moonselune

[moonselune]

Not really a request just something that came to me late at night playing bg3 and I wanted to share it so barbarian Tav known for being very straightforward and pretty vulgar just stopping mid fight to give a motivational speech but it's not for the allies not it's for the enemy

Bahahahahah yes, they are just in need of a real fight

why do I also feel like Lae’zel and Minthara would also do this and then Gale and Astarion are just like stfu

Wyll would do it to be nice

[moonselune]

Been romancing Halsin almost every playthrough cuz he sais the most ROMANTICAL stuff to my knowledge but I was a little bummed that there was no reaction of Gortash to Durge!Tav being with someone else, so I got it in my head that when he hears she's alive he's all happy and exited and than she pulls up with Halsin; just a companion right?

WRONG. He is her lover? Wants to sire Bhaalspawn with him?? Are those bite marks on his hands???

Sorry if it's vague or doodoo

Ahahahahahahah just imagining scrawny ass Gort and Halsin just towering over him like that meme

Also the siring bhaalspawn got me acting UP

[moonselune]

I spy an open inbox 👀

Not going to lie, started playing BG3 about a couple weeks ago, and have binge read all your works. A few times over. They're honestly so fucking good!?

Got a request idea if you wouldn't mind? Tav is an aasimar, or just has wings in general, and wings that size would need a fair amount of work and effort put in to keep them clean. The ladies see them struggling, perhaps after a battle, and offer to help out not quite realising how sensitive their wings can be...

Cheers!

yesyesyesyesyesyesyes this is such a good idea and thank you so much that is so sweet! 🥹

Karlach:

The river was cold. Not unbearably so, but enough that your muscles ached from the length of time you had spent submerged.

You had been at this for what felt like hours—scrubbing, rinsing, repeating. The battle had been a mess. Blood—your own, your enemies', your companions'—had soaked into the pristine white of your wings, the viscous substance clinging to the feathers in thick, stubborn patches. Even with the river’s steady current working with you, it was a nightmare to clean.

You grit your teeth, reaching back awkwardly to try and scrub at the worst of it. The angle was awful, your arms burning with the effort, and yet no matter how much you worked at it, the blood refused to fully lift.

A frustrated groan left your lips.

"Need a hand, soldier?"

You startled, turning to see Karlach crouched at the riverbank, a lopsided grin on her face. She looked just as battle-worn as you felt—armor dented, skin smeared with dirt and streaks of dried blood—but the warmth in her molten eyes remained as bright as ever.

You sighed, shaking your head. "I’ve been at this forever and it’s still not coming out."

Karlach hummed, rolling up her sleeves. "Alright, shift forward a bit, let me in there."

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want her help—gods knew you did—but your wings were… sensitive.

Still, your arms were aching, and Karlach wasn’t exactly the type to take ‘no’ for an answer when she had her mind set on something.

So you swallowed your hesitation and nodded, shifting so that she could step into the river behind you. The water barely seemed to bother her, the heat of her infernal engine keeping the cold at bay.

"Alright, let’s see what we’re working with here," Karlach muttered, reaching out to cup one of your wings, her fingers grazing along the blood-matted feathers—

—and you jerked, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

Karlach froze. "…You good?"

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to relax. "Y-Yeah, just—gentle. They're… sensitive."

Her brow furrowed, and then a slow grin spread across her face. "Sensitive, huh?"

You groaned. "Karlach—"

"Relax, relax, I won’t mess with you," she chuckled, though the teasing lilt to her voice told you she definitely wanted to.

She adjusted her grip, this time much softer, and got to work. Her hands were large, calloused from battle, but careful as she dipped the tips of your feathers into the water, working through the stubborn patches of dried blood. At first, it wasn’t so bad—just the gentle sensation of her fingers combing through, rinsing and massaging away the grime.

But then—

"Fuck!" You arched sharply as her thumb pressed too hard into a particularly sensitive spot near the base.

Karlach immediately pulled back, hands raised in alarm. "Shit! Sorry! You okay?"

You shuddered, inhaling a deep breath. "Fine," you ground out, though your entire body was trembling.

Karlach narrowed her eyes. "That didn’t sound fine."

You exhaled sharply, trying to calm the heat creeping up your neck. "They’re fine. Just—like I said—sensitive."

She studied you for a moment, then a slow, mischievous grin spread across her face.

"Ohhhh, I see," she purred, reaching out again, deliberately ghosting her fingers over the same spot.

You whined, the sound entirely unintentional.

Karlach beamed. "Oh, that’s adorable."

You turned, glaring at her, face burning. "Karlach, I swear—"

She cackled, raising her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! No teasing—I'll behave."

You gave her a suspicious look but sighed, letting her continue.

This time, her touch was excruciatingly careful, her fingers barely grazing the sensitive areas, smoothing out the ruffled, freshly cleaned feathers. And, despite her earlier antics, there was an undeniable tenderness to it—a care that made your chest ache in an entirely different way.

Karlach wasn’t one for subtlety, but in moments like these, you saw just how gentle she could be when it mattered.

Once she was finished, she brushed a wet strand of hair from your face, smiling down at you with all the warmth of a summer sunrise.

"Better?"

You nodded, still a little breathless. "Yeah… much better."

She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling back with a grin. "Good. Now c’mon, let’s get outta this freezing-ass river before we both turn into icicles."

You laughed, shaking your head as she tugged you toward the shore, already rambling about how if you ever needed a wing massage again, she was more than happy to help.

And, despite yourself, you knew you might just take her up on that offer.

Minthara:

The battle had been a mess. It wasn’t just the blood—though there was plenty of that, soaking your clothes, your skin, and worst of all, your wings. It clung to the feathers in thick, dried patches, matting them together and making every movement unbearably uncomfortable. No matter how long you had been scrubbing at them, no matter how much water you poured over them, the stubborn mess refused to fully lift.

You sat at the riverbank, hands buried in the mess of ruined feathers, cursing under your breath as you tried to preen out the worst of the tangles.

"Are you still at this?"

Minthara's voice was thick with exasperation as she approached, arms crossed. She was fresh from washing up herself, armor cleaned, silver hair still damp from the water. She was as poised as ever, looking at you like you were an idiot for wasting so much time.

You sighed. "Yes, love, I am still at this."

She clicked her tongue. "This is ridiculous. Move."

Your eyes widened as she stepped behind you, her fingers already reaching for your wings.

"No—wait!" You twisted away, wings snapping up protectively. "They're sensitive."

Minthara rolled her eyes. "Grow up."

Before you could protest further, she grabbed hold of your left wing and yanked it downward, forcing it back into the water. You yelped, squirming against her grip, but Minthara was stronger than she looked, her warrior’s training giving her an unshakable hold.

"Minthara!" You flailed as she began ruthlessly scrubbing at the stained feathers.

"Stop whining," she said flatly, working her fingers through the tangles without an ounce of sympathy. "You act as though I am torturing you."

"You are!" You twisted in her grasp, glaring at her. "You wouldn't like it if I grabbed your ears like this!"

Minthara ignored you, still scrubbing away. Your eyes narrowed. Fine. If she wanted to play dirty, so could you.

With a smirk, you shot out a hand and flicked the tip of one of her long, pointed ears and gleamed when Minthara jerked.

You felt the sharp intake of breath more than you heard it—the way her entire body stiffened, muscles going rigid.

Slowly, she turned her head, ruby eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Don't you dare—"

You grinned. And then you attacked.

Your fingers latched onto both of her ears, rubbing and pinching, running along the sensitive edges just as ruthlessly as she had treated your wings.

Minthara screeched.

"Unhand me, you menace!" She tried to twist away, swatting at you, but you held fast, laughing as she flailed.

"You started it!" you shot back, wiggling your fingers along the sensitive ridges. Minthara snarled, breaking free just long enough to tackle you, knocking you both into the dirt. You wrestled like two unruly children, rolling across the riverbank—her hands in your wings, yours still attacking her ears, both of you shrieking and snapping at each other like rabid animals.

Then—

With one wrong move, one poorly placed shift of weight—

Splash!

You both hit the water. The cold river swallowed you whole, cutting through the heat of the fight and forcing you both to pause. When you resurfaced, Minthara was already standing, utterly seething, silver hair plastered to her face, armor dripping wet. You wiped water from your eyes and burst into laughter.

Minthara growled. "You—"

"You deserved it," you cut in, grinning.

She lunged, and you yelped, scrambling away through the water, laughing the entire time as she chased you.

Maybe your wings weren’t clean yet, and maybe you had just started another battle, but gods—this was worth it.

Lae'zel:

The battle had been brutal. Not just in the way all battles were brutal—blood, steel, the constant risk of death looming over every strike—but in the way it had stuck to you. Quite literally.

Your wings were an absolute mess.

Blood had dried into the feathers, turning soft plumes into stiff, clumped-together disasters. Bits of dirt and grime had worked their way into the delicate barbs, and no matter how much you scrubbed, no matter how much river water you dumped over them, you couldn't seem to get them clean.

You sat at the river’s edge, muttering curses under your breath, fingers plucking uselessly at the tangled mess. Your muscles ached, exhaustion settling into your bones. You had been at this for what felt like hours, but you refused to stop until you could at least fold them without discomfort.

"Enough."

The sharp command made you tense. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

"Lae’zel, I’m—"

"I am helping you," she stated, leaving no room for argument.

You groaned. "That’s really not necessary."

"You are failing," she said bluntly, stepping closer. "I do not waste time watching failure when I can fix it."

You winced, shifting your wings inward instinctively. "They’re sensitive."

Lae’zel scoffed. "Then you will endure. Hold still."

You wanted to protest, but you knew there was no arguing with Lae’zel once she had decided on something. With a sigh, you relented, unfolding your wings and waiting for the inevitable pain—Lae’zel was a warrior, not a healer, and gentleness was not her strong suit.

Except—

When her hands touched your feathers, they were… soft.

Careful.

She worked methodically, sifting through the worst of the blood and grime with surprising precision, her fingers plucking and smoothing with a patience you never would have expected.

It was oddly soothing.

The rhythmic motions, the slow drag of her fingers along your wings, the subtle warmth of her touch—it all melted into a steady lull, seeping past your exhaustion and settling into something comforting.

You felt your shoulders relax, your breathing slow. The weight of the battle, the stress of the aftermath—it all faded under her hands. You let your eyes slip shut, barely aware of how your body was beginning to lean forward, how your mind was drifting.

A sudden tug at your feathers jolted you awake.

You jerked, blinking rapidly, only to turn and see Lae’zel looking down at you, her usual sharp expression laced with something suspiciously close to amusement.

"You are falling asleep," she said.

You scowled. "You woke me up on purpose."

"I refuse to waste my efforts on an unconscious audience," she said smoothly, though you caught the hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

You huffed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "Sadist."

Lae’zel clicked her tongue. "Ungrateful."

Despite her words, she resumed her work, fingers gliding through your feathers once more—careful, precise, deliberate.

You sighed, but didn’t argue. Maybe she was right. Maybe you should be grateful. After all, not everyone got to witness a warrior’s hands turned gentle.

Shadowheart:

The battle had been long, drawn out, and far messier than you would have liked. The stench of blood and sweat clung to the air, thick and metallic, even after the fighting had long ceased. Your muscles ached, your clothes were torn, and your wings—your poor wings—were utterly ruined.

Caked in dried blood and dirt, feathers sticking at odd angles, they felt wrong. Every movement sent an uncomfortable pull through them, like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. You’d been sitting by the river for what felt like hours, scrubbing at them with trembling fingers, trying to fix the damage, but it was no use. The filth clung stubbornly, and the more you tried to set things right, the worse it seemed to get.

It was frustrating. Agonizing, even. You were close to just setting them on fire and being done with it when a shadow loomed over you.

"You’re making a mess," Shadowheart’s voice cut through the night, smooth and unimpressed.

You barely turned your head, still focused on the stubborn dirt stuck between your feathers. "I am the mess."

Shadowheart sighed, stepping closer. "Let me."

You hesitated, your grip tightening around one of your wings as if that alone could keep her from interfering.

"I can handle it," you mumbled, though you both knew it was a lie.

Shadowheart arched an eyebrow. "Really? Because it looks like you’ve been sitting here, struggling, and achieving nothing."

You grumbled under your breath, shaking out a wing in frustration, sending loose dirt and bits of bloodied feathers scattering into the air. Shadowheart made a small noise of disapproval before kneeling behind you.

"I’ve dealt with enough tangles in my hair to know when someone is fighting a losing battle," she said, pulling a small cloth from her belt and dipping it into the water. "Stop being stubborn. Just let me help."

Her fingers were already moving before you could argue, and—gods, her touch was careful, methodical. She smoothed over each feather, working through the worst of the dried blood with careful precision, dampening the barbs, untangling what had been twisted in battle.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to react. Because the problem—the real problem—was that your wings were sensitive.

Not just in the way one might expect. No, it wasn’t just discomfort—it was something more.

The gentle drag of her fingers over the feathers sent shivers down your spine. The way she meticulously groomed each one, working through them with quiet patience, sent heat pooling in your stomach.

It was soothing. It was almost… intimate.

You bit the inside of your cheek, determined not to show any reaction. If she realized how sensitive your wings were—how utterly weak they made you—she would never let you live it down.

Shadowheart worked in silence, carefully arranging the feathers back into place. The rhythmic motion, the warm press of her fingers, the soft scrape of nails along delicate nerves—it was too much.

You could barely think, barely breathe.

And then—

A sharp tug.

Shadowheart plucked a loose feather, and before you could stop it, a choked, strangled sound tore from your throat—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

Your entire body went rigid.

