climbing onto the creature with far less elegance than his wife. He clings to its back, his knuckles white. “I’m a courtesan, not a spider rider.”

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a drow,” Minthara mutters under her breath, earning a sharp glare from Lesaonar.

“Enough,” you snap, your tone cutting through their bickering. “We don’t have time for this.”

With everyone mounted, you turn your gaze to the driders that loom nearby. Their grotesque forms shift in the shadows, their monstrous eyes fixed on you.

“Scout ahead,” you command, your voice cold and firm. “Deal with any Seldarine ambushes.”

The driders hiss in acknowledgment and skitter off into the darkness, their presence a chilling reminder of your power and wrath.

As the matriarch begins to move, her steps deliberate and purposeful, you feel a flicker of hope ignite within you. She isn’t wandering aimlessly. Her movements are precise, her path deliberate. She knows where Lythaera is.

The realization hits you like a tidal wave, and your throat tightens with emotion. Tears prick at your eyes as you lean forward, pressing your forehead against the matriarch’s smooth surface.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

You can’t stop yourself from leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to her crystalline head. The matriarch chitters softly in response, her legs moving with unwavering determination.

Behind you, Melinoe and Lesaonar exchange a glance. Melinoe’s expression is soft, a rare show of vulnerability. Lesaonar, clinging tightly to his spider, mutters something about needing a drink when this is over.

Minthara rests a hand on your arm, her grip steady.

“We’ll get her back,” she says quietly.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The surface air is thick and stifling compared to the cool, damp depths of the Underdark. Kyorlin pauses at the cave's threshold, the harsh glow of the sun spilling into the entrance like molten gold, stark and unforgiving. The extremists gather around him, their expressions tense. They are drow, born to the dark, and while they have dedicated themselves to Eilistraee’s path, stepping into the light still feels unnatural—dangerous.

One of the extremists, a younger male with wide, wary eyes, swallows thickly before speaking.

“Our scouts reported… strange things.” His voice is low, uncertain. “They say we are being hunted. That driders stalk the tunnels behind us.”

Kyorlin turns to him sharply.

“Rumors,” he says, though there’s a hard edge to his voice. “Fearful whispers. Lolth’s filth may be chasing us, but they do not command driders.” He forces confidence into his tone, even if part of him wonders whether that’s a lie.

The extremists shift uneasily. Kyorlin knows they feel it too—the growing weight of bloodshed, the echoes of slaughter in the distance. The presence of something monstrous closing in. But they cannot falter now.

He exhales and turns to the still-unconscious form of Lythaera, cradled between two of the extremists. She is their future. Eilistraee’s chosen. He kneels beside her and murmurs an incantation, weaving protective wards over her pale skin. A soft silver glow spreads over her, sinking into her flesh. It should shield her from the worst of the sun’s wrath—enough to let her stand beneath it as she was meant to. With a final glance at his followers, Kyorlin nods.

“Step forward,” he commands. One by one, they move, emerging from the cave’s mouth into the blinding light.

The moment Lythaera’s body touches the sun, she screams.

A raw, agonized sound tears from her throat as her skin begins to sear. She thrashes, breaking from the extremists holding her, and collapses onto the ground. Smoke rises from her exposed skin, and blistering burns bloom across her arms and face.

The wards—his protection—are failing.

“No—no, no, no—” Kyorlin moves swiftly, reaching for her as she convulses, her cries turning hoarse.

The extremists drag her toward the shade of a nearby outcropping, their voices panicked.

“It’s Lolth,” Kyorlin hisses, his hands shaking as he hovers over Lythaera. He clenches his jaw. “She’s punishing her for embracing the light. For choosing Eilistraee.”

The extremists murmur in horror, their eyes darting between Lythaera’s trembling form and the bright, cursed sky above.

But Lythaera doesn’t hear Kyorlin’s words. She chokes on a sob, curling in on herself, her body wracked with pain.

“I—I'm on fire!” she gasps. “Fire!"

The words cut through the group like a blade, hearts breaking for the girl, their resolve beginning to waver. And then, a new sound—high-pitched, sharp, frantic.

A small, crystalline spider scuttles from the folds of Lythaera’s robe, its iridescent body catching the cruel sunlight. It chitters in distress, its delicate legs twitching as it presses itself against Lythaera’s burned skin. Kyorlin recoils. His heart stutters.

Lolth’s spawn.

His hands clench into fists, his breath coming in ragged, furious bursts. He lunges, hand raised, ready to crush the wretched creature beneath his palm—

But his fingers never connect. The crystalline spider moves faster than his eye can track, darting out of reach and vanishing back into Lythaera’s clothing.

“Damn it,” Kyorlin snarls. “We've been tracked this entire time, which means they are close. We need to move now!”

The extremists scramble into motion, hefting Lythaera’s barely-conscious form between them. Kyorlin grips the hilt of his sword, his eyes flashing with rage and something else—something dangerously close to fear. Behind them, deep in the tunnels they left behind, the shadows stir with movement. And Kyorlin knows: whatever is coming for them is nearly here.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn. I promised another chapter and here it is. Poor lythaera... but seems she isn't as powerless as Minthara thinks if you are picking up what I'm putting down...

Hope you guys enjoyed it, please let me know in the comments and I cherish and adore every single like and interaction. Love you all! Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

I literally check your page everyday for new writings and I'm never disappointed! I wanted to make a request too!

I wanted to ask how the ladies would react with a Tav that got into a lot of fistfights. They don't always win them and it isn't always their fault but they like to pick fights at bars or purposely defend someone getting harassed and egging on a fight. Sometimes they roll a nat 20 on intimidation sometimes it's a nat 1 lol.

Maybe Karlach and Lae'zel would be on board until Tav comes back with a broken jaw or something, maybe Jaheira can actually keep Tav from getting into silly little fights, and I'm not sure about Shadowheart and Minthara. Probably oh my god calm down until someone talks shit and then it's hold my mace lol.

But those are just my little thoughts, I'd like to know yours! Thank you for your content! I know it's free but let me get back on my feet with my job and possible school and I will definitely 'buy you a coffee'!

Omg thank you and absolutely no worries, I know what it's like x I also adore this idea!

Karlach:

The tavern was alive with the sounds of laughter, off-key singing, and the occasional slurred argument. You and Karlach were right in the thick of it, your arms draped around each other as you reveled in the end of another rowdy night. It had become something of a tradition—going out, drinking, getting into a fight with someone who deserved it, and stumbling home bruised but victorious.

Karlach loved it. The energy, the thrill, the righteous satisfaction of knocking a bastard flat on his ass. And tonight had been no different—until it was.

The fight started the way they usually did. Some drunkard got too handsy with a barmaid, or someone made a snide remark they thought they could get away with. This time, it was the latter—some slimy, overconfident lout made a crude comment about Karlach’s infernal engine, something about how "fiery" she must be in bed. You hadn’t even glanced at Karlach before your fist was already flying.

The man staggered back, stunned, and for a split second, the whole tavern went quiet. Then it erupted into chaos.

Karlach, naturally, was thrilled.

She let out a bark of laughter, slamming her gauntleted fist into the nearest idiot who had decided to back up his friend. Chairs crashed, drinks spilled, and you could feel the energy crackling between the two of you. It was exhilarating, chaotic, perfect.

Until the bastard you’d punched recovered enough to swing back.

You barely had time to register the movement before his fist connected with your nose. A sickening crunch filled the air, pain exploded across your face, and you stumbled back, hands immediately flying up to your face as blood started pouring down your lips and chin.

"Shit."

Karlach’s laughter died instantly.

The brawl was still raging around you, but she didn’t give a damn anymore. She was at your side in a heartbeat, her hands hovering uncertainly near your face, her eyes wide and frantic.

"Oh my gods, babe, your nose!"

You let out a wet, congested-sounding snort, still clutching your face, trying to wave her off with one hand.

"I’m fine!" you protested, though it came out more like ’mb ffbb’ through the blood.

Karlach did not look convinced. In fact, she looked horrified. "This was stupid! This was so fucking stupid—why do we do this?! Why do I let you do this?!"

You peeked up at her through teary, swelling eyes. "Because it’s fun?"

"Not anymore!" she snapped, her voice high with panic. "I just watched your nose break like a fucking twig! That’s not fun, that’s just—gods, baby, you’re bleeding so much—*"

She was fretting. Karlach, warrior of the Hells, the strongest person you knew, was fretting over you. It would have been adorable if your face didn’t feel like it was on fire.