Shadowheart paused.

You felt her hesitation, the stillness of her fingers. Then, slowly, slowly, she turned her head to look at you, her expression shifting from confusion to realization.

And then—

She grinned.

A slow, wicked smile stretched across her lips, the kind of expression that meant trouble.

"Oh," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "Oh."

Your stomach dropped.

"That’s interesting."

You swallowed hard, trying to regain your composure. "No, it’s not."

Shadowheart twirled the plucked feather between her fingers, her grin widening.

"No?" she echoed, tilting her head. "Are you sure? Because you sounded like—"

You turned, leveling a desperate glare at her. "Don’t you dare."

She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. "Tell me, love," she murmured, her voice thick with mischief. "What happens if I actually try?"

A fresh wave of heat surged through you, and you clenched your fists. "Shadowheart—"

She hummed in thought, ignoring you completely. "Such useful information," she mused, almost to herself, as if already plotting ways to use it against you.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "I hate you."

Shadowheart pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, her lips soft against your skin. "No, you don’t."

And you knew—with absolute certainty—that the next time you ended up tangled in the sheets with her, you were doomed.

Jaheira:

The camp had long since settled into a quiet lull, the remnants of the day's battle left behind in blood-streaked weapons and exhausted bodies. You had been victorious, but it had not been an easy fight. Your muscles ached, your wounds burned, and worst of all, your wings were filthy.

Caked in blood, dirt, and gods knew what else, they felt heavy behind you, the weight of them throwing off your balance. It was the kind of discomfort that sent a persistent shudder up your spine, a lingering wrongness you couldn’t just ignore. So, instead of crawling into bed like any sane person would, you had stationed yourself by the fire with a bucket of water, scrubbing at the mess with a grimace.

The process was tedious, slow. The barbs of your feathers were stubborn, sticking together in clumps, refusing to come clean no matter how much you worked at them. The dried blood had set in deep, and the more you scrubbed, the more it felt like you were fighting a losing battle.

"You know, most people go to bed after a fight like that."

You glanced up to see Jaheira standing nearby, arms crossed, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips. Her hair was unbraided for the night, cascading over her shoulders, and her tunic was loose and untied, signaling that she had already been preparing for sleep.

"You’re still awake," you pointed out.

She let out a soft snort. "Because you are still awake."

You sighed, flicking water from your fingertips. "Go to bed, Jaheira."

She ignored you, stepping closer, her sharp eyes scanning the state of your wings.

"Hells, you made a mess of yourself," she murmured, reaching out before you could stop her. Her fingers ghosted over your feathers, feeling the damp weight of them, before she clicked her tongue. "You’re going to be here all night trying to clean these."

"I have to," you grumbled, shaking out one wing. Water droplets scattered everywhere, catching the firelight. "I can’t sleep like this."

Jaheira hummed in thought. Then, before you could protest, she knelt behind you and pulled the bucket closer. "Then let’s make this faster."

You stiffened. "Jaheira—"

"You can complain all you like," she said breezily, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. "Or you can sit still and let me help."

You hesitated, but when she fixed you with that pointed look—the one that left no room for argument—you sighed and relented, settling forward to give her better access.

She worked efficiently, methodically, much like she did with everything else in her life. Her hands were firm, wiping away the dried blood, straightening ruffled feathers with practiced ease. It was nice, actually. Comforting. She had always had a way of making things seem easier, even the worst of wounds, the hardest of days.

And then—

A sharp jolt ran through you as her fingers lingered just a bit too long at the base of your wings. You sucked in a breath, your shoulders twitching involuntarily.

Jaheira paused. Then, in the most infuriating way possible, she did it again.

"What—" you started, twisting your head to look at her.

Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Are your wings sensitive?"

Heat flushed through your face. "No."

Jaheira’s smile widened. "Oh? So if I do this—" she dragged her fingers over the delicate part of your wing again, her nails just barely scraping against the nerves—

You jolted, letting out something between a choked gasp and an undignified squawk.

Jaheira laughed.

"Jaheira," you hissed, your feathers bristling.

She was grinning now, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is fantastic," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "You’re telling me this whole time, you’ve been this easy to mess with?"

"You are insufferable," you grumbled, trying to shift away, but she followed, her hands still working at your wings, this time with far too much deliberate teasing.

"You should have told me sooner," she continued, chuckling. "Think of all the arguments I could have won with this knowledge—"

You let out a strangled noise as she pinched at a particularly sensitive spot, your wings twitching on reflex. Jaheira doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly fell.

"You are a child," you accused, scowling as you fought to get your dignity back.

Jaheira wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, her grin still wide. "Oh, I am so using this against you."

"You would," you grumbled, fluffing out your wings indignantly.

Jaheira pressed a quick kiss to the back of your neck, still laughing. "Oh, love," she murmured against your skin. "You have no idea."

This was so fun to write, I loveeee the wings mod for bg3 although I always use the cambion ones for some reason ahaha. Hope you guys enjoyed this! -Seluney

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

[moonselune]

aasimar companion letting the rest of the camp preen their wings. (will gather them to make a down pillow they gift them)

omfg that's so wholesomeeeeeeeeee. I can imagine some of the camp members, (Astarion and Minthara) believing themselves above it. But they notice the camp's not doing it right so they demonstrate and then just end up being obsessed over it. Like it becomes part of their nightly ritual.

[moonselune]

is dark bg3 coming back soon? :0

There are still some requests for it so soon-ish? Depends on how much I can get done :)

I love how dark bg3 has really taken off ahaha

[moonselune]

I'm in love with the toxic love triangle of Gortash x Durge x Astarion. Just imainging Durge dating Astarion because they have no memories of their past life. Then they roll up, and Gortash is like, 'My partner is back.' And Astarion is like 'when you lost your memories, you gained standards.' Or 'Im almost insulted how low your standards were darling~'

Ahahahahaahha yes 10000000%. Astarion would be alllll over it, draped over their partner. Complimenting them on how much better they are doing. Really rubbing it in Gortash's face. Which he should.

[moonselune]

You think licking the center of Gales netherese orb is a little like licking the prongs of a battery? Asking for... a friend...

more asks like this please

and yes and i would like to think you get a little jolt from it as would he ;)

[moonselune]

companions with a wild magic sorc who has a really hard time trying to control their magic ? :3

yessssssssss I love this idea ahahahahahaha

Karlach:

The battlefield was still thick with the scent of blood, the air crackling with leftover magic and heat. The fight was over, bodies littering the ground behind you, and your chest heaved with exhilaration. That had been intense. Your pulse roared in your ears, your magic still buzzing beneath your skin like static before a lightning strike.

Karlach stood beside you, her hands clenched into fists, her grin wide and wild. Her infernal engine thrummed, but it was already cooling, the forced regulation kicking in as she let out a heavy exhale. You, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky.

Your magic wasn’t calming down.

It crackled unpredictably, dancing across your fingertips in flickering arcs of chaotic energy. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your body unable to stop trembling from the sheer rush of it all. You wanted to run, to scream, to cast—your magic begged for release, surging up your throat like a pressure too great to contain.

Karlach turned to you, grin softening into concern when she saw the way your whole body twitched, the erratic glow in your eyes. “Hey, hey, hey—breathe, baby. Breathe.”

You tried. You really did. But instead of steadying yourself, your next breath came out as a sharp, involuntary laugh—one laced with too much magic. A ripple of force burst out from you, sending the discarded weapons around you clattering and kicking up a gust of wind strong enough to ruffle Karlach’s hair.

“Whoops,” you muttered, biting your lip.

Your fingers tingled, your skin shone faintly with some unstable, unknown spell.

“I can’t—I can’t turn it off,” you admitted, hands twitching as another spark of wild magic sent a few pebbles into the air, where they promptly started orbiting your head.

Karlach huffed out a small laugh, stepping toward you before she suddenly dodged to the side as a wayward arc of electricity zapped the ground where she had just been standing. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s not turn me into fried bacon.”

“I—I can’t think, it’s too much, I—” Another tremor of wild magic made your body pulse, and suddenly, a random bouquet of brightly colored flowers exploded out of your palm, flinging themselves dramatically into Karlach’s face.

Karlach snorted, plucking a tulip from her forehead. “Babe.”

Your voice was tight, panicked. “Karlach, I can’t stop.”

Her grin faded into something softer, something understanding. She had her own battle with too much energy, with too much fire inside her. But at least her engine forced her to calm down. You? You didn’t have that failsafe.

“Alright, c’mon, focus on me,” she said firmly, holding her hands up in a steadying gesture. She took a slow breath in. “In…”

You mirrored her, sucking in a breath through your nose.

“And out.”

You exhaled, but your magic surged with it, another unpredictable burst escaping from you and—

Karlach ducked just as a rain of glowing pink bubbles started floating down from nowhere. She blinked, watching one pop harmlessly on her nose. Then she grinned. “Okay, could’ve been worse.”

You groaned. “I hate this.”

“I love this,” Karlach said with a laugh. “This is the most fun I’ve had post-battle since I figured out I could headbutt gnolls.”

“I am being serious.” You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers twitching. “I—I feel like I’m going to explode.”

Karlach sobered again, stepping closer—slowly, cautiously, avoiding the crackling wild magic still sparking off of you. “Then let’s get it out of you, nice and controlled, yeah?”

You met her gaze, still panting. “How?”

She tapped her temple. “Grounding techniques, baby. I use ‘em all the time. Let’s try…” She hummed, thinking. “Five things you can see.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Five things you can see,” she repeated, voice steady. “C’mon, focus. Tell me.”

You clenched your jaw but did as she said. “Um. Your stupidly pretty face. The battlefield. My hands. The… floating rocks still circling my head. And—oh, shit—my boots are levitating.”

Karlach looked down at your now two-inches-off-the-ground stance and wheeze-laughed. “Okay, that’s actually pretty rad.”

“Not helping.”

“Right, right. Four things you can touch.”

Your breathing slowed as you focused. “The wind. My robes. The magic—it’s under my skin, I can feel it. And… your voice.”

Karlach softened. “Good, babe. Three things you can hear.”

You swallowed. “My heartbeat. Yours. The bubbles.”

Karlach grinned. “Two things you can smell.”

“Blood. And—you.”

That made her pause. “Me?”

“Yeah,” you said, blinking hard. “Like… metal. And heat. And you.”

Karlach’s grin turned wicked. “Damn, you been sniffing me, sweetheart?”

“I swear to the gods, Karlach—”

“Last one,” she interrupted, stepping closer, brushing her fingers against yours. “One thing you can taste.”

You hesitated. Your lips parted, your breath still ragged from the rush of it all, but now Karlach was right there. You looked at her, the way her infernal glow lit up her face, the warmth of her body so close to yours.

“…You,” you whispered.

Karlach’s pupils dilated. “Oh, fuck.”

And then your mouth crashed against hers.

The instant your lips met, the magic inside you pulsed—and suddenly, the storm inside you wasn’t dangerous anymore. It flowed into Karlach’s touch, into her lips, into the warmth of her, grounding you as you melted into her grip. Your boots hit the ground again. The floating pebbles plummeted. The bubbles popped and vanished.

The magic was still there—of course it was, it was you—but now it was quiet, steady.

Karlach pulled back just enough to mutter against your lips, “Hells, babe, if I’d known kissing you was all it took—”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “We should test the theory. Again. For science.”

Karlach grinned, fangs flashing. “I love the way you think.”

And she kissed you again.

Minthara:

“By the gods, Minthara, what were you thinking?”

The words burst from your lips like a fireball, laced with exasperation, frustration, and just the tiniest bit of incredulity. You stood with your arms crossed, glaring at the drow before you, barely aware of the way your magic crackled and shimmered around you. It wasn’t unusual for your wild magic to act up in moments of heightened emotion, but you were too focused on your righteous anger to notice.

Minthara, ever composed, had the audacity to lift her chin, still maintaining that infuriatingly regal air. “I was thinking, my love, that my experience—”

“No. No, no, no, don’t you dare try to justify this!” You pointed at her, your finger sparking slightly with a rogue ember. “You walked into that hag’s lair without backup! Without me! And why? Because you ‘had it under control’? Minthara, she turned you into a squirrel!”

Minthara pursed her lips, her eye twitching slightly. “A temporary setback.”

“A humiliating setback,” you countered, throwing your arms in the air—unaware of the way golden sparks trailed from your fingertips. “And then I had to come in and fix it! Again! Just like last week when you thought you could intimidate a mindflayer into submission—”

“I nearly succeeded.”

“You did not! It tried to eat your brain!”

She opened her mouth to argue again, but you weren’t done. No, you were finally the one who was right, and you were going to bask in this rare moment of victory.

“I swear, Minthara, your ego causes you to have no sense of self-preservation! And then you tell me that I am reckless? That I am impulsive?” You let out a sharp laugh, magic crackling around you, the air growing thick with the scent of flowers. “You are infuriating! Stubborn, arrogant, foolhardy—”

Minthara tried to interject, but your magic flared again, sending a gust of wind that knocked over a nearby pile of scrolls. She sighed through her nose, already regretting her decision to let you rant uninterrupted.

“—And do not get me started on that ridiculous notion that you don’t need anyone’s help,” you continued, your wild magic shifting again, responding to the sheer intensity of your emotions. “Because guess what, Minthara? You do! You do need help! You do need me! And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, so help me, I will—”

You paused. Minthara had gone silent. Too silent. Your righteous fury momentarily faded as you blinked and looked at her properly—only to realize that she was no longer standing.

She was on the floor.

Bound.

And gagged.

By flowery vines.

You stared.