"It’s fine, it’s fine," you tried again, sniffling through the pain. "Just—ugh—gimme a second, I’ll pop it back into place—"

"Oh, no the fuck you won’t!" Karlach seized your wrists, stopping you before you could do something truly regrettable. "We’re getting you out of here. Now."

The fight was still going on around you, but Karlach didn’t care. She scooped you up like you weighed nothing, barreled through the crowd, and stormed outside into the cool night air. You protested weakly, mumbling something about how you could walk, but Karlach was having none of it.

She sat you down on the nearest crate, gripping your face with both hands, tilting it this way and that as she examined the damage.

"This was so fucking dumb," she muttered under her breath, reaching for a rag from her belt to press against your nose. "We’re dumb. I let this happen. Why did I let this happen?*"

You chuckled, though it quickly turned into a groan. "You love it."

"*Not when you get hurt! Gods, I love fighting with you, but not like this! Not when you’re the one bleeding all over yourself!"

You blinked up at her, finally taking in the genuine distress in her eyes, the guilt flickering across her face. You frowned slightly. "Karlach, love, it’s just a broken nose—"

"Just a broken nose?" she repeated incredulously. "Babe, that’s your face! The face I love! Gods, what if it was worse? What if next time someone has a knife, or a club, or a godsdamned crossbow?"

You sighed, wincing as she dabbed at the blood trickling down your lips.

"I’m stronger than I look, you know," you murmured, voice softer now. "I’ve been withstanding pain like this my whole life."

Karlach froze, her brows knitting together as she stared at you. Then, slowly, she cupped your cheek, her touch infinitely more gentle than it had been just moments before.

"I know," she murmured, her thumb stroking softly against your skin. "That’s what scares me. You just take it. Like it’s normal. Like it’s okay."

You swallowed thickly, something in your chest clenching at the raw sincerity in her voice.

"It’s not okay," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "*You don’t *have* to just take it. You don’t have to prove how strong you are to me—I already know how strong you are. But, love, just once… could you not charge headfirst into a brawl? Could you let me have your back instead of always trying to throw yourself into danger?*"

Your throat tightened. Gods, she meant it. She wasn’t just upset over the fight—she was scared. For you. You sighed, your shoulders sagging slightly.

"Okay," you murmured. "I’ll try."

Karlach searched your face, as if making sure you were telling the truth. Then she let out a breath and finally cracked a small, wobbly smile.

"Damn right you will," she said, booping your still-bleeding nose.

You yelped. "Karlach!"

She laughed, loud and warm, the tension finally breaking. "C’mon, soldier. Let’s get you cleaned up before I decide to swaddle you like a baby."

You groaned, but leaned into her touch anyway as she fussed over you all the way home.

Minthara:

The moment you step into Minthara’s tent, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake.

You’re limping. There’s dried blood at the corner of your mouth, your ribs ache like they’ve been used for target practice, and your knuckles are torn to hell. Shadowheart, who was supposed to be your partner in crime tonight, is nowhere to be found—passed out drunk in her tent, completely useless to you. Halsin is off getting freaky in nature, which left only one option. The love of your life.

Minthara.

You barely make it through the entrance before she looks up from sharpening her dagger, her piercing gaze sweeping over you. She doesn’t even need to say anything. The flicker of amusement, followed immediately by exasperation, is enough to make you shrink.

"You’re limping." Her tone is flat.

You clear your throat. "Slightly."

She sets her dagger down with an almost deliberate slowness. "And your lip is split."

"Possibly."

Her gaze narrows. "And you’re holding your ribs like an old man clutching his coin purse."

You drop your arm to your side immediately. "That’s purely coincidental."

Minthara tilts her head, watching you like a cat watches a particularly slow-moving mouse. "Let me see if I understand this correctly. I told you, explicitly, not to get into a fight because you are still recovering from the last time you got your head caved in—"

"In my defense," you interrupt, raising a hand, "he started it."

"Did he?" she deadpans.

"Okay, I may have called his mother a gelatinous cube, but in my defense, he deserved it."

Minthara exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "You absolute fool."

You grin sheepishly, but before you can utter another word, she’s already on you.

"You are aware," she begins, rising to her feet, "that I knew you would do this. That I knew you would ignore me, prance off to some filthy dive, and do exactly what I told you not to. That you would come crawling back to me, bruised, bloodied, and in need of my mercy."

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Minthara smirks. "Admit it."

You shift on your feet, wincing. "…I may have slightly underestimated my opponents."

Minthara raises an eyebrow.

You sigh dramatically. "Fine! I got my ass beat, are you happy?"

She folds her arms. "Not yet."

You blink. "Wait, what?"

Minthara takes a slow, deliberate step toward you. "You want my healing?"

"Obviously?"

She leans in, smirking. "Beg."

Your stomach does a weird little flip. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She taps a single, sharp fingernail against your chest, right where the bruises are worst, and you almost double over. "I told you not to fight. You disobeyed. You got yourself beaten senseless. Now, you want my help? You want me to undo your idiocy?" Her lips curl. "Then beg."

You groan, tilting your head back dramatically. "Gods above, you are impossible."

"And yet, I am the only one here who can mend you."

You glance toward Shadowheart’s tent, then back to Minthara. She follows your gaze and smirks. "Oh, you thought the cleric would save you? Pity she can’t hold her liquor as well as she says, isn’t it?"

You hate how smug she is. With a long, suffering sigh, you drop to your knees in front of her, placing a dramatic hand over your chest.

"Oh, my dearest, cruelest, most merciful Minthara," you begin, voice laced with exaggerated desperation. "I was a fool, an arrogant fool. I should have listened to your wise words, and now I am paying the price. Please, my love, my heart, my ever-so-beautiful goddess of destruction—will you please heal me before my ribs collapse inward and puncture my lungs?"

Minthara lets you grovel for a moment longer, clearly savoring it, before finally rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath. Warm, golden light spreads through your body, mending the worst of your injuries, easing the ache in your ribs, and sealing the split in your lip.

You sigh in relief. "Thank you."

"You are still a fool."

"Yes, but I’m your fool." You flash her a cocky grin. "And since I was very nearly murdered tonight, I think I deserve some cuddles."

Minthara scoffs. "Cuddles?"

"Yes." You flop dramatically onto her cot, holding your arms out expectantly. "I require immediate comfort."

Minthara stares at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether to throw you out of the tent entirely. But, after a second, she sighs and shakes her head. "You are insufferable."

"And you love me."

She grumbles something under her breath but, to your delight, she climbs in beside you, settling in with a huff. You immediately pull her close, pressing your face against the crook of her neck, and for all her earlier scoffing, she doesn’t pull away.

"Next time," she mutters against your skin, "*I am breaking your legs myself so you can’t go out.*"

You chuckle sleepily. "Kinky."

She smacks the back of your head.

Lae'zel:

Lae’zel watched from the corner of the tavern, arms crossed, as you moved through the chaos of the fight like a blade through flesh.

At first, she was impressed. Even intoxicated, your form was strong, your strikes well-placed. You dodged and countered with the reflexes of a trained fighter, and she felt the faintest flicker of approval at your skill.

But then she noticed.

Your footing was loose. Your balance wavered just slightly. You were relying more on instinct than control, and that was dangerous. And then the fool you were fighting landed a solid hit to your jaw, sending you stumbling back. Her admiration quickly turned to anger.

"Enough."

Lae’zel moved before she even registered the thought, her body reacting purely on instinct. In a blur of motion, she was at your side, shoving you behind her as she punched your opponent square in the face. The sound of breaking bone rang through the tavern. The man collapsed like a sack of grain.

The room fell silent.

Lae’zel scanned the other patrons, her glare sharp enough to cut. No one dared step forward. She turned back to you.

"You idiot," she hissed, her voice low and furious. Before you could protest, she bent down and hauled you up, throwing you over her shoulder like you weighed nothing.

"Lae’zel—hey—put me down!"

She didn’t listen and with a huff, she carried you out of the tavern, ignoring your weak protests and the scattered laughter from the remaining patrons.

"This is humiliating," you groaned, letting your body go limp.

"It is what you deserve," Lae’zel snapped. "What kind of warrior allows themselves to get so inebriated they cannot even hold their stance properly?"

You pouted, wincing as the motion pulled at your split lip. "I was doing fine."

"You were losing."

You grumbled under your breath, crossing your arms against her back. "I had it handled."

"You were struck in the face like a witless hatchling."

"Only once—"

"Enough." Her grip on you tightened as she carried you back to camp, her muscles flexing as she adjusted your weight with ease. "You are stronger than this. You are better than this. You disgrace yourself by allowing drink to make a fool of you. I cannot stand it, I cannot stand to watch you get hurt"

You sighed, the room spinning either from the amount of drink you had consumed or the blossoming concussion. "You care."

"I am irritated."

"You really care," you repeated, your voice a little softer this time. "If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be carrying me."

Lae’zel was silent for a moment. Then she exhaled sharply, the sound closer to a sigh than she’d ever admit.

"You are mine," she muttered at last. "And I will not allow you to be so careless with yourself."

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. Even through the pain in your jaw, even through the exhaustion settling over you, warmth bloomed in your chest.

"You’re a terrible liar," you murmured, pressing your forehead against her shoulder. Lae’zel scoffed but said nothing. And though her voice was sharp, her hold on you was gentle all the way back to camp.

Shadowheart:

"You are not getting into that fight."

Shadowheart’s voice cut through the noise of the tavern, sharp and unwavering. She stood with her arms crossed, her dark eyes fixed on you with a mix of warning and exasperation. She had that look—the look—the one that meant she was already planning the I told you so speech for later.

You, in your infinite wisdom and three drinks deep, shot her a lopsided grin. "Come on, it’s just a bit of fun."

"Fun?" she repeated, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "Oh yes, of course. Who doesn’t enjoy getting their teeth knocked out by some brainless drunk?"

You chuckled, rolling your shoulders in preparation. "It won’t come to that."

"You’re drunk," she pointed out, unimpressed.

"Just a little!"

"That’s exactly my point." Shadowheart sighed, rubbing her temple like she was already exhausted by you. "Don’t do this."

But, predictably, you ignored her. And the fight broke out not even five minutes later. Crawling back to camp was nothing short of humiliating.

You limped towards Shadowheart’s tent, every step punctuated by a sharp, pulsing pain in your ribs. Your lip was split, your jaw ached from a particularly nasty punch, and you were fairly certain your nose was either broken or very close to it.

And to make matters worse? Shadowheart was waiting.

She was seated on her bedroll, calmly polishing her armor in the dim glow of the campfire. She barely spared you a glance as you shuffled in, cradling your ribs.

"Go on," she said without looking up. "Say it."

You hesitated. "…Say what?"

She finally turned, her dark eyes locking onto yours with unrestrained amusement. "You know exactly what."

You shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, wincing as pain flared through your side. "I might need some healing."

"Might?"

You groaned, defeated. "Definitely. I definitely need some healing."

Shadowheart sighed, but there was something smug in the way she set her armor aside and motioned for you to sit. "Unbelievable."

You slumped down beside her, biting back a hiss of pain as you did. A soft, warm glow spread from her fingertips as she channeled her magic, the soothing energy flowing through your body and mending the worst of your injuries.

And then—

"Oh, you poor thing," she cooed, her tone suddenly dripping with mock sympathy. "Did the big bad fight not go your way?"

Your eyes snapped open. "What?"

She patted your head. Patted you, like you were some foolish child who had fallen off a horse. "Didn’t listen to me, did you? Nooo, of course not. That would have been smart."

You groaned. "Shadowheart—"

"Shhh," she hushed you, dramatically brushing a hand over your hair. "The grown-up is talking."

You scowled, but she only smirked, her fingers tilting your chin up so she could inspect your nose.

"Hmm," she mused, tapping it lightly, "you’re lucky it’s not completely broken. Still, it looks like it hurts."

"It does hurt," you grumbled. "Which is why I came to you."

"And here I thought you were just visiting because you enjoy my company," she teased, her lips quirking into a smirk.

You let out a long-suffering sigh. "You’re never going to let this go, are you?"

Her grin widened. "Absolutely not."

Shadowheart took her time finishing up her healing, making a show of carefully wiping the last of the blood from your lip with a damp cloth. It was almost gentle—almost—except for the way she was clearly relishing every second of your embarrassment.

"There," she said finally, tossing the cloth aside. "All patched up."

"Thanks," you muttered.

But before you could even think of making a dignified exit, she smirked.

"Now," she said, nudging you backwards onto her bedroll, "lie down. You’re officially on time out."

You groaned. "Oh, come on—"

"Nope. You acted like a reckless child, so I suppose I’ll just have to treat you like one," she said, patting the spot beside her with a mocking little smile. "Now, be good and rest, darling."

You grumbled under your breath but complied, slumping onto her blankets.

Shadowheart smirked. "That’s what I thought."

And despite her teasing, despite the endless humiliation, you couldn’t help but smile a little as she settled down beside you, her fingers absently brushing against yours.

Jaheira:

You barely felt the punch land, which was probably a bad sign.

The world spun around you in a chaotic blur of overturned chairs, shattered mugs, and the thick smell of ale and sweat. Someone’s boot caught your side, sending you stumbling back against a table that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago. You were grinning like an idiot, adrenaline and drunkenness making you blissfully numb to the fact that you were very much losing this fight. And then—

"By Silvanus, you absolute disaster of a person."

Jaheira’s voice sliced through the noise, clear and exasperated. You blinked blearily toward the entrance, where your beautiful, radiant, stunning lover stood, hands on her hips, looking every inch the furious savior you never knew you needed.

"Jaheira!" you slurred, pushing yourself up with what little dignity you had left. "My love, my light—"

"You’re concussed," she deadpanned.

"—My warrior queen!" you continued, unbothered. Jaheira sighed through her nose, then rolled up the sleeves of her tunic.

"Alright," she muttered, stepping forward. "Which one of you idiots started this?"

You pointed at a random guy. "All of them!"

The nearest brute lunged at her. Big mistake.

Jaheira ducked beneath his swing effortlessly, her elbow snapping up into his gut before he could even think about retaliating. He doubled over with a wheeze, and she didn’t waste time—she caught him by the shoulder, yanked him forward, and slammed him face-first into the very same table you’d been struggling to stay upright against moments ago.

You let out a loud, drunken cheer. "*Gorgeous! Incredible! Have I ever told you how hot you are?*"

Jaheira barely spared you a glance as she sidestepped another attacker, twisting his arm behind his back and tossing him into a pile of already unconscious bodies.

"Yes," she said dryly. "Many times."

"And you never believe me!" you lamented.

Someone else tried their luck, a stocky man with more muscles than sense. Jaheira simply kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling backward into a row of barrels. He didn’t get up.

"Have I mentioned you’re the most skilled, amazing, unparalleled—"

Jaheira turned, grabbed the last remaining idiot by the collar, and headbutted him hard enough to make your skull ache. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"…Absolutely terrifying woman I’ve ever met?" you finished, blinking at the carnage.

The bar was a mess. Broken furniture, spilled drinks, and unconscious (or groaning) men littered the floor. Jaheira stood at the center of it all, adjusting her tunic like she’d just finished tending her garden rather than wiping out half the tavern.

Then she turned her sharp, emerald gaze to you.

"You are a menace," she said, striding over. "And a fool. And an idiot—"

"I am very concussed," you reminded her helpfully.

"And concussed," she added, before grabbing you firmly by the scruff of your robes. "Come on."

You stumbled after her as she dragged you bodily toward the exit, your feet barely keeping up. "Jaheira, my love, my storm, my—"

"Walk," she ordered.

You did. Barely. But as she pulled you through the ruined tavern, you couldn’t resist turning back to the remaining patrons—many of whom were watching in awe, some in horror, a few taking bets on whether you’d survive the night.

"I’m gonna get lucky tonight!" you announced proudly.

Jaheira didn’t even hesitate. "Say that again and I swear I’ll dunk you in the river."

You gasped dramatically. "You wouldn’t!"

She yanked you out the door and toward the road. "Try me."

You pouted but leaned into her, letting her guide you with a firm arm around your waist. Maybe you were concussed, bruised, and a complete and utter mess.