Minthara’s white-hot glare could have set you on fire. The vines wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides in an almost mocking embrace, while another curled delicately around her mouth, muffling any words she might have been trying to speak. Wildflowers bloomed along the bindings, soft and fragrant, an utterly ridiculous contrast to the absolute fury in Minthara’s eyes.

A slow, horrible realization dawned on you.

“…Oh.”

Minthara’s nostrils flared.

You winced, stepping forward as if that would somehow make up for this situation. “Um. How long have you—?”

A muffled snarl.

“Right. Okay. Uh. I might have gotten a little… carried away.”

Minthara arched a single, deadly brow. You pursed your lips, fighting the urge to laugh. You couldn’t laugh. That would make this so much worse.

“You look—”

A warning growl.

“—very dignified, actually.”

Minthara closed her eyes, as if calling upon the patience of every god she had ever rejected. You rubbed the back of your neck, shifting slightly.

“So… should I…?” You gestured vaguely to the vines.

Minthara’s golden eyes snapped open, filled with an icy promise of retribution.

“Right, right, I’ll fix it.”

With a flick of your fingers, you focused on dispelling the magic, watching as the vines loosened and slithered away, fading back into nothingness. Minthara immediately pushed herself up, brushing off imaginary dust as she straightened her armor. You took a cautious step back, suddenly less confident in your victory.

“So… no hard feelings?”

Minthara turned to you slowly, deliberately, her expression deadly.

“…I see,” she murmured, voice silk-smooth. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

You swallowed. “Um.”

“I must admit, my love.” She took a step forward, and you resisted the urge to take a step back. “I did not expect to be humiliated today, twice.” Another step. “And yet, here I am. Tied up. By flowers.”

Your lips twitched. “It was very aesthetic.”

Minthara inhaled sharply through her nose.

You cleared your throat, schooling your features into something apologetic. “But in my defense, I was right.”

Minthara’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk.

“Yes,” she admitted. “For once.”

You smiled. “Glad we can agree—”

Minthara grabbed you by the collar, yanked you forward, and whispered in your ear, “Run.”

You blinked. Then, without hesitation, you ran. Her laughter—low and deliciously vengeful—followed close behind.

Lae'zel:

Lae’zel was winning. Again.

Your chest heaved, sweat slicking your skin, and your arms ached from parrying her relentless blows. She was relentless in every way—strong, fast, utterly brutal in combat. It was infuriating. Your magic crackled beneath your skin, simmering at the edges of your control, waiting for an opportunity to break free.

But you didn’t need it. You could win this sparring match without wild magic. At least, that’s what you told yourself—right before Lae’zel swept your legs out from under you with a single, infuriatingly graceful motion.

You hit the ground hard, groaning as you rolled onto your side, glaring up at her. Lae’zel stood over you, spear in hand, expression sharp with satisfaction.

“Yield,” she demanded, eyes burning with that arrogant certainty that she always had when she bested you.

You refused.

Instead, you pushed yourself back onto your feet, breath heavy, and lifted your hands. Lae’zel grinned, shifting into a defensive stance. She liked this, liked that you didn’t give up. But you were so tired of losing.

She lunged forward. You dodged—barely. Her spear grazed past your ribs, and the shock of the near-hit sent something surging through you, something electric. Your magic flared before you could stop it.

Lae’zel’s next strike never landed. Instead, the wind shifted violently around you, and your body blurred—one moment you were there, and the next you were behind her, your own momentum carrying you faster than you should have been able to move. Lae’zel snarled, spinning to face you, but you were already striking out, landing a solid hit against her side.

She stumbled. She never stumbled. Lae’zel’s eyes snapped to yours, wide with disbelief. “You—”

You grinned. Lightning crackled at your fingertips as your wild magic lashed out again, this time turning the ground beneath her feet slick—not with water, not with ice, but with something unpredictable, something that sent her footing completely off balance.

She barely caught herself, growling, golden eyes narrowing. “You cheat!”

You laughed, full of reckless joy. “And?”

Lae’zel lunged again, and this time, you knew you had her. Your magic flared, pushing you just fast enough to evade her, just strong enough to flip her onto her back with a well-timed sweep of your leg. And then—finally—you pinned her.

Your body hovered over hers, hands braced on either side of her head, wild magic still crackling in the air around you—glowing embers and swirling wind, the scent of ozone thick between you both. You could feel the energy rolling off you, could see the way the world warped around your magic’s chaotic influence.

Lae’zel looked up at you, utterly unamused. “Well?”

You beamed.

Lae’zel narrowed her eyes. “Are you pleased with yourself?”

You let out a breathless, triumphant laugh, still grinning down at her. “You have no idea.”

Lae’zel clicked her tongue, shifting beneath you, her expression a careful mask of irritation—but you could see it. The slight curl of her lips. The way her fingers twitched against the dirt, as if resisting the urge to drag you down and flip you over instead.

“You fight like a fool,” she muttered, voice lower now, quieter.

“And yet,” you teased, leaning just a little closer, “the fool won.”

She huffed. “Only because they cannot control their magic.”

“Or maybe,” you murmured, feeling your magic spark warm and golden between you, “you just underestimated me.”

Lae’zel scoffed, but there was something else behind it now—something that made your magic hum for an entirely different reason.

“You will spar with me again,” she declared. “Without your magic.”

You grinned, slowly pulling away, offering her a hand. “And if I win?”

Lae’zel took your hand, gripping it just tight enough to remind you of her strength as she pulled herself up. She leaned in, voice low and deliberate. “Then, perhaps, I will allow you to celebrate properly.”

Your wild magic sparked, sending a burst of shimmering light into the sky. Lae’zel smirked.

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart pressed a finger to her lips as the two of you stumbled down the darkened path toward camp.

"Quiet," she whispered, though the word was barely more than a giggle. You tried to nod solemnly, but the movement made the world tilt, and you ended up bracing yourself against her shoulder instead.

"I'm always quiet," you mumbled, completely oblivious to the fact that you had not been quiet all night.

Shadowheart snorted. "Liar."

The two of you had spent the evening at the local tavern, ignoring Lae’zel’s strict warnings about muscle development and alcohol consumption. In hindsight, maybe that had been a bad idea. Not because of the drinking itself—no, that had been fantastic—but because sneaking back into camp while absolutely inebriated was turning out to be significantly harder than anticipated.

Especially because your magic had other plans.

The first sign of trouble came when you stepped forward—and promptly teleported ten feet ahead.

Shadowheart yelped as she was suddenly left behind, and you barely managed to stay upright, wobbling dangerously as you turned back to her. "Oops."

Shadowheart stared. "What—?"

Before she could finish, another magic surge took hold, and suddenly, a cluster of faintly glowing bubbles floated up from your skin, drifting lazily into the air like some kind of drunken sorcery hiccup.

Shadowheart’s mouth opened, then closed. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're going to get us caught."

"No, you’re going to get us caught," you shot back, even though it made absolutely no sense.

Shadowheart sighed and grabbed your wrist, tugging you forward. "Come on, before—"

A bright, multicolored spark exploded from your fingertips, arcing across the sky like a tiny firework. You both froze.

Shadowheart’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide with horror. "What was that?"

You gave a sheepish smile. "Uh… magic?"

"Why?"

"I—hic—don't know," you admitted. "It just does things sometimes."

Shadowheart groaned, rubbing her temples. "Lae’zel is going to murder us."

You tried to look serious, but then another hiccup escaped—and with it, the faint sound of tiny chimes.

Shadowheart exhaled sharply. "You are literally jingling."

You clamped your hands over your mouth in an attempt to stifle any further magical nonsense. It did not work. Instead, your magic decided to transform your hair into a shifting mass of glowing strands, like the aurora borealis.

Shadowheart just stared at it in awe and disbelief. You gave a weak chuckle. "At least it's pretty?"

"You are glowing," she hissed. "They are definitely going to see us now!"

Panicking, you tried to suppress the magic, to focus on keeping everything normal. But—unfortunately for you—the harder you tried, the worse it got.

Shadowheart gasped and shoved you behind a tree just as Astarion’s voice carried through the night. "Did someone light a bloody torch?"

Your heart pounded. You peeked around the tree, only to see Astarion squinting into the darkness, clearly suspicious. Shadowheart clamped a hand over your mouth. "If you make a sound, I will let Lae’zel have you."

You nodded rapidly, holding your breath.

For a moment, it seemed like Astarion was about to investigate further—but then, by some miracle (or sheer dumb luck), he shook his head and muttered something about not having enough sanity for this nonsense before walking back toward his tent.

You and Shadowheart stayed completely still. Then, slowly, she removed her hand from your mouth. You exhaled. "That was close."

Shadowheart glared at you. "If I get in trouble for this, I am blaming you entirely."

You grinned, grabbing her hand. "Fair. Now hurry up before—"

With one last, particularly unfortunate magic surge, the two of you vanished from the tree—only to reappear right in the center of camp, directly in front of Lae’zel.

She blinked. You blinked. Shadowheart swore violently.

Lae’zel crossed her arms, scowling. "I told you that alcohol ruins muscle development. You inebriated, reckless-"

You and Shadowheart exchanged a look. Then you both bolted in opposite directions.

Jaheira:

Jaheira walked a few steps ahead of you, the golden light of the late afternoon sun catching in the streaks of silver in her hair. She was effortlessly graceful, her movements as fluid as the wind rustling through the leaves. You, however, were slightly less composed—partially because you were trying (poorly) to be charming, and partially because your wild magic had other plans.

This was meant to be romantic. A peaceful stroll through the woods, away from camp, away from the chaos of battle, away from the many, many interruptions that came with traveling in a group. You wanted to impress her. You wanted to make her see that you weren’t just a reckless, chaotic spellcaster prone to magical mishaps—you were someone worth taking seriously.

Unfortunately, your magic had never been good at listening to what you wanted.

"So," Jaheira said, looking back at you with a raised brow. "You insisted on dragging me out here—what exactly was your plan?"

You flashed a grin, trying to exude confidence. "Well, I thought we could take a moment to enjoy the beauty of nature… and, you know, each other."

Jaheira hummed, amused. "Oh? Are you trying to woo me?"

You opened your mouth to respond—only for your words to be drowned out by the sudden, unmistakable sound of quacking.

You froze.

Jaheira blinked. "Was that a duck?"

You turned your head very slowly toward the source of the noise, only to find a small flock of ducks waddling through the underbrush, staring at you expectantly.

Jaheira followed your gaze, then turned her eyes back to you, suspicious. "Did you do that?"

"I—uh—" You swallowed, trying to play it off. "M-maybe it’s just… a very duck-heavy part of the woods?"

Jaheira folded her arms. "Is that so?"

As if to completely betray you, another surge of magic rippled outward—and suddenly, the ducks had tiny, shimmering capes sprouting from their backs. You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "Damn it."

Jaheira let out a low chuckle, her amusement barely contained. "I see. So you have enchanted ducks now."

You sighed, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at regaining some dignity. "This wasn’t part of the plan."

Jaheira smirked, stepping closer. "I certainly hope not. Otherwise, I’d have to question your approach to romance."

Before you could answer, another magic surge flared up—this time with a sharp pop—and your clothes completely changed. Gone was your usual traveling attire. Instead, you were now wearing an elaborate, flowery ball gown, complete with a ridiculous amount of lace. Jaheira clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh.

"Oh," she said, eyes glittering with delight. "That is quite the look for you."

You threw your hands up in exasperation. "I was going for charming rogue, not—whatever this is!"

Jaheira stepped back, pretending to appraise you like an art piece.

"Regal," she mused. "Elegant." Her smirk widened. "Utterly impractical for the woods."

"Jaheira," you groaned, fighting the blush threatening to creep up your neck.

She chuckled again, shaking her head. "You are truly something else."

You let out a long breath, finally giving up on controlling the situation. Instead, you turned to her, crossing your arms. "Well? Are you wooed yet?"

Jaheira tilted her head, as if actually considering it. "Mmm… I think I could be."

You perked up slightly. "Yeah?"

Jaheira leaned in just a little, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of herbs and earth on her skin. "If you kiss me before your magic teleports you into a tree."

Your heart definitely skipped a beat at that.

Not wasting a second, you surged forward and kissed her, pressing your lips firmly against hers. Jaheira responded in kind, one hand coming up to cup your face, the other resting lightly on your waist.

For a brief, blessed moment, there was no wild magic, no chaos—just the warmth of her lips, the steady strength of her presence, and the thrill of realizing that despite all of this ridiculousness, she still wanted you.

Then, of course—

Pop.

You disappeared.

And reappeared.

In a tree.

Jaheira let out a long-suffering sigh, looking up at you as you dangled from a branch in your ridiculous ball gown.

"Well," she said, hands on her hips. "That was predictable."

You groaned. "You are wooed, though, right?"

Jaheira shook her head, but there was undeniable fondness in her expression. "Yes," she admitted. "Unfortunately, I am."

Gale:

The fire flickered low in the camp, casting warm golden light over the both of you. Gale sat with his back hunched, staring into the embers as though they held all the answers in the world. His fingers were loosely curled, twitching slightly, as if resisting the urge to conjure something—anything—to distract himself from the weight pressing down on his shoulders.

You had seen him like this before. Pensive, lost in thought, burdened with the knowledge of what Mystra had tasked him with. But tonight, he looked particularly hollow.

You scooted closer, resting a hand over his. He barely reacted at first, lost in his own mind.

"You're thinking about it again," you murmured. He let out a slow, measured breath.

"I suppose I am," he admitted. His voice was softer than usual, devoid of its usual flair and wit. "It's a rather difficult thing to ignore. When a goddess tells you your death is necessary, it tends to linger in one's thoughts."