But Jaheira was here. And gods, she was magnificent.

guys they changed the Lucille font idk what to do with my life. I really loved writing this and i hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

please enjoy a silly little drabble born from a freaky dream I had (Conqueror!Minthara x reader x Ascended!Astarion)

The grand hall of Astarion’s palace gleamed with opulence, silver and crimson draping the marble walls, casting a warm, almost intoxicating glow over the evening’s reunion. You had arrived earlier, thrilled to reconnect with Astarion and Minthara, both of whom had achieved heights you once only dreamed of for them. Seeing them—free and powerful, Minthara reigning over the Underdark she had fought so tirelessly to reclaim, and Astarion, finally free from the shadows of another’s control, now basking in his ascendant glory—filled you with a profound sense of pride. These were victories well-earned, and tonight felt like the celebration they both deserved.

The three of you toasted to each other’s successes, laughter and warmth filling the room as the wine flowed, and soon, you could feel the pleasant heat spreading through your cheeks. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth glass, their touches began to linger a bit longer. Minthara's fingers brushed against your hand, tracing the lines of your palm, her touch surprisingly tender, but with an edge that was unmistakable. Astarion's arm rested against the back of your chair, fingers dancing along your shoulder, his touch feather-light yet possessive. Every glance they exchanged over your head carried an intensity that made your heart race. Perhaps you were reading too much into it—or perhaps, it was the wine. You didn’t mind. You were only glad to see them both in such high spirits.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this,” Minthara murmured, her voice low, as she looked at you with eyes that glittered with a fire you hadn’t noticed before. “To see you here, in our company, at peace. It’s been far too long, don’t you think?”

Her words sent a soft shiver up your spine, and you managed a smile, although you could feel a faint blush rising.

“I’ve missed you both,” you replied sincerely, the warmth of their combined attention beginning to make you feel light-headed. “It’s good to see you so… free.”

Astarion’s mouth twisted into a playful smirk, his gaze fixed on you with a possessive gleam.

“Ah, freedom is such a wonderful thing, darling. Especially when it means no one else is around to interrupt… or to share.” His fingers slid down your shoulder, tracing the curve of your arm, his other hand tipping your chin up so you couldn’t look away from his piercing gaze.

Minthara’s hand moved to rest at your thigh, her touch possessive, her eyes flashing as she glanced at Astarion, an almost playful challenge in her expression.

“There’s so much of you we both missed,” she murmured, her fingers tightening slightly as she leaned in, her voice warm and silky. “But not just your company… your fearlessness, your fire. You should know, we both thought of you, every day.”

Your breath caught as both of them seemed to close in, their hands roving over your arms, your shoulders, their caresses leaving tingling warmth in their wake. They watched each other closely, vying for space, for your attention, each touch, every whispered word, an attempt to outdo the other.

“We’re so lucky, you know, Minthara and I,” Astarion purred, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned close, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. “Finally, to have you here… all to ourselves. No companions. No interruptions.” His voice was like velvet, smooth and honeyed, sending a pleasurable warmth through you as his lips brushed against your skin. “It’s… exquisite.”

Minthara’s lips turned up in a satisfied smile, her hand sliding up your thigh, her nails pressing slightly as she watched you with an intensity that made you shiver.

“It’s taken so long to get you here, to finally enjoy you as we’ve wanted,” she said, her tone laced with hunger. Her gaze was fierce, even as her fingers played along your skin, the dual sensations of her firm hold and Astarion’s feather-light touches leaving you feeling both safe and thrillingly vulnerable.

You could hardly breathe, caught between the two of them as they continued their quiet competition for your attention. Every touch, every kiss was bolder, leaving little doubt of their intentions. You’d known affection from them before, but this was something deeper—more insistent, more possessive. And though it left you flustered and blushing, you couldn’t deny the heady thrill it sparked within you.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Astarion teased, his lips brushing yours as he smirked, the glint in his eyes showing he knew precisely how affected you were. Minthara pulled your gaze back to her, her fingers tilting your chin.

“Good,” she purred, her eyes dark with intent. “Because you aren’t going anywhere. You belong with us… no one else.”

You found yourself adrift in a sea of sensation as Astarion and Minthara continued their unrelenting attention, each kiss and caress leaving you gasping, overwhelmed, and hopelessly drawn in. Their hands seemed to memorize every inch of you, each brush of their fingers a promise of more, of a possessive devotion that left you teetering on the edge of reason.

Astarion’s mouth lingered at your neck, the tantalizing brush of his fangs barely restrained. His fingers slid along your jaw, tipping your head just so, his eyes drinking in the sight of your pulse beneath his touch, hungry and intense.

“Astarion,” Minthara’s voice cut through the air, firm but undeniably affectionate as she caught his chin in her hand. “Not yet,” she murmured with a wicked gleam, her fingers sliding possessively over his collarbone before resting on your shoulder, her grip warm but firm. “There is still so much I want to savor.”

Astarion pulled back, his mouth tugging into a petulant smirk as he pouted, a dark, playful glint flashing in his gaze.

“You’re always so greedy, Minthara,” he drawled, tracing a thumb along your cheek. “One would almost think you wanted them all to yourself.”

With a breathless laugh, you tried to interject, to steady yourself and speak.

“Perhaps… a break might be nice,” you managed, though your voice was already a bit hoarse, and every nerve in your body was singing from their attention.

But neither of them paid your words any mind. Minthara’s fingers curled around your waist, her lips brushing against the edge of your jaw, while Astarion’s hand moved over your shoulder, his mouth pressing featherlight kisses along your temple, his intensity growing by the second. It was as though they had made an unspoken pact to keep you within reach, not allowing even a second for you to recover, let alone escape their grasp. As you watched them, their focus shifted to each other, their shared glances dark and possessive, each trying to claim a piece of you as their own.

Taking advantage of their mutual distraction, you managed to slip free, drawing in a shaky breath as you ran a hand through your hair, your skin still tingling from their touch.

“I just… need some air,” you murmured, laughing a little as you made your way to the door, reaching out for the handle.

But the latch didn’t budge. It was locked.

A jolt of alarm shot through you, and you turned back, only to find yourself face to face with Astarion. He was watching you with a bemused smirk, his gaze simmering with barely contained hunger as he stepped closer.

“You look a little anxious, darling,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the door beside your head. “Is something the matter?”

You swallowed, feeling your pulse quicken as you took a half-step back, only to feel Minthara’s presence behind you, her hand snaking around your waist, her fingers curling possessively against your side. You were caged in their embrace, your escape nothing more than a fleeting moment of hope.

Minthara’s voice was a soft purr, low and teasing as she leaned in close. “Why so tense? Surely you didn’t think we’d just let you wander off.”

“Relax,” Astarion whispered, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, his smile predatory as he tilted his head, his eyes darkening as they traced your every reaction.

Minthara pressed you back against the door, her body firm against yours as her fingers traced along your neck, her gaze simmering with amusement. She tilted your chin up, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that was both terrifying and thrilling.

“If you need air,” she murmured, her breath brushing against your skin, “you’ll find all you need here.”

You tried to find words, anything that might regain some control, but the sensation of Astarion’s touch, trailing along your shoulder, sent your thoughts spiraling, and you found yourself lost once more.

“Maybe we should… slow down?” you tried again, but Minthara’s laughter was low and full of mischief.

“Oh, my beloved, what fun would that be?” she cooed, her hand pressing firmly against your side. “I think Astarion would agree—the hunt is far more exhilarating when our prey puts up a little fight.”

Astarion’s fingers brushed against your cheek, his smile widening as he leaned in, his voice a soft, tantalizing whisper.

“And I do love a bit of chase,” he murmured, his eyes flickering with a dark delight. “It only makes the catch so much… sweeter.”

With a snap of his fingers, the doors swung open and the moment they let go, you sprinted, feeling a strange mix of panic yet exhilaration and anticipation. The walls loomed high, draped with opulent tapestries that blurred as you passed, the flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shadows. Your mind was a chaotic swirl—part of you relishing in the chase, the feeling of being wanted and pursued with such intensity.

You found a small alcove near an ornate statue and crouched, barely daring to breathe as you watched Astarion’s figure emerge from the shadows at the end of the corridor. He moved with the languid grace of a predator who already knew his prey couldn’t elude him for long. His footsteps echoed softly, his head tilting as he called your name in that silken, taunting voice that sent shivers through you. “Come now, darling. Hiding doesn’t suit you… don’t you want to be found?”

He was close, so close, and you held your breath, pressing yourself as far back as you could, hoping he wouldn’t glance in your direction. But then, from somewhere beyond him, a faint whisper came, the sound of soft, predatory footsteps that barely touched the ground.

You knew that Minthara was lurking just out of sight, a silent, watchful huntress waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. She was the one to fear, the true predator in this twisted game, and you knew she’d find you sooner or later.

In a flash, you darted from your hiding spot and sprinted down the hall, but it wasn’t long before you felt a presence just behind you. You rounded a corner, hoping to lose them, but instead, you found yourself crashing into something—or rather, someone. Strong arms wrapped around you, and you looked up into Minthara’s face, her eyes gleaming with victorious amusement.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she murmured, her grip firm, her fingers digging in just enough to remind you who held the upper hand.

Your heart hammered as you tried to pull away, only for her fingers to tighten, her mouth curving into a wicked smile. With a quick movement, you twisted, hoping to slip free, but just as you turned, you found yourself face to face with Astarion. His expression was one of smug delight as he leaned against the wall, blocking any chance of escape.

“Tsk, tsk, you really thought you could hide from us?” he whispered, his eyes narrowing with playful cruelty as he stepped forward, closing the space between you until you could feel his cool breath against your skin. “How adorable.”

You swallowed, trapped between them, your pulse racing as they both circled like hunters savoring the thrill of a caught prey. Minthara’s fingers traced up your arm, while Astarion’s hand slid around your waist, holding you in place as though he had all the time in the world to enjoy his prize.

“There’s no escape, you know,” Minthara purred, her voice rich with a dark kind of satisfaction as she tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. “You belong to us now. And we intend to enjoy every… last… moment.”

Astarion’s hand traveled along your shoulder, and he leaned in, his mouth so close to your neck that you could feel the brush of his lips, the sharp points of his fangs just grazing your skin. His fingers tightened around you as Minthara’s hand rested against your cheek, her eyes glinting with something far more possessive than you had ever seen.

“You’re ours now,” she murmured, her lips curving into a predatory smile, “and we’re not letting you go.”

I sprained my ankle and tore a ligament, hence why you guys got a little thing from the drafts. BTSTBU chapter is almost finished, and if these painkillers don't knock me out I should have another request posted soon. Love you all- Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

Yk what you just wrote for the pregnancy and Bhaal, you could also write that for Astarion pls if that’s ok 😭

ahhh of course anything for my fave fang boy

Astarion x f!durge | He Shall Lay No Claim

The firelight flickered against the walls of your tent, casting long, wavering shadows as you sat on the edge of the cot, staring blankly at your hands. Your fingers trembled slightly as they brushed over your stomach, which had just begun to show. You’d tried to stay positive for weeks now—tried to convince yourself that everything would be fine. But no matter how hard you tried, the shadows of your past wouldn’t leave you.

A monster. That’s what you had been. That’s what Bhaal had made you to be, and no amount of redemption could erase that. No amount of good deeds could take away the darkness you had carried in your soul. And now, you were carrying a child—a child you were certain Bhaal would try to claim, just as he had tried to claim you.

You’d been pulling away from everyone lately, especially Astarion. He had been patient, understanding even, but you knew he was starting to notice the cracks in your façade. You didn’t want him to see you like this—weak, afraid. And worse, you didn’t want him to realize what you were beginning to believe: that maybe he’d made a mistake in loving you, in creating this life with you.

Astarion had been watching you closely for days now. At first, he had chalked up your withdrawal to the pregnancy. It was an enormous change, after all—both for your body and your life. He had been content to give you space, to let you come to him when you were ready. But as the days stretched into a week, his patience began to wear thin.

He found you in the tent that evening, sitting in the dim light with a distant, haunted look in your eyes. Your hands were curled protectively over your stomach, but there was no warmth in your posture, no joy.

"Darling," Astarion began, his voice soft yet tinged with exasperation. "I have given you all the time and space I can muster, but I’m afraid I’m at my limit. Enough is enough. Tell me what’s going on. Now."

You flinched at his tone, your eyes snapping up to meet his. The concern in his gaze was unmistakable, but so was his frustration. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you burst into tears, burying your face in your hands. Astarion was taken aback, his irritation melting away in an instant.

"Darling, no, no—what is this?" He rushed to your side, kneeling in front of you and gently pulling your hands away from your face. "What’s wrong? Please, talk to me."

"It’s fine," you sobbed, your voice barely above a whisper. "It’s fine if you don’t love me anymore. If you don’t love the baby. I’ll understand."

Astarion froze, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. "What on earth are you talking about?" he demanded, his tone incredulous.

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I—I was a monster, Astarion. You know that. And this baby… this baby is probably going to be a monster too. Bhaal—he’s going to claim them, just like he tried to claim me. And I… I don’t blame you if you want nothing to do with us. I wouldn’t either."

For a moment, Astarion was utterly speechless. He stared at you, his expression a mixture of shock, sadness, and something else—something fierce and protective. Then, without a word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against him.

"You listen to me," he said, his voice low but steady, the edge of his usual arrogance gone. "There is no way, in all the nine hells, that Bhaal—or anyone else, for that matter—is going to lay a finger on our child. Do you understand me?"

"But—" you started, your voice trembling.

"No," he interrupted, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. "You are not a monster. Not anymore. And this child? This child is not going to be a monster either. Do you know why?"

You shook your head, your breath hitching as you tried to calm yourself.

"Because they’re going to have you as their mother," he said firmly, cupping your face in his hands. "And you are the strongest, most determined person I have ever met. You broke free of Bhaal’s grasp, darling. You chose to be better. And if that wretched god tries to take our child, he will have to go through both of us."

His words washed over you like a balm, soothing the raw ache in your chest. You leaned into his touch, your tears slowing as you absorbed his unwavering confidence.

"I’m scared," you admitted quietly, your voice barely audible.

"I know," he said gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek. "But you don’t have to face this alone. You have me, and I will stand by you every step of the way."

You nodded, your arms wrapping around his neck as you clung to him. He held you for what felt like an eternity, his presence grounding you in a way nothing else could.

As the firelight flickered around you, Astarion pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there.

"We’re going to get through this," he said softly. "You, me, and our little one. Together."

i fucking love dadstarion he's just the best. I hope you guys enjoyes this, hoping to get another chapter of BTSTBU out soon, work has just been so hectic. Love you all - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

hiiii can i request halsin with a tav/reader that has chronic migraines? 🫣 like how he helps alleviate pain/takes care of his partner, etc. thank you! i love your writing <3

yesssssssss i love halsin so much and as i am currently fighting this cold this was very comforting and self indulgent ahah

Halsin x reader | The Weight You Carry

The first time Halsin noticed your pain, it was subtle—so subtle, in fact, that no one else seemed to catch it. It was the way you’d stretch your neck when you thought no one was looking, or how your hand would absently rub at your temple during quiet moments. He noticed the stiffness in your gait after a long day and the tension that pulled your shoulders tight, though you masked it well with humor and determination.

At first, he respected your silence. Halsin understood that some battles were deeply personal. You were strong, capable, and resilient—qualities that had drawn him to you in the first place. But it wasn’t long before he started seeing patterns: the days where you grew uncharacteristically quiet, your energy waning, your laughter fading into strained smiles. And then came the night when the mask finally slipped.

The two of you were seated by the campfire, surrounded by your companions. Lae'zel and Karlach were sparring nearby, their boisterous laughter echoing in the cool evening air. Astarion was polishing his daggers, and Gale was lost in one of his tomes. You, however, sat unnaturally still, your hand pressed firmly to your forehead.

Halsin leaned toward you, his warm voice low so only you could hear. "My heart, are you well?"

You forced a smile, waving him off. "I’m fine. Just tired."

But then a low groan slipped out before you could stop it, and Halsin’s sharp gaze fixed on you, unwavering. He shifted closer, his large hand gently cupping your face, turning it so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"This is not mere fatigue," he said, his voice a mixture of concern and quiet authority. "You are in pain. How long has this been happening?"

You sighed, realizing there was no point in hiding it anymore—not from him.

"It’s nothing new," you admitted softly. "I’ve dealt with this my whole life. Chronic pain, migraines…some days are better than others."

His brow furrowed deeply, his concern etched into every line of his face. "Why have you never spoken of this? You should not have to bear such a burden alone."

"I’ve managed just fine," you said, your voice firmer than you intended. "I’ve been dealing with this for years. I’m used to it."

Halsin shook his head, his golden eyes filled with a quiet determination. "Being used to pain does not mean you should accept it without help. Allow me to ease your suffering where I can."