You squeezed his hand, shaking your head. "You know that's not going to happen, right?"

Gale gave you a ghost of a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And you know that certainty is dangerous. What if it does? What if there is no other way?"

"Then I'll find one," you said fiercely. "I'm not letting you go, Gale."

He looked at you then, properly, and for the first time that night, his expression softened just a little.

"You have a habit of saying things with such conviction," he mused. "It makes me want to believe you."

"Good," you said, squeezing his hand again. "Because you should believe me."

And just as you thought, just as you felt the mood settling into something steady and warm—your magic decided to act up.

It started as a tingling in your fingertips. Then a low, crackling hum beneath your skin, creeping up your arms and down your spine like an untamed storm waiting to break free. You tried to ignore it. You really did. You were saying something important, this was not the time for a random surge of magic.

But your magic had never cared about timing.

There was a sudden, sharp poof!—and Gale let out a very undignified yelp as a bunch of conjured blueberries rained down upon his head and several plump berries rolled off his shoulders and onto the ground.

"Ah," Gale said slowly, picking one up between his fingers. "A… fruit-based outburst, this time?"

You cringed, rubbing your face. "Oh, come on."

But then—Gale chuckled. It was quiet at first, but it quickly turned into a full, warm laugh. The kind of laugh you hadn't heard from him in far too long.

"You must admit," he said between chuckles, plucking a blueberry from his lap and inspecting it as if it were an artifact, "your magic has a rather dramatic sense of humor, my love."

You exhaled, shaking your head but unable to stop the smile pulling at your lips. "I swear, it knows when I'm trying to be serious."

Gale smiled—properly this time. "Perhaps it simply knows you well." He held out the blueberry toward you, tilting his head. You huffed but accepted the offering, popping it into your mouth. Sweet. Tart. A little ridiculous. Much like the moment itself.

But it worked. Gale was smiling again. The weight in his eyes had lessened. Maybe your magic wasn't so bad after all.

Astarion:

It was a rare, golden afternoon—the kind of summer’s day where the warmth of the sun soaked into your bones, easing every ache and tension. The air smelled of wildflowers and sun-warmed grass, and the only sound was the lazy hum of insects and the occasional contented sigh from Astarion beside you.

You lay sprawled on a soft blanket, basking in the sunlight, your head tilted back as you soaked in the heat. Astarion was doing the same, his shirt discarded, his pale skin almost glowing in the light. He stretched languidly, a smug smile curling at his lips.

“I think I was made for this,” he mused, shifting slightly so he was propped up on one elbow, gazing at you through lidded eyes. “Lounging, basking, looking irresistible…” He ran a hand through his silvery curls with a self-satisfied sigh. “Yes, I could certainly get used to this.”

You chuckled, turning your face toward him. “You’re just enjoying not bursting into flames.”

“Well, yes, obviously. But also, look at me.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “I am gorgeous in this lighting.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t exactly argue. He was gorgeous—always was, really, but there was something almost unfair about how the sunlight caught in his hair, how it made his usually pale skin look just the faintest bit warmer.

It was, in fact, the perfect moment. So, naturally, that’s when your magic decided to ruin it. The first sign was the chill against your skin.

Astarion blinked, then frowned, tilting his head toward the sky. “Darling, did you feel that? It just got—”

A fat, freezing-cold raindrop landed square on his forehead.

You winced. “Oh.”

Astarion’s frown deepened. “What do you mean, oh?”

You slowly turned your head, looking upward. A tiny, gray raincloud had materialized directly above you—no larger than a dinner plate, floating innocently against the otherwise perfect blue sky.

Astarion followed your gaze, eyes narrowing. “Are you kidding me?”

Another raindrop splattered against his bare chest. He screeched—a dramatic, offended sound—as if the heavens themselves had personally slighted him. You, meanwhile, tried very hard not to laugh.

“I swear,” he gritted out, sitting up and scowling at the little cloud, “your magic has a personal vendetta against me.”

“It’s not personal!” you protested. “It just… gets excited sometimes. Hard not to around you my love.”

“Flattery will not save you, my dear,” Astarion flicked damp hair from his forehead, thoroughly unimpressed. “Though, perhaps it could excite itself somewhere else.”

Before you could respond, the cloud trembled—and promptly doubled in size and a steady drizzle began to fall.

Astarion let out a highly offended gasp. “No. Absolutely not.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter, but Astarion heard it. Slowly, he turned his glare on you.

“Are you laughing?” he accused, scandalized.

You shook your head furiously. “No! I would never—”

A sudden plop of water landed directly on the tip of Astarion’s nose. There was a moment of silence. Then, you lost it. You howled with laughter, clutching your stomach as you rolled onto your side. Astarion looked deeply unamused.

“I despise you,” he grumbled, running a hand down his soaked face.

“I’m so—pfft—sorry,” you wheezed, though you made absolutely no effort to stop laughing.

Astarion dramatically flopped back onto the blanket, arms spread as he stared at the sky in despair. “This is my eternity now. Soaked to the bone. Drowned in tragic irony. Oh, the suffering.”

The little cloud gave a tiny, happy rumble of thunder. You wiped at your eyes, trying to catch your breath.

“Okay, okay. I’ll fix it.” You held up your hands, closing your eyes in concentration. “I just need to—”

Your fingers sparked. Astarion sat bolt upright. “Wait—!”

With a loud whoosh, the cloud exploded. Instead of disappearing, however, it multiplied. Three more little storm clouds materialized above you, drifting in lazy circles. One gave an ominous rumble before releasing a tiny zap of static into the air.

Astarion yelped and scrambled away. “Oh, for the love of—”

You bit your lip, watching the clouds with a nervous chuckle. “Okay. That was… unexpected.”

Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, dearest, do you ever get tired of constantly defying logic and reason?”

You grinned at him. “Never.”

He gave you a long, long look. Then he sighed, moving to lie next to you. “Fine. But you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

Astarion stretched, pulling you closer, now clearly enjoying your suffering. “A proper sunbathing day. Without your chaotic little curse ruining it.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

You both lay there for a while, the warm drizzle continuing to fall. And despite all his very dramatic complaints, you noticed Astarion didn’t actually move away. He stayed right there beside you, letting the warm summer rain kiss his skin, his hand eventually finding yours.

Maybe your magic wasn’t all bad.

Wyll:

It had been too long.

Between battles, group politics, and Wyll’s ever-present sense of duty, stolen moments had become few and far between. Every time the two of you had tried to sneak away, something had stopped you—camp business, emergencies, or someone just needing Wyll for something. It was infuriating. You loved him, but gods, the man was too beloved.

But tonight? Tonight, there was a window of opportunity.

Gale was deep in one of his long-winded magical lectures, Shadowheart was tending to her prayers, Lae’zel had gone off to sharpen her sword in solitude, and Karlach was keeping the others entertained with one of her enthusiastic stories. No one was paying attention.

So you grabbed Wyll by the wrist and all but dragged him into the privacy of a secluded tent. The moment the flap fell shut, Wyll let out a breathless chuckle. “Gods, darling, someone’s eager—”

You didn’t give him the chance to say anything else. You crashed your lips against his, hands already pulling at the laces of his tunic.

Wyll groaned into your mouth, hands finding your waist, pulling you in flush against him. “You really—mmh—don’t waste time, do you?”

“Not when we barely get a chance for this,” you muttered, tugging at his belt, desperate to rid him of the layers between you.

He laughed, but it was rough, needy. His hands roamed over your body, mapping out familiar curves and lines, fingers tugging at your own clothes with equal impatience. It was frantic, messy, all teeth and tongue and desperate hands fumbling to remove anything in the way.

And then—

The air crackled. You froze. Wyll did, too. A telltale shimmer of wild magic pulsed in the air around you, like static before a storm.

“Don’t,” Wyll said immediately, as you opened your mouth to acknowledge it. He cupped your face, pressing another desperate kiss against your lips. “Just try to ignore it my love.”

You wanted to. Oh, you really did. So you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, trying to drown in the feeling of him.

The magic had other plans. A sudden whoosh of wind swept through the tent, making the fabric ripple. Then, your fingers—your fingers in Wyll’s hair—began to spark. Wyll let out a startled grunt, pulling back just slightly. “Ow, love—”

“Ignore it,” you said quickly, mirroring his words, diving back in to kiss him. You both tried. You really tried.

But then Wyll’s levitated off the ground. You pulled back just in time to see him slowly, involuntarily, rising into the air. His eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, no.”

You pressed your lips together, stifling a laugh.

Wyll tried to glare at you but his own amused smile gave him away. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

You held up your hands innocently. “I—”

A sudden pop of magic sent a rain of flower petals cascading from the air. Wyll, now hovering midair, arms crossed, let out a long-suffering sigh as pink and white petals rained down on him. “…I do hate your magic's timing sometimes.”

That did it. You lost it.

Dissolving into laughter, you clutched your stomach, shaking your head. “I’m’m so sorry—”

“You are not sorry!" Wyll half laughed incredulously. He was right, you weren’t. Not at all.

But you were very.... frustrated. Wyll, still floating, looked down at you with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Are you able to, perhaps, undo whatever this is?”

You huffed, trying to reign in your magic, but it was lively tonight. “Maybe if I focus…”

You took a deep breath, concentrating. The magic shivered—and then, with an audible pop, Wyll dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

“Oof—!” He grunted as he hit the floor with a thud, sprawled on his back.

You winced. “Okay, so, uh. That worked.”

Wyll groaned. Then, slowly, he opened one eye, looking up at you. “…You owe me for this.”

You smirked, crawling on top of him, pressing a kiss to his jaw, straddling him. “Oh, I plan to make it up to you. Thoroughly.”

Halsin:

You hadn’t meant for it to turn into an argument. Really, you hadn’t.

But you couldn’t ignore the way Halsin’s shoulders tensed every time you passed through the city streets. The way his usual warmth dimmed ever so slightly, his jaw tightening as his eyes flickered between the towering stone buildings and the struggling patches of green fighting to reclaim space.

And then there were his remarks. Always calm, always measured—too measured.

"The city suffocates the land, forcing nature into corners where it struggles to thrive."

"Civilization believes itself above the cycle, and yet it relies upon it more than it knows."

"It is a balance long since broken, though I still hope it may yet be mended."

Each time he spoke like that, with such a deep-seated melancholy in his voice, your heart clenched. Halsin put so much on his shoulders—he always had.

And he didn’t talk about it. Not really. So, naturally, you decided to push. Which led to the two of you standing in the middle of your shared tent, the flickering candlelight casting shadows against the fabric walls, you weren’t sure how things had escalated to this point.

Halsin stood opposite you, arms crossed over his broad chest, his brow furrowed. “I do not know why you insist on making this a debate.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling. “I’m not trying to argue with you, Halsin. I just—” You paused, searching his face. “I want you to talk to me. Really talk to me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “What would you have me say?”

You gestured, exasperated. “I don’t know, maybe that it bothers you? That the sight of Baldur’s Gate makes you want to rip your hair out? That it hurts you to see nature reduced to nothing but parks and gardens?”

Halsin sighed, rubbing his temples. “You already know how I feel about the balance between civilization and nature.”

“Yes, but I want to hear how you feel about it. Not as a druid, not as the former Archdruid of Emerald Grove—but as Halsin.”

His expression flickered, something shifting behind his golden eyes, but then—

A sudden zap of static shot through the air. Halsin stiffened and you did too.

“Oh no,” you muttered. You barely had a second to react before a gust of wild magic whooshed through the tent, sending the candle sputtering and the blanket on your bed suddenly jumping to life, flopping onto the floor and wriggling like a fish out of water.

Halsin blinked. “…Is that meant to be happening?”

You put your head in your hands and took a deep breath in, willing the blanket to stop. The blanket gave one last twitch only to scuttle off to sulk in the corner.

You shook your head, refocusing. “Look, I’m serious about this, Halsin. You don’t always have to be the wise, collected druid, you know? You can be angry about this. You can be—”

Pop.

Your clothes disappeared. All of them.

You let out a choked sound as you realized you were now completely, entirely, naked. Halsin went rigid. His gaze immediately shot up to the ceiling, his ears turning bright red.

“…I see.” He cleared his throat, voice suddenly very strained. “A rather unfortunate surge of magic.”

Your face burned. “Oh for the love of—!”

You hastily grabbed at the nearest thing to cover yourself, which, unfortunately, was the cursed blanket that had been sulking. The moment you touched it, it wrapped itself around you like a desperate lover, squeezing tightly and pinning your arms to your sides.

Halsin made a strangled sound that might have been laughter. You gave him a look. “Not. A. Word.”

He coughed into his fist, though the corners of his lips definitely twitched. “I… understand.”

You sighed, struggling against the blanket’s clingy grasp. “Anyway—as I was saying—”

Another pulse of magic crackled through the air and Halsin suddenly shrunk. Like, literally.

One second, he was standing there, arms crossed, looking like he was barely restraining himself from laughing at your predicament. The next? He was barely a foot tall, his clothes now comically oversized and draping over him like a discarded cloak.

You both stared at each other in stunned silence.

“…Ah,” Halsin said, his voice now ridiculously tiny and squeaky.

That was it. That broke you.

You doubled over, nearly toppling onto the floor as you wheezed with laughter. “Oh—oh my gods—”

Halsin sighed, pinching the bridge of his now miniscule nose. “I am glad you find this amusing.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you tried—and failed—to control yourself. “Halsin. Love. My dear. My tiny bear—”

“Don’t,” he warned, in his high pitch voice. You wheezed harder, your entire body shaking with laughter.