From that moment on, Halsin took it upon himself to be your healer, your comfort, and your fiercest advocate. He threw himself into the task with the same dedication he showed to protecting nature.

He delved deep into his knowledge of herbs and natural remedies, crafting salves and tinctures designed to ease your pain. He brewed teas with calming properties, their scents of lavender, chamomile, and valerian filling the camp. At night, when the migraines were at their worst, he would sit beside you, his large hands cradling your head as his thumbs gently massaged your temples. His warmth seemed to seep into you, grounding you as his deep voice murmured soothing words about the beauty of the natural world and the strength he saw in you.

When the pain became too much, and you couldn’t hold back your tears, Halsin never wavered. He would hold you close, his arms a fortress against the storm.

"Let it out, my love," he would say, his voice steady and calm. "You are safe with me."

It wasn’t just his remedies and his comfort, though. Halsin became something of a mother hen, watching you with a careful eye and stepping in before you could protest.

"You’ve been on your feet all day," he said one afternoon, nudging you toward a soft patch of grass. "Sit. Rest. I’ll handle the firewood."

"I’m fine, Halsin," you replied, though your legs were aching.

"You are strong," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "But even the strongest among us need to rest."

Another day, as the group stopped for a meal, he handed you a bowl of hearty stew, his expression leaving no room for argument.

"I’m not that hungry," you said, though the smell made your stomach growl.

"You need your strength," he insisted, sitting beside you to ensure you ate. "And after this, I’ll make you some tea to help with the tension in your shoulders."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. "You know, Halsin, I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. I’ve withstood worse than this."

"I know," he said, his golden eyes meeting yours with a seriousness that made your heart ache. "And that is precisely why I cannot stand idly by. You may be strong—stronger than most—but you deserve care, just as much as anyone else."

That night, as you lay with your head in his lap, Halsin’s fingers combing through your hair in slow, soothing strokes, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The pain was still there, a dull throb at the edge of your awareness, but his presence made it easier to bear.

"You’re too good to me," you murmured, your voice thick with gratitude and drowsiness.

"I simply give you what you deserve," he replied, his lips brushing against your temple in a soft kiss.

"You don’t have to worry so much," you said, looking up at him with a tired smile. "I’m tougher than I look."

"I know you are," he said, his voice warm with affection. "But you should not have to be tough all the time. Let me share the weight, my heart."

As sleep began to claim you, you thought of how lucky you were to have Halsin—a man who saw your pain not as a weakness but as a testament to your strength. And though he couldn’t take it away completely, his love made it bearable.

this was so wholesome oml, i hope you guys enjoyed it!!! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

Ooooh if Dark Wyll and Ascended Astarion were controlling the nobles!……

Astarions kid helping out the refugee camp, trying not to brake a nail.

Refugee 1: “It’s okay sister, mama is probably already at Baldurs gate. We will see her soon I promise!”

Little girl Refugee: ~Trying not to cry anymore~ “Mama….. but the red eyes-“

Refugee 1: “Hush, don’t think about those horrid things anymore. It will give you nightmares.”

Astarions kid: ~Trying not to listen, but due to her vampire hearing well…..~ “Ouch!” ~a box slipped and broke a nail on her index finger~ “Great! More problems for me!”

Wylls kid: “I think you will be fine, there are people here who have it much worse.”

Astarions kid: ~Rolls her eyes like her father~ “Spare me Hero. I highly doubt your lecture is going to suddenly save us all.”

Wylls kid: ~Grabs the box and puts it with the rest of the stack~ “No, but figuring out why you are here might buy them a little more time of peace. I know who you are, The Night Kings ‘little Princess’.”

Astarions kid: ~Upon hearing that she grabs her by the arm and throws her into an alley~ “Silence! I’m not his- I don’t belong to-Uuuuuuuhhhhh! You are irritating! I’m not his little princess and I’m not here on his behalf! Why I am here is none of your business!

Wylls Kid: ~Lands quickly on her feet~ “You expect me to trust your word? Ha! Your whole family is rotten!”

Astarions kid: “Hold your tongue! And please! Like your family is a picture of purity! The Duke may have these imbeciles fooled as a ‘savior of Baldurs gate’, but I know it’s not true.” ~She puts a hand over her mouth as she laughs~ “Before I left there was a delicious bit of gossip at court as to what really happened about your mother’s little accident involving the balcony. Care to-“ ~She was slapped right across the face by Wylls kid~ “You slapped me……not even my own parents….” ~ She was so shocked~

~They began to fight eachother, punches and all. A little blue jay saw all of the this and flew off to tell Halsins kid, who was with the rest of the team taking inventory and loading supplies just in case.~

Halsins kid: “Hello little one how are- yes….oh dear….go on. Oh my that isn’t good at all.”

Shadowhearts kid: “What’s the bird saying.”

Halsins kid: “Our other companions seem to be in a little fight over by the prison stalls!”

Gales kid: ~Set the quill and paper down~ “We need to break it up! Come on!”

Halsins kid: ~Nods her head at the bird~ “She can take us to them!” ~They all run after the bird and see the fight. Mintharas kid picks up Astarions kid and Shadowhearts kid picks Wylls kid. Both are separated~

Gales kid: “What is going on here!?”

Wyll's kid: "Hey a rat just ran past us, I heard they were your father's favorite."

*demonic screeching*

But yeah, I so see Halsin's kid as much more of a pacifist, idk if anyone has watched House of the Dragon, but I imagine them like Helaena. Very soft hearted, but fucking iconic.

I think as well that Wyll and Astarion's kid probably have met before which makes it 10x funnier. Another point of conflict would definitely be shadowheart's kid and gale's kid. False gods and all that.

Shadowheart's kid is having a crisis of faith and gale's kid is probably unknowingly very obnoxious and arrogant about it - just because that is how they were raised.

Halsin's and Minthara's kid ironically get on really well, it would be that dynamic of tough hardened friend x ball of sunshine friend. Where Minthara's kid wouldn't want to admit it but they have become really attached to Halsin's kid. Which could lead to an interesting confrontation if either of their parents finds out.

send me moreeee of your thoughts y'all

[moonselune]

Nightwarden

[moonselune]

Heyo! I was the one to send the ask about a Tav hiding their past from their companions and the romanced one realizing the other day. I forgot to add which romanced companions for the request 😅

Astarion, Karlach, or Shadowheart if that’s ok

No worries! I couldn't actually find the original ask as my inbox likes to snack on them so it worked out perfectly!

Karlach:

The two of you were sprawled out on a grassy hill, the stars blazing above like a million tiny promises of hope. Karlach, ever radiant, had her arms behind her head, her warm laughter still lingering in the cool night air after she'd recounted some ridiculous tale of a fight she'd gotten into years ago. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched her—there was something about Karlach that was utterly disarming.

“Y’know,” she said, rolling onto her side to look at you, her face half-illuminated by starlight, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“That’s always dangerous,” you teased, earning a playful swat on the arm.

“I’m serious,” she said, her tone soft but thoughtful now. “I realized... I don’t actually know much about you. Like, really know you.”

You tensed slightly, your smile fading, and she noticed immediately. Karlach wasn’t the type to miss when someone’s defenses went up—she was too attuned to cracks in the armor not to see it.

“I know you're amazing, and you're kind, and you’ve been through some stuff, but...you’ve always been pretty vague about your past. Why is that?”

“It’s not important,” you said quickly, brushing it off as if it were nothing. You turned your gaze back to the stars, hoping she’d let it go.

But Karlach wasn’t one to let things go easily.

“Not important? You’re important. What made you who you are is important,” she said, her voice gentle but insistent. “Come on, you know everything about me. You know about Zariel, the Hells, all of it. But you...you’ve got this wall around parts of yourself, and I don’t like not being able to reach you.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Karlach, it’s...it’s not something I like to talk about, okay? Some things are better left buried.”

“But buried things tend to rot, love,” she said softly, placing a warm hand on your arm. “Please. Talk to me.”

You hesitated, staring at her hand on your arm. The warmth of her touch was grounding, comforting, and yet it made the ache in your chest all the more acute. When you finally looked at her, you saw nothing but patience and love in her eyes. And it broke you.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting up and hugging your knees to your chest. She sat up too, waiting quietly, not rushing you.

“I grew up in a family that looked perfect from the outside,” you began, your voice low. “We had money, status—everything people think makes a family happy. But behind closed doors? It was a nightmare.”

Karlach said nothing, letting you continue at your own pace.

“My parents...they hated each other. And they weren’t exactly quiet about it. Every day was a war zone. Screaming matches, accusations, the kind of anger that seeps into everything. My siblings and I were caught in the crossfire, always trying to stay out of the way, always trying not to make things worse. But no matter what we did, it was never enough. Someone always got hurt, one way or another.”

You paused, your throat tightening as old memories clawed their way to the surface. Karlach reached out and took your hand, her grip firm but reassuring.

“And then,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly, “one day, it all fell apart. My older brother tried to leave—tried to get out of the hellhole we called home. My father...he didn’t take it well. There was a fight. Things got...violent. And my brother never made it out. After that, everything just...collapsed. I left too, eventually, but by then I’d lost everything that mattered. My family. My sense of who I was. All of it.”

You finally looked at her, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “That’s why I don’t talk about it, Karlach. Because what’s the point? It’s just a mess I crawled out of, and I don’t want it to define me.”

For a moment, Karlach was silent, her expression a mix of astonishment and heartbreak. Then she shook her head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping her lips.

“Damn,” she said softly. “You’re...incredible, you know that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“How are you so well-adjusted after all that?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe. “Seriously. If it were me, I’d be a total wreck. But you...you’re strong. You’re kind. You’ve got this huge heart that somehow survived all that pain. It’s...it’s amazing.”

Her words hit you like a tidal wave, and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They spilled over, and before you could even think to hide them, Karlach was pulling you into her arms. Her infernal warmth enveloped you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself lean into someone else completely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled against her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just...I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” she murmured, her hand stroking your back soothingly. “I get it. I do. But I’m here now, okay? You don’t have to carry it all by yourself anymore.”

You clung to her like a lifeline, her warmth chasing away the chill of old wounds. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as broken as you thought.

“I love you, you know,” Karlach said softly, her voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your eyes still glistening with tears. “I love you too,” you said, your voice steady despite the weight of everything you’d just shared.

And as her lips met yours in a gentle, grounding kiss, you realized that maybe you didn’t have to bury your past anymore. Not with Karlach. Not ever again.

Shadowheart:

The two of you sat side by side on a quiet patch of forest floor, the campfire flickering in the distance as the night crept in around you. Shadowheart had been unusually quiet, her sharp eyes scanning the stars above before settling on your profile.

"You know," she started, her voice soft but probing, "for all the time we've spent together, I realize I don’t actually know much about you."

You blinked, glancing at her, caught off guard by the sudden turn in conversation. “What do you mean? You know plenty about me,” you said lightly, trying to deflect.

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small, knowing smile. “Do I? I know who you are now, sure. But your past? Where you come from? What made you...you? You’ve kept it all locked up tight.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s not important,” you muttered.

Shadowheart leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she studied you. “Not important to who? Because it feels pretty important to me.”

Her persistence made you squirm, and you quickly stood, brushing off your clothes as if that would somehow shake the conversation away. “Shadowheart, I don’t—can we not do this right now?”

You started to walk away, but her voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Alright. But I’ll find out eventually. You know I’m not one to let things go.” You glanced back at her, giving her a pointed look, but she just smiled sweetly, her tone deceptively innocent. “You’ll tell me, willingly or not.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. Still, you didn’t realize how serious she was about her little promise—until the next evening.

Shadowheart wasn’t just clever; she was sneaky. The next day, she found ways to chip away at your defenses. She asked questions that seemed harmless at first—what foods you liked, what your childhood home looked like, what kind of trouble you got into as a kid. Bit by bit, she pieced together fragments of your past until you realized too late that she’d woven a net around you.

It wasn’t until you were sitting by the riverbank after another grueling day of travel that she struck her final blow.

“So,” she said casually, dipping her fingers into the cool water, “was your family always so chaotic, or did the drama start later on?”

You froze, your stomach twisting as you realized she’d cornered you.

“What are you talking about?” you said, feigning ignorance.

Shadowheart smirked, tilting her head. “Oh, come on. I’ve been paying attention. The little things you’ve let slip, the way you dodge questions—it’s obvious there’s more to your story than you’re letting on. So, spill. What happened?”

You sighed heavily, running a hand through your hair. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

She just smiled, her expression softening. “Only when it comes to things that matter. And you, my love, matter.”

Her words cracked something open inside you, and before you could stop yourself, the dam burst.

It all came tumbling out. The family drama that felt like a never-ending storm—arguments, betrayals, and secrets that tore your home apart. The tragedies that left scars too deep to heal. Scandals that painted your family in a light so harsh, you’d spent years trying to escape it.

But it wasn’t all darkness. You found yourself sharing the funny stories too—the times you and your siblings played pranks on each other, the little moments of joy that somehow shone through the chaos. You talked about the people you’d loved and lost, the lessons you’d learned, and the weight you still carried from it all.

By the time you were done, your throat was raw, and your chest felt hollow, like you’d just carved out a piece of yourself and handed it to her.

Shadowheart had been silent the whole time, her expression unreadable as she listened intently. When you finally looked at her, self-consciousness crept in like a cold shadow.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, averting your gaze. “That was...a lot. I probably should’ve kept some of it to myself.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said softly, her voice filled with a kind of reverence that made you look up in surprise.

Her eyes were shining, and there was an almost tangible warmth in her expression. “Do you have any idea how incredible you are?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’ve been through all of that,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the horizon as if the weight of your past was hanging in the air between you. “And here you are—still standing, still fighting, still...you. It’s astonishing.”

You shook your head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. “I’m not incredible, Shadowheart. I’m just...getting by.”

“No,” she said firmly, leaning closer and taking your hand in hers. “You’re so much more than that. You’ve been through things that would break most people, and somehow, you’re still...kind. Still hopeful. Still...loving. I’m in awe of you, truly.”

Her words broke something else inside you—not in a painful way, but in a way that felt like healing. Tears welled up in your eyes, and before you could stop them, they spilled over.

Shadowheart cupped your face gently, brushing the tears away with her thumbs.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice steady and certain. “All of you. Your past, your present, your future. Every part of you.”

A shaky laugh escaped you as you leaned into her touch.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

She pulled you into a tender embrace, holding you as if she could shield you from the weight of your past. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to carry it all alone.

Astarion:

It was a quiet moment in camp, the kind of peace that always felt precarious, balanced on the knife's edge of your group's chaotic lives. Astarion was lounging next to you, his chin propped in his hand as he studied you with a curious intensity.

“You know,” he began casually, his voice dripping with charm and mischief, “for someone I’m hopelessly enamored with, you are a remarkably well-guarded mystery.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, already suspicious. “Am I?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” he purred, sitting up straighter. “You’re practically a ghost when it comes to your past. You’ve danced around every question I’ve ever asked, dodging and deflecting like a master illusionist. Honestly, it’s impressive. I think I might even be proud of you.”

You smirked. “Well, thank you, but some things are better left in the past.”

Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Ah, but darling, I hate being left in the dark. You can’t expect me to simply accept this vagueness when I’m dying to know what secrets you’re hiding.”

You gave him a pointed look. “I don’t expect you to do anything. But I’m not telling you, Astarion.”

That should have been the end of it, but of course, it wasn’t. Over the next few days, Astarion’s curiosity morphed into relentless determination. He needled you at every opportunity, his charm turning into playful persistence. Every time you dodged his questions, he only seemed more delighted, like unraveling your secrets had become a personal challenge.

“You know,” he said one evening, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, “this is getting downright insulting. Do you think I can’t handle a little drama? Please, I thrive on it.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you said, rolling your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

“And yet,” he countered, grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary, “you still haven’t answered me. Come now, my sweet enigma—indulge me.”

Eventually, you snapped—not in anger, but in exasperation. Sitting by the fire that night, you threw up your hands. “Fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Astarion’s eyes lit up like a child on their name day, and he settled in with a gleeful smirk, clearly expecting a story worth his persistence.

Blasé, almost flippant, you began to unravel the sordid tale of your past.

You told him about the family dinners that ended in shouting matches—or worse, murders over disputes that ran deeper than blood. You recounted the endless scandals: the illegitimate children, the betrayals that made even the most dramatic bardic tales look tame, the backstabbing that left no one unscathed. The drama unfolded like a grotesque tapestry, each thread more tangled and wild than the last.