Halsin exhaled through his nose, crossing his tiny arms. “If you are quite finished…”

You wiped at your eyes, still grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m done. Just—hold on, let me—” You focused, trying to reign in your magic, trying to fix this.

A shimmer of energy pulsed through the tent—

And then Halsin was big again. But, now he was completely naked, too. However, he did not care and merely put his hands on his hips.

"Must we really continue this argument? It is evident your magic believes we should be participating in other heated endeavours." Halsin proposed as he began to saunter over to you, that sly look in his eye. But you were resolute, you were going to get through to him.

"Yes, Halsin it is important for us to-" Whoosh! The blanket was gone in a gust of wind that forced you to stumble forward into Halsin's massive frame, your naked bodies now pressed flush together. You groaned and rested your forehead against his chest. "Fine, but we are talking about this afterwards."

Halsin smirked and kissed you roughly, he was going to ensure that this argument would be the last thing that was on your mind.

I took a mixed approach with this, a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, a bit of crack. It was super fun to write and I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

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

[moonselune]

GIRL. your work 😍😍 amazing love it. Can’t wait to see what amazing stuff you post next

-❣️

Thank you so much ❣️! I just found this but this has made my day 💞

[moonselune]

I'm curious: did your therapist actually tell you to do this? My therapist encouraged me to write a book out of spite once!

Aha she did actually, she said to dedicate my time to showing off my talents instead of criticising them and I think spite book kind of slays

[moonselune]

lovers to enemies to lovers but it’s wyllstarion and they become enemies because Astarion ascends to ruin baldur’s gate and wyll becomes grand duke to save it

[moonselune]

Heyyy! Can we have an unusual ship of lae x wyll and how lae is trying to be a mom to the xan and lily. Mostly inspired by this moment in a tiktok video i found.

Mom: Semaj. Semaj.

Semaj : ma’am

Mom: what are you doin?

Semaj: washin dishes

Mom: well youre making a mess. You got water everywhere

Semaj: *looks at mom’s feet.* you got shoes on don’t you?

Mom: i got shoes on? What does that mean?

Semaj: go on over and clean it up 🙄🙄

omg my inbox ate this ask, I never thought I would see it again but alack alas here it is! This was so funny to write hehehe

Wyll x Lae'zel | Sass

The outskirts of Baldur’s Gate were bathed in the golden hues of sunset. The house Wyll and Lae’zel had built wasn’t large or extravagant, but it was sturdy, warm, and—most importantly—full of life.

And right now, that life consisted of two unruly children finding every excuse not to do their chores.

Wyll had his hands on his hips as he surveyed the chaos. Lily, their human daughter, was perched on a wooden crate like a lounging cat, her legs swinging lazily while her mismatched eyes—one a sharp green, the other a soft brown—sparkled with mischief. Her wild curls, dark like Wyll’s, were barely contained by the ribbons she had tied into them that morning.

Xan, crouched beneath a tree, was picking at the dirt with the intensity of a scholar uncovering ancient ruins. His githyanki heritage was unmistakable—the sharp angles of his face, the slight yellow-green tinge to his skin, the way he moved with quiet grace, even when pretending to be deeply fascinated by mud. Unlike Lae’zel, whose warrior stance was always rigid, Xan was more fluid, more unpredictable.

“Lily, Xan,” Wyll called as he tightened a loose board in the fence. “The stable still needs cleaning, and I’d really like it done before nightfall.”

Xan didn’t even look up. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I would, but I’m in the middle of a very important experiment.”

Lily sighed dramatically, throwing herself back against the crate as though weighed down by the sheer burden of existence. “I would, but child labor is frowned upon in civilized society.”

Wyll pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not laboring, you’re helping with household tasks.”

Lily flicked an imaginary speck of dust off her tunic. “I don’t see you scrubbing the floors, Papa. I think this is a power imbalance.”

“Lae’zel,” Wyll sighed, turning to his wife, “your daughter is arguing philosophy with me again.”

Lae’zel strode up the path from her morning drills, her armor glinting in the waning sunlight. She looked between the children, her sharp golden eyes narrowing. “What, exactly, is so important that you cannot do as your father asked?”

Xan, still squatting, looked up at her and grinned, his pointed teeth flashing. “Dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“Dirt!” Xan grabbed a handful and held it up like he had discovered an ancient relic. “This dirt is different from the dirt near the stable. This dirt is darker, which means it’s probably wetter. I’m investigating why.”

Lae’zel stared at him, then at Wyll, then back at Xan. “…You are finding reasons to avoid your chores.”

“I prefer to think of it as furthering my education,” Xan said smoothly.

“Furthering your—” Lae’zel groaned and rubbed her temples. “I swear upon the Astral Plane, you two are more exhausting than a full day of battle.”

Lily grinned. “That’s because we’re smart.”

Lae’zel shot her a sharp look. “You are lazy.”

“I prefer efficient.”

“That is not what that means.”

“It is if you don’t ask too many questions.”

Wyll bit back a laugh, but Lae’zel caught it and glared at him. “You encourage them.”

Wyll held up his hands. “Now, now, I am simply fostering their critical thinking skills.”

Lae’zel scoffed. “Foster this.” She pointed at the stable. “Clean it. Now.”

Xan and Lily exchanged a look.

Lily sighed dramatically, getting to her feet. “Fine. But I’m filing a complaint with the Worker’s Guild.”

Xan stood beside her, nodding. “I demand compensation for my suffering.”

“You are eight years old,” Lae’zel snapped.

“Eight years of injustice,” Lily shot back.

“Lae’zel, my love, my fearsome warrior,” Wyll murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder, “if you kill them, we’ll be down two very clever minds who could eventually change the world.”

Lae’zel scowled. “…They are smart.”

“And incredibly annoying.”

“That too.”

Xan and Lily were already halfway to the stable, grumbling the whole way.

“If I get a splinter, I’m suing.” Lily huffed dramatically

“Me too.” Xan nodded in agreement with his sister, still looking at the remnants of dirt on his hands.

“Who exactly are you suing?” Wyll called after them.

Lily turned over her shoulder. “The universe.”

Xan turned around and added. “For crimes against children.”

Lae’zel clasped her hands together and exhaled slowly. “I should have let them get eaten by goblins.”

Wyll chuckled, grinning from ear to ear, wrapping an arm around her waist. “You love them.”

“…I tolerate them.”

“They got that sass from you, you know.” Wyll pointed out. Lae'zel just scoffed.

“I would never be so ridiculous.”

Wyll gave her a look. Lae’zel groaned.

“Fine. Perhaps a little.”

Xan and Lily peeked around the stable, watching their parents bicker, and Lily elbowed her brother. “They’re flirting again.”

Xan pretended to gag and throw up. “It’s gross.”

“So gross.”

Wyll from his peripheral noticed their dramatic display and caught them staring. “We can still see you, you know. That stable doesn't seem to look any cleaner”

Lily gasped. “Oh no, our stealth has failed!”

Xan nodded solemnly. “We must regroup.”

And with that, the two tore off laughing, dodging between the fences as Wyll shook his head in exasperation and Lae’zel muttered under her breath. Life was good. Chaotic, exhausting, full of backtalk and never-ending chores—but good.

I am sick as a dawg rn, flu season really went oops I forgot you in feb lemme get you now. Hope you are all doing wonderfully and that you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

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

[moonselune]

I loveeeee the teacher stuff so much 💗 can i get w/ karlach, minthy, and the boys something with them being university professors and theres a bit of tension between you and them. perhaps you guys accidentally hooked up outside of class and now you want more but they are trying to stay professional??? love you miss seluney and thanks 🙏

thank you so much for blessing my inbox with this ask, love you too nonnie x the amount of research I had to do though for Astarion's was actually so funny

Karlach:

Karlach, or rather Dr Cliffgate, was avoiding you.

Not in the obvious, skittish way that most people avoided their problems, but in the way that made you aware of it. A way that made it obvious that she was trying not to avoid you, but also definitely was. Like how she never met your eye for longer than two seconds, or how she’d always position herself on the opposite end of the class, barking instructions from a distance.

And, of course, there was the rule.

"Five feet. I want five goddamn feet between us at all times."

It was the first thing she had said to you on your first day back after that night. The night you still dreamed about, the one that made you burn with want every time you looked at her. She had been so soft with you, all muscle and warmth, guiding you through it like she was made for it. She had held you so tight, pressed kisses to every inch of your skin—how could she expect you to forget?

And she wanted to pretend it never happened?

Bullshit.

So, naturally, you decided to push.

You weren’t bad at Sports Science. In fact, you were quite decent at it—when you wanted to be. But today? Today, your squats were terrible, your push-ups were abysmal, and don’t even talk about your deadlifts. Karlach was forced to correct you, calling out every mistake in that deep, commanding voice of hers.

It was fun, watching her squirm. But Karlach, to her credit, lasted the entire class without snapping. She was firm, professional, perfectly composed. Right up until the moment she ordered you to stay behind after class.

And now, you were alone.

Karlach stood at the front of the gym, arms crossed, expression taut with frustration.

"Alright," she said, tone clipped. "What the hell was that?"

You blinked innocently. "What was what?"

Karlach groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. "You know what." She fixed you with a hard stare. "You don’t need help with your form, and I know it. So tell me—why are you acting like a dumbass all of a sudden?"

You tilted your head, stepping forward just a fraction. "Maybe I just wanted some one-on-one time with my favorite teacher."

Karlach’s jaw clenched, and she immediately stepped back, holding up a warning finger. "No. No. Stay back—five feet."

You pouted. "What if I need help with my form?"

Karlach’s eye twitched.

You took another step forward.

She took one back.

"Bad student," she warned, pointing at you like you were a misbehaving pup.

You smirked, tilting your head coyly. "You weren’t saying that last time."

Karlach froze.

Her fists clenched at her sides, a storm brewing behind her eyes as she squeezed them shut and muttered something under her breath. Probably some kind of mantra to keep her from breaking, from doing what she wanted to do. Professional. She had to be professional.

But you could see it—the way her breathing had quickened, the slight twitch of her fingers, like she was fighting every urge to grab you and push you against the nearest wall. And you were more than willing to give her that push. You took another step forward, closing the distance entirely.

"Karlach," you murmured, voice soft.

Her eyes fluttered open—just as your lips pressed against hers. The groan she let out was guttural, half frustration, half relief. She grabbed you by the waist, yanking you flush against her as her mouth crashed against yours. The heat of her burned through your clothes, her grip iron-strong as if she was afraid to let go.

"Gods, you’re a menace," she growled against your lips.

You grinned, threading your fingers through her , dark hair. "I thought I was a bad student?"

Karlach huffed a laugh before lifting you onto the gym's padded table with ease, slotting herself between your legs.

"The worst," she muttered, before kissing you again.

Minthara:

Minthara was a strict professor.

She ran her Toxicology lectures with the precision of a battlefield commander, brooking no nonsense, no laziness, and certainly no stupidity. And normally, you were an exceptional student. One of her best, even.

Which is exactly why, when you deliberately screwed up your latest lab analysis, she had wasted no time in ordering you to stay behind after class. Now, you were seated in her office, watching as she paced behind her desk, ruby eyes blazing with frustration.

"Tell me," she said, voice sharp as a dagger's edge, "are you trying to be a disappointment? Or has your intelligence simply abandoned you?"

You bit back a smirk, watching the way her lips curled in distaste, the way her fingers flexed in restrained irritation. Gods, she was beautiful when she was mad.

"And look at you," she continued, exasperated. "Not even paying attention. Are you listening to me, or am I wasting my breath?"

You tilted your head, dragging your teeth over your bottom lip. "Oh, no, I'm listening, professor. Please—keep going."

Minthara paused. Her sharp mind caught on instantly, her ruby eyes narrowing as she studied your expression. The slight flush on your cheeks, the way you were watching her—intently, hungry. And suddenly, she understood.

"You like it," she murmured, more to herself than to you. "You like being scolded."

You grinned. "What can I say? You do it so well."

Minthara let out a slow, measured exhale, her nails tapping against the desk. "And what exactly am I meant to do with this information?"

You hummed, standing to your feet and sauntering forward until you were pressed against her desk. You leaned over it, propping yourself up on your elbows, your face mere inches from hers.

"Well," you mused, eyes alight with mischief. "You could always bring back some corporal punishment."

Minthara arched a brow. You smirked, tilting your head.

"Bring out the wooden ruler for a spanking." And then, to drive the point home, you slowly bent over the desk, resting your forearms against the polished wood. "What do you think, professor? Will that finally get through to me?"

Silence. Then—Minthara let out a deep, shuddering sigh, as if she were trying to summon every ounce of restraint she had left. And then, in a blur of movement, her hands were on you.

One gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as she dragged you up and crushed her lips against yours. The kiss was fierce, searing, a collision of teeth and tongue as she stole the very breath from your lungs.

"You," she growled between kisses, her grip tightening. "Are insufferable."

You grinned. "You weren’t saying that last time."

"Oh I think I was," Minthara’s grip tightened, eyes darkening as she pushed you back against the desk.

That one night. That reckless night. When you had been nothing more than strangers who had both, separately, decided to drink too much at a bar on the outskirts of town. She had been furious then, too—drunk, loose-lipped, and entirely unbothered by her usual air of control. You remembered the way she had pinned you against the wall of her rented room, how she had devoured you like a woman starved. And now, here, in the dimly lit confines of her office, she looked exactly as she had that night—eyes dark with want, expression hard with something that neither of you had dared to put words to.

Minthara muttered something in her native tongue—something that sounded distinctly like a curse—before pulling back just enough to reach for the wooden ruler on her desk.

"Perhaps it’s time," she murmured, voice like velvet and steel, "that I put you back in line."