Through it all, you remained indifferent, recounting events as if they had happened to someone else entirely. “And then there was the time my cousin poisoned the wine at a wedding. That was a mess. Oh, and the twins—turns out one of them wasn’t even my uncle’s child. But really, what did he expect when he married his mistress?”

Astarion sat in stunned silence, his lips slightly parted as you continued to nonchalantly recount the chaos of your upbringing.

“And, of course, there were the power struggles,” you added with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Everyone vying for control, alliances shifting faster than the wind. It’s all so...exhausting, really.”

When you finally finished, the fire crackled in the silence that followed. You looked at Astarion, expecting...something. Disbelief? Judgment?

Instead, he burst into delighted laughter.

“Oh, my dear, dear love,” he said, clutching his chest as if he might collapse from mirth. “You’re right—it does sound like a poorly written bardic tale. But gods, what a deliciously awful one!”

You rolled your eyes. “I told you it wasn’t worth hearing.”

“Are you joking?” he asked, still laughing. “It’s magnificent! The drama! The intrigue! And you—you just walked away from all of that and turned into...well, you. It’s incredible.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re impressed by all of that?”

“Of course I am,” he said, leaning closer, his expression softening into something genuine. “You survived a storm of madness and somehow emerged as the person I’ve fallen utterly in love with. How could I not be impressed?”

Heat rose to your cheeks at his sincerity, but before you could respond, his grin turned wicked.

“Although,” he added, “you simply must take me to your next family dinner. I need to witness this circus for myself.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not a chance. They’d eat you alive.”

“Darling,” Astarion purred, his voice dripping with confidence, “I’ve been surrounded by vampires for two centuries. I think I can handle a few backstabbing relatives.”

You laughed despite yourself, and Astarion leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek, his hand brushing yours in a silent promise.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “For trusting me with this. It means more than you know.”

awh this was wholesome, as someone who comes from a chaotic ass family this was cathartic to write aha. Hope you guys enjoyed it -Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[moonselune]

Idea for Dark BG3 kids! Shadowhearts kid follows the Selunite route like she did if you made her choose it in the game. Shadowheart is confused, not being able to sense her daughter like she used to.

Shadowheart: “What is going on?! This doesn’t make any sense!” ~swipes a crystal or two off her desk, they shatter~

~Footsteps are heard behind her~

Shadowheart: “Go back to sleep darling, this doesn’t concern-“ ~Turns around and sees Ascended Astarion~ “You defiler of all that is sacred to Shar! Get out of my temple!!! Astarion! You have a lot of nerve showing your face to me after the scheme you tried to pull!”

Astarion: ~Rolls his eyes at her and scoffed~ “Oh come now, it was only bit of fun. Don’t pretend your -darling- didn’t enjoy the little reunion with mine. The fresh air did wonders for her complexion….well a little.”

Shadowheart: “Enough games pretend king, state your business or face all of Shars rath!”

Astarion: “Name calling at your age? Hm, no wonder your child turned away…..😏

Shadowheart: “What do you mean by that?”

Astarion: “My spies have given me a delicious bit of gossip that your little one has chosen dye their hair white and worship the little moon maiden.” ~He tries to hold in a laugh~ “The Mother Superiors daughter turned traitor! Quite the Scandal!”

Shadowheart: “Lies! Every word from your mouth is a drop of poison that I refuse to swallow!”

Astarion: “Now, now why would I come all this way to lie to you? It’s not MY fault you can’t accept it, you are having trouble finding them your usual way are you not?”

Shawdowheart: “You want to help me find them? You are not usually this generous…….Interesting, it seems even you have limits.”

Astarion: ~Bares his fangs and snarls at her~ “I can go anywhere I please!” ~Quickly regains his composer~ “However, this requires a delicate hand of your caliber. The mind erasing, I want you to use it on someone in return for the location for your little child of Shar.”

Shadowheart: “Ha! You call me a horrid parent.” ~ Leans back against her desk~

Astarion: “No, not on my little one. That would be far too merciful. One of her little friends has peaked my interest, but that conversation would not entertain you.” ~Spoiler, Gales kid. Imagine what Astarion could do with a loyal pet like that power wise, the demigod power/ blood. Plus keep his kid in line by controlling their friend. Nothing too weird don’t worry. ~

I have to say i am absolutely enthralled by how into it everyone is ahaha like its a spin off of a spin off and I am LIVING for it. I also just love the idea of them all coexisiting like warlords with territories. Astarion and Wyll fight over the elite, Shadowheart has her Sharrans. Halsin has the wilds and Minthara just has the entirety of the underdark. Then Gale is above them all in the godly realms.

And between them all they still cannot keep track of their children.

[moonselune]

sorry to bother but can i get a rolan depression comfort please please? with tav that struggles with really bad depression. thank you, i love the way you write everyone so much. your work and his story in act 3 has kind of made him a big comfort character for me lol

as someone who does struggle with depression there is absolutely no projecting in this whatsoever, definitely none, hope ur okay nonnie!

cw: angst, depression

Rolan x reader | Darkest Times

The room was quiet, save for the faint crackle of a struggling fire in the hearth. You sat slumped on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, as if folding in on yourself could somehow make the suffocating weight on your shoulders easier to bear. The world outside might as well not exist—its colors muted, its sounds distant and meaningless. You hadn’t spoken in hours. Eating seemed like an insurmountable task, and even breathing felt like too much.

Rolan entered cautiously, his boots barely making a sound against the worn floorboards. The ever-present pride and sharp wit that usually defined him were muted tonight. He’d seen the signs before, in others, but watching you unravel felt different. It was intimate, raw, and utterly heartbreaking.

He set down the tray he carried—a mug of tea, a slice of bread, and a book he'd charmed to glow faintly at the edges, just in case the light might soothe you. When you didn’t even glance up, his chest tightened.

“Still quiet, I see,” he said softly, attempting a small smile. It faltered when you didn’t respond. “Well, I suppose you’re saving your biting commentary for later.”

Your lips barely twitched, and Rolan sighed, stepping closer. He crouched in front of you, his eyes searching your face. The usual spark in your gaze was absent, replaced by a dull emptiness that twisted something deep inside him.

“Do you know,” he started, his tone quiet but not pitying, “I used to think I had to hold everything together on my own. Lia and Cal—they needed me. They still do. But I’ve had nights like this, where even the idea of standing felt impossible. And I never let anyone see it. I thought it made me weak.”

He reached out tentatively, resting a warm hand over yours, which were clenched tightly in your lap. You didn’t pull away, but your shoulders tensed beneath his touch.

“I was wrong,” he continued, his voice a low murmur. “It’s not weak to feel like this. It’s not weak to let someone care.”

You sniffled, the smallest crack in the wall you’d built around yourself.

“It’s too much,” you whispered, your voice raw. “I can’t—I don’t know how to get out of this.”

Rolan’s hand tightened around yours, his jaw clenching as if he could will his strength into you. “Then let me help. You’ve done so much for me—more than I deserve, really. Let me be here for you now.”

Tears began to blur your vision, and for the first time in what felt like hours, you tilted your head to look at him. There was no judgment in his sharp green eyes, only concern and something deeper—an unspoken determination to shoulder whatever you couldn’t carry.

“I feel so...broken,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “What if I never feel whole again?”

Rolan knelt beside you fully now, taking both of your hands in his.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “I’ve seen your strength, your kindness—even when you thought no one noticed. You are not broken. You are a masterpiece still in progress. And progress isn’t always a straight line.”

You let out a choked laugh, a sound caught between despair and a flicker of hope. “You sound like a self-help book.”

He smirked, the smallest flicker of his usual snark peeking through. “I’m a wizard. I know how to spin a spellbinding tale.”

You laughed again, this time with a bit more warmth. And for a moment, the heaviness eased. It wasn’t gone—it likely wouldn’t vanish overnight—but the way Rolan stayed by your side, unwavering, made it feel a little more manageable.

“I’ll stay as long as you need,” he promised, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “We can sit here in silence, talk about nothing, or I can conjure some ridiculous illusion to distract you. Whatever it takes.”

You nodded, leaning forward until your forehead rested against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close like he was anchoring you to the world.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rolan whispered into your hair. “No matter how long it takes.”

And in that quiet moment, with his arms around you and the fire casting soft shadows on the walls, you began to believe him.

this is a bit short as it was quite intense to write it but I hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x