And gods, you had never been more willing.

Gale:

Gale Dekarios was desperately trying to pretend that he hadn’t spent a night tangled in your sheets, gasping your name like a prayer, and utterly forgetting that he was supposed to be a responsible, professional figure in your academic life.

It was almost admirable, how steadfastly he kept his focus on the pitiful essay you had placed before him. His brow furrowed in exaggerated concern, fingers tapping against the edges of the paper as he sighed, long and heavy, like he was genuinely distressed by how abysmally incorrect your star charts were.

He was not fooling anyone.

“This is…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple with two fingers. “This is not your best work.”

You hummed, leaning forward in your seat, chin propped up in your palm as you watched him intently.

“I think you are right, and I think I know why,” you mused. “I have been feeling rather… unsatisfied lately.”

Gale’s shoulders visibly tensed. He cleared his throat, choosing—rather wisely—not to acknowledge the deliberate edge to your voice. “Is there a reason you’ve been so distracted? It’s not like you to be so careless in your calculations.”

You sighed, stretching languidly in your seat. “I suppose I’ve just been in real need of some stress relief.”

Gale’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the page.

You watched him carefully, admiring the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes flickered—just for a moment—to where you sat before quickly snapping back to your disastrous work. It was clear that he was actively wrestling with himself, forcing his mind to stay on track, but oh, he was doing such a poor job of it.

“I—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to clear it again before speaking. “I can refer you to student services for well-being if you’re struggling with academic pressure.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, rising from your chair.

“Is that all you can do for me, professor?” The way his breath hitched did delightful things to your ego.

He held his ground as you circled his desk, though you could see his fingers twitch against the paper, as if debating whether he should shove it into your hands and send you on your way. Instead, he straightened, schooling his features into something carefully neutral as you came to stand before him.

“I would strongly advise you to remain professional,” he said, voice measured, though you could hear the strain beneath it. You ignored him.

"Your tie’s looking a little loose, professor," you noted, gaze flickering down to where it hung slightly askew. "Let me fix it for you."

Gale opened his mouth, possibly to protest, possibly to attempt another weak defense, but he never got the chance. Because the moment your fingers brushed against his tie, he snapped.

One second, you were teasing him; the next, you were being yanked down into his lap, your breath stolen as his lips crashed against yours. His hands were firm on your waist, gripping like he was starved for the feeling of you, like he had spent every waking moment since that night thinking about how you had felt beneath him—how you had moaned for him.

He kissed you fiercely, hungrily, all pretenses of professionalism abandoned as he angled his head, deepening it with a groan that rumbled in his chest. One of his hands moved up, threading into your hair, tilting your head to his liking as he took control of the kiss.

And gods, you let him.

Because for all his self-restraint, all his desperate attempts to ignore what had happened between you, Gale Dekarios was a weak, weak man.

And you were more than happy to remind him of it.

Astarion:

Astarion’s lip curled as he held your latest project between his fingers, tilting his head as if it might suddenly reveal some hidden brilliance from a different angle. It did not. With a dramatic sigh, he let it drop onto his desk like it offended him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, tapping his manicured fingers against the wood. “Perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time gallivanting, you could produce something half-decent. But alas, it seems someone has their priorities hopelessly skewed.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you leaned against the desk. “Oh please. The same could be said for you, professor. That is, after all, how we both ended up in that passionate predicament—”

Astarion immediately cut you off, talking over you with ease. “Yes, yes, I vaguely recall that debacle. But do you know what I’d much rather discuss?” He gave you a pointed look, lifting a perfectly arched brow. “Your abysmal stitch work. Truly, I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a seam ripper than endure looking at this for another second.”

You grinned, unfazed. His gaze flickered over you, from the crisp lines of your shirt to the neatly finished seams. Then, to your surprise, he huffed an amused laugh.

“The top you’re wearing now is an example of perfect tailoring,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely. “Proper dart placement, clean finishing—though the sleeve cap could use some refinement.”

You smiled at him, slow and knowing.

“Good to know,” you mused. “I made it myself.”

Astarion blinked.

You stepped closer, holding out your arm and tugging at the sleeve slightly, showing off the intricate seams. His sharp eyes honed in immediately, his fingers instinctively twitching, unable to resist assessing it more closely.

“Hm,” he hummed, inspecting. “Not terrible.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, undoing the first button of your shirt. “What would you have done differently?”

Astarion barely reacted, too focused on the fabric itself. “I would have—wait, what are you doing?” His gaze flicked up as you popped open another button, then another, exposing the curves of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders.

“Just giving you a better look,” you teased.

Astarion narrowed his eyes, his voice clipped. “Don’t you dare—”

You pulled the shirt off entirely. Astarion scrambled, eyes widening as he lunged forward, grabbing the discarded fabric and shoving it against your bare chest with an indignant noise.

“Are you insane?!” He hissed, pressing you flush against the desk in an attempt to shield your exposed skin. “This is not how a critique session works, darling—!”

You ignored him, hooking your fingers into the collar of his shirt and yanking him down, capturing his lips with yours. Astarion made a noise of protest—one that quickly turned into a needy sound as he melted into you.

The moment you pulled away, breathless and grinning, you traced a finger down the front of his neatly tailored shirt.

“Excellent inseaming,” you murmured appreciatively. Astarion let out a sharp, exasperated laugh, shaking his head.

“Gods, shut up,” he muttered before pulling you in and kissing you again, fiercer this time, like he was trying to sew himself into you.

Wyll:

Wyll sat behind his desk, your latest essay held between his fingers like it was something fragile, something unfamiliar. His brows were furrowed in a way that made his usual calm, disciplined demeanor seem almost troubled.

"I had some concerns about this," he said, tapping the parchment lightly. "Your writing is usually concise, structured, and critical. And yet this—" He lifted it slightly before setting it down again. "This is filled with… whimsy."

You tilted your head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"What's wrong with whimsy?" you asked, batting your eyelashes.

Wyll exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to keep himself composed. He had been doing that a lot since that night. The night where he had held your hips so tightly, pulled your body against his like a man starved, whispered things that should never leave a professor’s lips. The night that haunted his thoughts ever since.

But he was professional. Ethical. Disciplined. Or at least, he was trying to be.

He cleared his throat. "Whimsy, in itself, is not inherently wrong," he said carefully, sitting up straighter. "But philosophy demands clarity, structure, a foundation—"

You stepped forward. Just a little.

Wyll noticed immediately. His jaw tensed, but he carried on, unwavering. "—and while creative exploration is welcome, this lacks the critical analysis that I know you are more than capable of—"

Another step.

Wyll paused mid-sentence as you leaned in over his desk, as if to examine your paper more closely. It was a weak excuse—you knew what was in that essay, but the proximity gave you reason enough to invade his personal space.

Wyll sighed through his nose, jaw tightening further. "I know what you're doing."

You blinked at him innocently. "What ever do you mean?"

His fingers curled into his palm. He had already given you multiple warnings since that fateful one-night stand. Told you this was improper, inappropriate. Told himself that it couldn’t happen again. And yet, here you were. Again. Testing him. Pushing him.

It was wrong. He taught ethics, for gods' sake.

But all he wanted—all he wanted—was for you to straddle him in this office chair and ride him until the wheels broke.

Wyll forced himself back into reality, blinking rapidly. That was when he realized—

Your hand was on his thigh.

His body reacted before his mind could, heat rushing to his face. You gasped as if you were scandalized by his sudden flush.

"Professor Ravengard," you murmured, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. "You're burning up."

His lips parted slightly, a weak protest forming—but then you dragged your hand down, tracing his cheek, cradling it gently.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly.

Wyll closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as if that would dispel the tension that had thickened the air between you. Then, he shook his head.

You smiled, your thumb brushing over his jaw. "I didn't think so."

You leaned in. Just close enough that he could feel your breath against his lips.

You could have kissed him. You wanted to kiss him. But you waited. You wanted him to come to you.

And oh, he did.

Wyll surged forward, his lips crashing into yours, his hands gripping your waist as if he had finally let go of every restraint that had been holding him back. The kiss was rough, needy, filled with every ounce of frustration and desire he had bottled up since that night.

They could debate the ethics of this later.

Halsin:

Halsin sat behind his desk, broad arms folded across his chest, his usual calm expression schooled into something unreadable. He had known this was coming. He had felt your eyes on him in class, the way you tilted your head when he spoke, the way your lips had quirked up into something just shy of teasing. He had ignored it. He had forced himself to pretend that nothing had happened between you that night—the one that still haunted his thoughts no matter how much he tried to suppress it.

But now, here you were, standing in the doorway of his office, as if fate itself was determined to test his restraint.

"Professor," you said sweetly, stepping inside. "I had some questions about today’s lecture."

Halsin arched a brow. "Did you, now?"

You nodded, stepping closer, taking the chair opposite his desk. "Yes, I found the discussion on mating seasons quite fascinating."

Halsin exhaled slowly. He knew where this was going. He had seen the glint in your eye, the way you played innocent far too well. But he was a professional. He was your professor.

So he sighed and leaned back, arms still crossed. "Ask away."

You smiled, tilting your head as if considering your words. "I was just wondering… how does an animal know when they've found the right mate? Is it purely instinct, or is there more to it?"

Halsin clenched his jaw.

"That depends on the species," he said carefully, his voice even. "Some rely on visual cues, others on scent—pheromones play a strong role in attraction, signaling compatibility and readiness to breed."

You hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping against your chin. "So… they don't really have control over it? It's just primal instinct?"

Halsin took a deep breath, his large hands flexing against the arms of his chair. He had dealt with plenty of difficult situations in his life. He had faced wild beasts, braved the deepest parts of nature. But this? This was an entirely different kind of challenge.

"Instinct is powerful," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But control is what separates us from the animals."

Your lips curved into something wicked. "Is that so?"

He should have ended it there. Should have told you to leave, should have maintained the boundaries that were already far too blurred. But instead, he sat there, watching the way you looked at him with those knowing, hungry eyes—eyes that had once looked up at him from beneath tangled sheets, from between parted lips whispering his name.

You pushed back from the desk and stood, stretching ever so slightly before turning towards the door.

"Well, thank you for the lesson, professor," you said lightly, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the exit.

And then—

The last thread of his restraint snapped.

One second, you were reaching for the doorknob, and the next, you were yanked back, lifted effortlessly off your feet as Halsin turned you and pressed you against the wall, his large hands gripping your thighs, caging you in.

"Halsin—"

His mouth was on yours before you could finish, hot and demanding, all of his carefully controlled patience finally, finally breaking into something raw and consuming. You gasped against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed you with the kind of intensity that made your head spin.

"What kind of professor would I be," he murmured against your mouth, voice rough, "if I didn't give you a live demonstration?"

Your breath hitched, and then you were kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands roaming over broad shoulders, feeling the raw strength beneath his clothes.

Maybe you had been the one to set the trap.

But Halsin had always been a creature of instinct.

Was I just listening to reproduction from Grease 2 and when I kissed the teacher on repeat when I was writing this? Yes, yes I was. I'm putting Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Rolan, Raphael and Mizora on a list of things I want to write when requests are done with this prompt. I just cannot get enough of it. Hope you guys enjoyed it and if anything was inaccurate subject wise... shhhhhh-Seluney xox

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

[moonselune]

I love your posts so much! I was wondering if I could request some post canon GN!mindflayertav x minthara (and whoever else you'd like to add)

I did choose just to do Minthara for this, but I did get really into it, so I hope you enjoy it!

Minthara x GN!Mindflayer!reader | Tentacles of the Dark

The Underdark bows before Minthara.

It is not an easy conquest, nor a swift one. The labyrinthine tunnels twist and turn in endless darkness, home to creatures that have never felt the warmth of the sun. The drow houses wage war amongst themselves, the duergar grasp desperately at their crumbling rule, and mindless horrors stalk the shadows, waiting for the weak to fall. Yet, Minthara carves her path through it all with unwavering precision, her enemies falling like chaff before the scythe.

And you—her most trusted consort, her Illithid lover—stand at her side.

You had feared, once, that she would see you differently after your transformation. That the warmth she held for you, as much as a drow raised in Lolth’s web could manage, would turn to something cold and calculating. That she would see you as a useful tool at best, an inconvenience at worst.

But those fears were unfounded. If anything, Minthara only loves you more fiercely.

She does not flinch from the writhing of your tentacles or the abyssal black of your eyes. She does not shy away from your hunger, nor from the power that thrums through your every word. She embraces it, revels in it, sharpens it to her advantage. In her arms, you are not a horror to be feared, nor a monster to be pitied. You are hers. Her love, her most prized weapon, her shadow in the dark.

And you conquer the Underdark together.

The war is brutal, but Minthara is relentless. Cities crumble before her armies, the banners of lesser houses torn down and trampled underfoot. In the court of the Underdark, where backstabbing is as common as breathing, none dare challenge her reign. Not while you stand at her side, a being of mind-breaking terror wrapped in the elegance of your new form.

It is not just your psionic strength that she values, nor the way your enemies fall to their knees with a single flick of your power. She values you—your mind, your cunning, your unwavering loyalty. And in turn, you devote yourself to her cause as deeply as you do to her love. And Minthara, ever the devoted lover, ensures you are well-fed.

You reach for a discarded brain on the battlefield, plucked from the corpse of some nameless soldier, only for Minthara’s gauntleted hand to strike it from your grasp.

"Absolutely not," she sneers, kicking it aside with disdain. "A peasant’s mind? Dull. Impotent. Beneath you."

You blink, tentacles twitching in bemusement.

"I was hungry," you say, watching the ruined organ roll across the ground.

Minthara exhales sharply, beckoning to one of her attendants. A scholar is dragged forward in chains, trembling beneath her gaze.

"I will not have my love tainted by the thoughts of the weak," she purrs, tilting your chin up with the sharp edge of her dagger. "Only the finest for you, my love."

The scholar barely has time to scream before you drink deep, his mind unraveling beneath your hunger. It is rich, layered—complex enough to satisfy, though it pales in comparison to the power that thrums through Minthara’s own mind. When you are finished, she is smiling in satisfaction.

"Better," she murmurs.

There are nights when the echoes of your past creep into the edges of your mind. When you wonder, briefly, what you would have been had the tadpole not rewritten you from the inside out. When you think of the mortal body you once wore, of the laughter and warmth you once held close.

But then Minthara’s hand finds yours, her grip firm, her presence grounding. She is not a woman prone to softness, not in the way others might be, but her devotion is ironclad. She does not whisper sweet nothings or coddle you with gentle reassurances. Instead, she pulls you close and reminds you, again and again, that you are hers.

She loves you in battle, where your psionic screams bring even the mightiest foes to their knees.

She loves you in court, where your mere presence bends the minds of diplomats and nobles alike, their lips spilling secrets they did not mean to share.

She loves you in private, where your many limbs and appendages trace lines down her spine, where your once-human hands now crave nothing but her.

Minthara is a conqueror, a warlord, a queen of the Underdark.

But for you?

For you, she is simply a lover.

And in the depths of the world that once sought to destroy you both, that is more than enough.

I was really worried how this would come out, I personally don't like the option to become a mindflayer and will never choose it. But I actually really liked the complexity of it and how different it was to write it. I hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

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

[moonselune]

Hiya! I’m back with more DarkBG3 Kids.

*The refugees have been going missing and tree monsters have been appearing. The remaining survivors have been corralled into the Druids grove, led by the elder Kagha. Halsin was revealed to be the culprit, turning the refugees into these tree like monsters to create his ultimate paradise all in the name of his dear little child. The child is disgusted by their father’s actions and wants to fight, the party joins in to help their friend and free everyone.*

Halsins kid: *they found the tree that was blossoming and glowing thanks to Shadowhearts kid and began to chant. Roots sprang up from the ground and attached to them, their eyes glowing green. If they could overpower Halsin and break his concentration then everything will be over.*

Mintharas child: *Was trying to hold Halsin off, the old man wasn’t going down without a fight.* “You’re outnumbered old man, surrender and I’ll show you a drows mercy.”

Halsin: “I can’t wait to make you into fertilizer for my new garden. My little flower doesn’t need anymore bad influences like you!” *snares them with vines*

Shadowhearts kid: *uses a spell scroll and frees them* “Try not to antagonize him too much, we want to survive this.”

Mintharas kid: *Rolls eyes at them and reacts their swords* “Our ‘leader’ said to distract him.”

Halsins kid: *Everything seemed a little too complicated* “Oh berry jam! I knew I couldn’t do this! But if I don’t then everyone will…….ok! You can do this, you can do this, you can-“ *Mintharas kid flys right by them and crashes into a rock. Shadowhearts kid is being strangled by vines.*

Gales: *Casts a fire wall to stop Halsin* “Focus on the task at hand! I’ll handle your father and You Can Do This! We have faith in you okay?”

Halsin: “You both are trying my patience!” *points at Gales Kid* “I knew you were bad influence as soon as you landed in MY grove! Look at what you are making them do!”

Gales kid: “Heh, you remind me of someone who is a total pain in my but! And someone who I am determined to prove wrong!” *summons a fire familiar* “However, in order to defeat them I have to get through you first and a few others. Trust me when I say they are a thousand times stronger than you!”

*They begin to fight again as Halsins kid is getting closer to breaking their fathers spell*

Halsin: “Enough!” *transforms into an owl bear and charges through the fire wall and familiar to get to his own kid. He and his child collide and are wrapped in the light of the tree. As he goes to grab them he blocked by someone, then his child seems farther away than before.* “What’s going on?” *A figure with Gales Kid outline appears with glowing white eyes, but their body seems to be made of white flames in the shape of a person.*

Gales kid: “The battle is won and you have lost. The balance shall be restored as always.”

Halsin: “Who are you?! What are you?! Ahhhhhh!” *He sees Gales kid hold their hand and everything is engulfed in a white light*

*Halsins kid breaks the spell and everyone is freed. Even their mother is freed from the glowing tree and reunited with her child. Halsin is arrested by Kagha and the other Druids. He shall be imprisoned for the rest of his days. The terrain changes to its natural form. A party is thrown in their honor and everyone is overjoyed. But one member sneaks away for a more private conversation.*

Astarions kid: “Hello? I am here as promised!”

???: “You have not forgotten our bargain little mouse. I am oh so happy since you have escaped for what was called your house. But do not forget this is but one of many and the trials you all shall face ahead are quite heavy.”

*Meanwhile, back at the party*

Halsin kids: *Snuggling in their mother’s arms* “You want to go with the refugees?”

Halsins Tav: “Yes dear, it’s been a while since I’ve traveled and I think this is a good way for me to have a new start….i hopes that’s okay.”

Halsins kid: “Oh yes! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just well, I guess I’m not used to things are going to be now. There is a lot of changes.

Halsins Tav: “I know my flower, but I think this is the right start for something good.” *Kisses her child on the forehead.*

Wylls kid: *Watches the interaction with a cup of wine and quietly moves on. Jealous of their relationship…..their mother was never the same after the accident, but that is for another chapter.*

ahhh I do love the dark BG3 children 💜 I don't believe I have any more requests for them but guys we are almost at 50 requests left!! Out of what was nearly 150 lmaoooo

[moonselune]

Ooooooff…rejected

(I barely even remember drawing any of this, but here u go.)

[moonselune]

your dark bg3 is so yummy‼️‼️‼️ gourmet stuff!! If possible then can I request about what if tav also got a bad ending? Maybe them turning into a monster and resenting them. (Sorry if my English is bad. I'm still learning to speak it😭)

Your english is amazing! Don't even worry! and yess dark!bg3 is my favourite snack

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Dark!BG3 | Monster You Made

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

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

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, coercion, injury, cannibalism, gore so much gore, violence

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

Minthara had been riding high on her victories. Another temple razed, another chapel soaked in the blood of Lolth’s faithful. She had carved her defiance into the bones of every priest and priestess who dared stand before her, and she laughed at the Spider Queen’s silence.

"Where is your vengeance, Queen of the Abyss?" she had mocked, standing atop the ruined altar, her blade dripping with divine ichor. "Have you nothing but whispers and shadows? Cowardice and Sulk?"

For a moment, all was still. Then, the world lurched.

It started with a whisper, a soft skittering at the edges of the room. Then came the presence—thick, cloying, suffocating. The torches flickered, the very air turning heavy, and Minthara’s smirk faltered. It seemed Lolth's vengeance was making it's presence.

You barely had time to react before pain surged through you.

A terrible, unnatural heat spread through your veins like molten iron, boiling your insides. Your knees buckled, a ragged scream escaping your lips as your bones twisted, stretching and snapping like a puppet with its strings cut.

"What—no!" Minthara turned toward you, her face twisting with something between shock and fury, as she ran to your side. "Not them!"

But Lolth was not a goddess of mercy.

Your limbs cracked and reformed, your hands splitting open into jagged claws. Your legs—no, not legs, too many, too long—skittered against the cold stone, foreign and wrong.

"Minthara!" Your voice came hoarse and broken, thick with agony. Tears poured from your eyes, as the hells itself took root in your very being. "You did this!"

Minthara’s eyes went wide. "No, this isn’t—"

"You taunted her!" you spat through clenched teeth, your mouth sharp with fangs that hadn’t been there before. "This is your carnage. You slaughtered her priests, burned her temples! You mocked her, and now look at me!"

"I—" She stepped forward, but the shadows around you lashed out, keeping her at bay as your hideous form continued to develop.

"You brought this upon me!" you howled as your spine snapped into something monstrous, the lower half of your body hardening into a grotesque exoskeleton. The pain was unrelenting, a cruel symphony playing out in your flesh.

Minthara reached for you, but the shadows surged, wrapping around her arms, her waist, holding her back as she watched.

"I should have left you! Risked your wrath!" Your voice was a guttural snarl now, warped and inhuman. "I should have known instead I would pay for your sins!"

Minthara's face contorted—not with anger, but something closer to pain. "*I—I won’t let her take you!"

But it was too late.

Lolth was thorough.

Your mind fractured, your body fully contorted into its new, monstrous form—but the cruelest part, the final twist of the dagger, was the clarity that remained.

Lolth had left enough of you intact. Enough for you to understand. To remember. To resent.

Your breath came ragged, your new limbs shuddering with the weight of your transformation. You could still think, still feel, still hate. You turned your many-eyed gaze onto Minthara, the hatred burning behind them sharper than any blade. "I will ruin you."

Minthara swallowed hard, taking an involuntary step back. "No..."

"You did this to me, Minthara." Your voice, though distorted, still carried the weight of your wrath. "And I will make you pay."

Minthara flinched, for the first time in her life afraid. Lolth had given her exactly what she deserved.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

Shadowheart had always been meticulous in shaping you. A memory here, a thought there—plucked, twisted, reshaped until you were exactly as she needed. Loyal. Devoted. Hers.

It had taken time, careful work, but she had done it. And she never once considered that she had done too much. Not until tonight.

You had come to her chambers, a soft smile on your lips, eyes warm with affection as you took her hands in yours.

"I’ve made dinner for us," you had said. "Something special."

Shadowheart had been pleased. It was rare for you to take such initiative, to offer something so intimate unprompted. She had brushed her lips against your forehead, murmured something sweet, and assured you she would join you in a bit as she finished up some threatening letters to some nobles.

As she walked to join you, she couldn't help but smile in pride, over how wonderful she had made you. But the moment she stepped into the temple kitchens—that pride shattered.

The air was thick with the iron tang of blood. The floors slick and wet. Bodies lay in ruin, carved open with surgical precision, organs missing, flesh torn. The kitchen fire crackled warmly, spitting grease, the scent of roasting meat filling the space.

Her stomach turned.

And there you stood, humming to yourself as you stirred a pot, the blade in your hands still dripping. Blood smeared across your cheeks, your fingers, your apron.

Shadowheart felt her breath stall. "What…"

You turned to her with that same soft smile—so sweet, so loving, and yet your eyes… Your eyes were wrong.

"I made something special," you repeated, voice light, dreamy. "A romantic meal. Just for us."

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Bile rose to her throat and for a moment she was sure she would choke on it.

You lifted a spoon to your lips, filled with the blood of the subordinates slain on the floor, taking a taste, and as you swallowed, tears welled in your eyes.

"I don’t… I don’t know why I’m doing this." Your voice trembled, so heartbreakingly genuine. "I don’t want to do this, Shadowheart."

A sob tore through you, your body shuddering as you stirred the pot, as though trapped in the motion. A finger and a toe bobbed up to the surface, and Shadowheart could only double over and vomit.

"I don’t want to be a monster… but you made me one." You shakily said, a smile still on your face,

Shadowheart’s knees hit the bloodied stone as she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "No…"

"Yes." Your voice turned sing-song, a lilting melody as you rocked slightly on your heels. A nursery rhyme, an old prayer—no, a doctrine. "Pain is love, love is pain, we are shaped by her hand…"

Shadowheart flinched. She knew those words. Had taught you those words. And now you were repeating them back to her, reciting them like a child lost in the dark.

You pick up a rogue organ you had on the side and tossed it int"She carves us, molds us, breaks us—"

"Enough." Shadowheart’s voice cracked, but you didn’t stop.

"We suffer and we are made perfect, we suffer and we are made whole—"

"Enough!" She surged forward, grabbing your face, forcing you to look at her.

Your eyes… there was nothing behind them. No clarity, no recognition—just a hollow, twisted thing wearing the face of the person she loved.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

You only smiled and offered her the spoon. "I made us something special."

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God of Ambition Gale:

It was a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.

Gale paraded you before his worshippers like a treasured relic—something precious, something his. The faithful adored you, sang your praises nearly as much as his, and every time you hesitated, every time your smile faltered, his hand would tighten around yours. Behave, the pressure said. Be worthy of their love.

You did as you were told. At first.

You smiled when Gale told you to. You accepted the prayers, the devotion, the endless kneeling at your feet. You let them call you holy, divine, a gift to their god. It made your skin crawl. So, one day, you tested them.

"Build me a statue," you had said, your voice lilting with amusement, feigning benevolence. "If you adore me so, let the world see my image."

They had obeyed without hesitation. Within a fortnight, a monument stood in your honor, towering, radiant, a depiction of you carved from the finest marble.

Gale had laughed when he saw it, sliding his arm around your waist. "They love you almost as much as I do."

He had meant it as a compliment. You had clenched your jaw and smiled. And then, you had asked for more.

"Bring me offerings," you told them. "Not coin or jewels—those mean nothing. Bring me something of real worth."

At first, it was trinkets. Heirlooms. Personal relics.

Then, it became more. A traitor’s severed tongue, presented on a silver plate. A nobleman's heart, still warm, still twitching. Bone, flesh, blood—sacrifices.

It was intoxicating. Not the power, not the reverence, but the corruption.

You had meant it as a game, a cruel joke at Gale’s expense. You had wanted to make a mockery of his faith, to show him how empty their devotion was, how easily they could be swayed. Instead, they had made you into something else.

The first time they slaughtered in your name, you had watched with something like detachment. The first time they burned a village at your word, you had justified it.

"Gale would have done the same."

"It’s what he deserves."

"I deserve this."

Until they spoke your name above his. Until they wept for you instead of him. Until they looked upon you not as Gale’s beloved but as something greater.

That was when the horror set in. You had done this. You had wanted to defy him, to twist his faith into something grotesque—but you had twisted yourself in the process. You had become the monster in the stories. The horror in the hymns. The nightmare in the prayers of the innocent.

And when you finally confronted Gale, you saw it—the flicker of fear in his eyes.

"What have you done?" he whispered, as if you had not simply become what he made you.

"What have I done?" you echoed, voice shaking with something terrible. 

You stepped closer, reveling in the way he tensed.

"You wanted me to be divine," you said, voice ragged. "You wanted them to love me. You wanted me to belong to you. And now—" your breath hitched, a bitter laugh escaping, "now they belong to me."

For the first time in a long time, Gale looked at you not as a lover, not as a prize—but as a threat. His throat bobbed.

"I never wanted this," he murmured.

"And yet, here we are."

You had wanted to make Gale suffer. Instead, you had ruined yourself.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

Astarion gives you everything.

Silks, diamonds, pearls—his little indulgences for his most treasured possession. You revel in it at first, in the weight of necklaces pressed to your throat, in the glimmering gowns that spill like moonlight around you. You are draped in wealth, adorned like an ornament of his empire, paraded at his side as his dark consort.

But it is not yours.

Not truly.

It is a gilded cage with velvet cushions and ruby-studded bars. And Astarion, lounging upon his throne, never lets you forget that you belong to him.

Even now, you sit atop his lap, stripped bare of both fabric and dignity, curled into him as he surveys his court. His nocturnal horde kneels before him, creatures of the night that whisper his name like a benediction, swearing their undying fealty to him and him alone.

That was meant to be yours too.

But there you are, a pet draped across his lap while he commands his empire, idly stroking your skin as though you were no more than a prized thing.

And with that realization, something in you finally shatters.

The ballroom is a ruin of pleasure and carnage, the air thick with the scent of spilt wine and fresher, richer things. The gilded chandeliers cast a dull glow over the carnage below—bodies twisted in the throes of excess, mouths still parted in laughter, ecstasy, or death. Your work. Your entertainment. The remains of another night spent reveling in your own descent.

You see yourself in the blood pooled across the marble floors, in the dark streaks on your hands, in the crimson sheen of the mirrors that line the grand hall. A thing no longer human. A thing made.

Astarion finds you there, barefoot on the ballroom steps, still wearing the remnants of your latest indulgence—the silken threads that cling to your skin, damp with blood not your own. His boots click against the marble, his presence as effortless and commanding as always, but there’s something else in his expression as he sweeps his gaze over the disaster you’ve left behind. Not admiration. Not amusement.

Disapproval.

“Oh, my love.” He exhales, his voice exasperated, but light, as if he’s speaking to a spoiled child. “You’ve made such an awful mess.”

You do not speak. You only watch as he lifts the hem of his fine embroidered coat to step over a broken body, nose wrinkling at the sight of their torn throat.

He turns his red eyes back on you and sighs, tilting his head. “I do miss my well-behaved pet. Whatever happened to them, I wonder?”

Something inside you—something still raw and burning, something still capable of feeling—snaps.

You laugh, a broken, breathless thing, the sound scraping out of your throat like it belongs to someone else.

“You happened,” you say, voice shaking, but not with fear. Not anymore. You take a step forward, and he watches you with the calmness of a predator indulging a weaker thing’s tantrum. “This is your fault.”

Astarion smiles, but it’s sharp, condescending. “Is it? I don’t recall forcing you to—”

You slap him.

The sound rings through the ballroom, cutting through the distant moans of dying things, through the flickering candlelight and the suffocating scent of decay. His head barely moves with the impact, but his expression does. It goes blank. Cold.

You shove him then, hands pressed against his chest, forcing him back a step, your voice rising, words spilling out with every ounce of agony he’s wrought in you.

“You made me this. You did this to me!” You shove him again, and this time he lets you, the ghost of something unreadable flickering across his features. “You fed me everything I could ever want and then took everything from me! My dignity, my humanity—” Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. “—myself!”

Astarion tilts his head, his lips pressing into something almost resembling a pout.

“Oh, darling, you wound me.” His voice is softer now, saccharine, but there’s a new edge to it. He reaches for you, fingers ghosting against your jaw, and you don’t flinch. You can’t. He hums in amusement, gripping your chin with a opposing malice. “But perhaps you need reminding of your place.”

You meet his gaze without fear, without anything left to lose. “Do whatever you want to me,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “It won’t compare to what you’ve already done.”

For the first time, Astarion says nothing.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, the distant flicker of candlelight casting both your reflections onto the bloodied marble. Monsters.

Neither of you look away.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Naturist Halsin:

The spell had been meant as a safeguard. A gentle tether. A way to keep you from running again.

At least, that was what Halsin had told you when he cast it, his voice soft with reassurance, his hands warm as they cradled yours. A necessary precaution, he had called it, one that would keep you safe. You hadn’t understood what he had done at first—only that when you tried to leave the grove, the ground swallowed you whole.

The first time you ran, you barely made it beyond the treeline before something beneath your feet shifted. The grass turned to hands, vines to shackles. They dragged you down, piercing your flesh, rooting into your skin, becoming part of you. You had screamed, struggled, but no matter how you fought, the spell refused to let go. You felt yourself being dragged back, pulled home, the grove calling to you with a voice that was not your own.

When you came to, Halsin had been there, brushing damp hair from your face, his expression full of regret but his resolve unwavering.

“This is for the best,” he had said, stroking your cheek with fingers that should have been tender, but felt like iron bars. “You must stay. You belong here.”

You had believed him. Trusted him that this spell was minor. And so, for your convenience, you stopped running. But the changes did not stop.

At first, they were small. Your fingers turned green at the tips, dirt forever embedded beneath your nails no matter how hard you scrubbed. Tiny flowers sprouted along your collarbones, curling in the hollows of your throat. Your footsteps grew quieter, muffled by the moss that began to creep along your heels.

You had tried to ignore it, had begged him to fix it, but he had only smiled and called it natural.

“This is the grove embracing you,” he had said, tucking a strand of ivy-laced hair behind your ear. “You are part of it now.”

But you had not wanted to be part of it.

You began speaking less. Feeling less. You withdrew, shutting yourself away, closing off pieces of yourself in some desperate attempt to hold on to who you had been. But the more you pulled away, the more the grove took from you.

Your skin hardened into bark, rough and splintered, cracking open at your joints when you moved. Your veins thickened, no longer running red but gold—thick like sap, sluggish like decay. You stopped feeling warmth. Your pulse slowed. Your breath came in rustling sighs, the sound of leaves shifting in an unfelt wind.

You felt it inside you now—the grove whispering, calling, claiming.

The final straw came when you saw yourself in the still waters of the spring. Your reflection was not your own.

Your hands, once warm and full of life, had twisted into gnarled, wooden claws, fingers curling like branches reaching for the sky. Flowers bloomed along your shoulders, delicate and terrible, their roots embedded deep into your flesh. Vines wove through your ribs, your hair now little more than ivy and creeping moss. Your mouth—gods, your mouth—it had split at the edges, wide and unnatural, revealing jagged, thorn-like teeth beneath cracked lips.

You were not a person.

You were not yourself.

A sob tore from your throat, but the sound was not human. It was the groan of bending wood, the whisper of leaves in the wind, a hollow, aching noise that sent horror clawing up your spine.

You stumbled back, gasping, fingers clawing at the moss growing over your chest, at the wood encasing your body like a prison.

“No,” you whispered, voice splintering like old bark. “No, no, no—this isn’t real!”

You turned, and he was there.

Halsin stood watching, gaze filled with something unreadable. You couldn’t tell if it was awe, sadness, or something worse.

His lips parted. “You are—” He hesitated, brow furrowing before he let out a breath. “You are beautiful.”

Rage exploded inside you.

“Beautiful?” Your voice cracked, jagged like broken branches. “I am a monster!” You stumbled toward him, nearly collapsing as your bark-covered legs twisted beneath you. “Look at me, Halsin! Look at what you have done!”

He flinched but did not move as you grabbed his robes with shaking hands, your wooden fingers pressing against his chest. “You promised to keep me safe,” you whispered, voice raw, agonized. “You promised—” Your breath hitched, the sobs choking you. “I trusted you!”

“I only did what had to be done,” he said softly, reaching for you, but you jerked away, your body creaking under the movement.

“This is not what had to be done!” you screamed, your voice splintering. “You—You ruined me! You made me into this—this thing!” You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the hardened bark beneath your fingers. “I am not a person anymore! I am not me!”

Halsin took a step forward, but you backed away, tears burning like resin in your eyes. “You are part of the grove now,” he said gently, like a parent to a lost child. “You are nature itself. And nature is beautiful.”

You let out a hollow, shaking laugh.

“Then you’re blind,” you spat. “Because all I see is a monster.”

His face softened. “I see you.”

You shook your head, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. You wanted to scream, to tear yourself free from this prison of vines and moss and him, but you couldn’t. The grove wouldn’t let you.

It owned you now.

And it was all his fault.

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Grand Duke Wyll:

The Grand Duke’s ballroom was a sea of gold and crimson, the finest silks and polished gems glittering under the chandeliers. You sat at Wyll’s side, as always, a perfect vision of what he had shaped you into.

Your hair was pinned just so, your gown chosen to accentuate the curves he favored, your expression schooled into a poised, regal mask. You spoke only when necessary, with words carefully selected to charm and manipulate. You were perfection—or so Wyll said.

Be better. That was what he always told you. Stand straighter. Speak clearer. Smile only when necessary. Do not sully yourself with sentiment.

It had started with small things. A change in how you walked, how you carried yourself, how you spoke to others. Then came the alterations to your wardrobe, the subtle corrections to your posture, the way he took your hand and guided you through social circles like an artist sculpting his finest masterpiece.

You had let it happen. At first, it seemed harmless and if it took his attention off accusing the staff at looking at you for 'too long' than all the better. But the things he asked of you became darker.

You began gossiping at his behest, slipping poisons into conversations like honey-laced daggers. Your words ruined reputations, destroyed lives. You turned cruel, mocking the servants for their missteps, calling for punishment when they faltered.

And worse.

You had ordered deaths. Condemned people.

You remembered the first time, the way Wyll had praised you for it, had kissed your knuckles and whispered against your skin how proud he was. That was what you somehow lived for now—his approval.

Or at least, that was what you had thought. Until now.

The execution platform loomed ahead, set in the center of the courtyard, draped in the banners of the Grand Duke. The crowd murmured with anticipation, waiting to witness the latest display of power. And standing there, shackled and trembling, was a girl you had once called friend.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Marcia.

She had been one of your favorite maids, gentle and kind, always bringing you extra tea on cold nights, slipping little sweets onto your plate when she thought you needed cheering up. You had once spent hours talking to her, listening to her laugh, telling her how much you valued her company.

And now she knelt before the chopping block, her hands bound, her cheeks streaked with tears. And it was your fault.

You had barely thought before you acted.

"Stop!" The word tore from your lips before you even realized you had spoken.

The crowd went silent. The executioner hesitated, his blade hovering midair. Marcia looked up, confusion flashing across her tear-streaked face.

Wyll, seated beside you in his resplendent robes, turned his head sharply. “What are you doing?”

You were already on your feet.

"I said stop!” You pushed through the gathered nobility, shoving past guards, moving before anyone could stop you. “Let her go!”

Marcia’s eyes widened. “My liege?”

You dropped to your knees before her, your hands trembling as they reached for hers.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. “I—I did this to you.”

She shook her head, stunned into silence, her lips parted as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

From behind you, Wyll rose from his throne, his voice sharp with authority. “Stand aside.”

You turned to him, your body shielding Marcia from view. “No.”

His expression flickered from irritation to disbelief. “No?”

“You made me do this,” you spat. “You made me into—into this—” You gestured wildly at yourself, at the elegant robes, at the jewels on your fingers, at the polished exterior that hid the rot inside. “I don’t even know who I am anymore!”

Wyll stepped forward, his jaw tightening. “You are married to the Grand Duke. You are mine. And you will obey me.”

“No.” Your voice was steel. “Not anymore.”

The words left you shaking, but they were the truest things you had spoken in years. The crowd murmured, scandalized.

Wyll’s face darkened. “You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Then let them see!” you cried, turning in a slow circle, letting your voice carry over the gathered nobles. “Let them see what you have done to me! Look at me, all of you! Look at what I have become under his hand!”

Gasps rippled through the audience. Wyll’s expression became something dangerous.

“Get out of the way,” he said, voice low, barely restrained. “Before I make you move.”

You shake your head, and lift Marcia to her feet. You turn to move off of the stage but the guards stop you. You frantically push Marcia back as they advance, knowing that they would kill her just to spite you. But as you turn and usher her the other way, another set of guard with gleaming swords and spears block you way. Marcia lets out a strangled cry and you bring her into your chest.

You do not dare to look at Wyll, you will not give the bastard the satisfaction. Instead you look into the crowd, hopeful to find someone, anyone, a noble, a peasant - just a being that were moved by your words, that would help you. But they all remained silent, unmoving. All but one.

You recognised that ginger bob and garish headpiece anywhere.

If Wyll had wanted a monster, then he was going to get one now.

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woooooweeee this was a big one to write, I had so many ideas but I am so so happy with how this came out and would love to hear everyone's thoughts and ideas. Hope you enjoyed it (and stomached it)! - Seluney xox

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