#|| ❝ keep a blade close ❞ || headcanons

[rubistella]

Difficult Person Test

You are an extremely difficult person to get along with (84.29%).

“Well, some people do enjoy a bit of difficulty, don’t they? If not for the taste, then let's say… it's for the texture.”

tagged by: @harpershigh tagging: @fiendishfinesse, @dvilsdesire, @relentlessgrief, @archonoclasm, @turlums, @shadow-cleric and whoever wants to do this!

[sanguistar]

Important Disclaimer:

Just a friendly reminder that mun ≠ muse. The way I write Astarion doesn’t reflect my personal beliefs or values. Astarion can be cruel, manipulative, toxic, or downright awful, with just enough humanity to keep people around. His trauma and the slow process of overcoming it don’t necessarily make him a better person.

If you see Astarion differently, I respect that. Personally, I’m not on board with the constant romanticization of trauma you see in media and literature, or the idea that surviving and overcoming your past automatically makes you a better person. Sometimes it does, but let’s be honest, it’s not always the case. This isn’t a dig at anyone else’s opinions, so let’s keep things mature.

And finally, it’s perfectly fine to enjoy different portrayals of the same character, no matter how different they may be. After all, roleplay is meant to be fun!

Thanks for reading. Here's your biscuit 🍪🥛

General

If you're part of the 'I can fix him' squad, that's totally fine. I respect it, but I respectfully disagree. Astarion is not a good person (ref.), and I’m not about to water him down just because he occasionally shows a vulnerable side or a sliver of honesty. (Read: He’s a bit of a gremlin and sometimes needs to be metaphorically leashed.)

Astarion can be influenced by those around him, for better or worse, but that doesn’t change his core. So please, don’t expect a sudden personality transplant. However, if it is natural for your character to expect as much, that's perfectly fine IC.

While Astarion is biased toward those he holds dear (see friended/romanced), he’s also a first-class enabler of others' worst instincts and might very well be the naughty little devil whispering in your muse’s ear, regardless of their moral compass. (Again, he’s a naughty pale elf, mate. I don’t know what to tell you.)

Astarion is highly manipulative and plays dirty. He’ll often tug at the heartstrings, even if it means showing a more vulnerable side or digging up trauma, to get what he wants. (And if he does reveal this side to your character, regardless of his motives, it suggests he ‘trusts’ them... at least enough to make use of that trust.)

Just because he’s a morally questionable individual doesn’t mean he’s above doing a good deed now and then. But don’t get it twisted; he’s not doing it out of the goodness of his heart. He’s quite selfish after all. If friended/romanced, he’ll also display care for those he’s close to, in his own peculiar way.

Astarion is a crook and a liar, even to those he cares about. He won’t always speak his mind and might agree to things he doesn’t want, only to regret it later and blame others for 'talking him into it'. There will be instances he’s genuinely a victim, but other times, not so much.

Astarion has his own personal agenda and tends to follow through with it regardless of what someone else may think, sometimes going so far as to not tell people what he's up to, or straight up lying if he finds it convenient.

[more: tba]

Friended / Romanced

(Friended/Romanced) While Astarion remains largely indifferent to those he doesn’t know (unless their suffering becomes a nuisance to his own agenda), he does possess a certain fondness for those he holds dear. Thus, what might amuse him when it befalls others is far less entertaining when it affects his beloved. (ref timestamp 1:06~)

(Friended/Romanced) Should your character be close to Astarion and possess a more virtuous nature, he might discreetly carry out some of his more dubious plans behind their back, if only to avoid a confrontation or a reprimand. Of course, the possibility of your character discovering his actions and confronting him remains an open prospect for exploration.

(Romanced) Astarion is fiercely protective of those he cherishes and won’t hesitate to speak up if he feels they are being wronged by anyone other than himself, of course.

(Romanced) Astarion is pansexual and, in my portrayal, he tends to lean towards a dominant role, though with a certain flexibility about it.

(Romanced) His stance on polyamory will entirely depend on who they’re dealing with, though he’s not likely to be the one to propose it. That said, "unlikely" doesn’t mean "impossible."

Past & Life

Astarion stands as the sole "survivor" of the Ancunin family, a tragic title bestowed upon him after a brutal massacre. While the Gur were indeed the instigators of said attack, whispers abound that others, nursing their own vendettas against the Ancunin lineage, seized the opportunity to join the slaughter. The mastermind behind it all? None other than Cazador, who saw the elimination of the Ancunins as a strategic boon, both politically and personally. His twisted fascination with Astarion played no small part; starving the young elf of his family was merely the first step in grooming him to become part of Cazador's twisted new "family."

Before his transformation, Astarion made a calculated attempt to seduce Cazador, fully aware of his status as a vampire lord and driven by his own obsessive desire for immortality. His efforts brought him closer to Cazador, hoping to be granted the dark gift. However, Astarion was woefully ignorant of the grim details that the path to becoming a vampire first winds through the harrowing existence of a vampire spawn. Cazador, ever the schemer, exploited Astarion’s naivety to further his own nefarious ends.

Astarion is Cazador's second ever spawn, but his oldest still-living one. The first spawn never made it.

Note: If you roleplay Cazador, you can disregard any HCs that do not mesh well with your own.

click here for other headcanons!

[more: tba]

[danhengposting]

[redacted] caught misbehaving by the high elder

[havealotonmymind]

Sneak Peek of Date

The fifth one-shot in Firsts! Trying something a bit different with this one and writing from Petras' POV. Honestly having a lot of fun with it.

Petras stared down at his bloodied hands covered in rat guts and gore. His nails had sharpened to claws. When had they done that? What must he look like now?

“Satisfied?” Astarion asked, a wry smile curling his pretty lips. “Honestly, I’ve never seen a spawn devour so many rats like that. It was disgusting.”

“Fuck you.” Petras shot to his feet. Whatever hold Cazador and Godey had on him did not extend to the other spawn. “I didn’t ask for any of this! I didn’t want to eat rats. I just couldn’t think straight.”

Astarion sneered at him. “You were hardly thinking at all, I imagine. Gods, all that drool. You were no better than a feral dog.”

The world blurred around him as he rushed forth. The sheer speed threw off his sense of balance. His foot caught against a jagged pipe and he tried to yank Astarion down with him.

He side-stepped with ease, wrenching Petras’ arm behind his back at a painful angle and slamming him to the ground. The stench roiling off the river of waste beside them flooded his nostrils. Before he even thought to struggle, the tip of a blade pressed into the back of his neck.

Astarion clicked his tongue. “Now, now. Throwing tantrums won’t help. Let’s just calm down, shall we?”

His arm twisted hard and Petras felt his shoulder almost pop out of the socket. Pure animalistic panic poured through him. He thrashed violently and the blade cut into him. The scent of his own blood pouring over the side of his neck sent him into a frenzy. He tried to buck Astarion off, growling and swearing.

Astarion did not move. If anything, he only dug his knee deeper in the gap between his shoulder blades.

Petras heard himself screaming as if from a great distance. Screaming for help. Begging for Astarion not to kill him. For his long-dead mother and father. Reduced to nothing but an infant as the shadow of Cazador Szarr loomed over him so resolutely that it engulfed everything else.

Tears and spittle dribbled down the side of Petras’ face. He heaved in one last pathetic effort to free himself. He was a pinned insect. He couldn’t break free.

What was happening to him? Even after all that, why was he still so damn hungry?

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤBELOVEDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Damian Wayne x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What If He Become Obsessed With Dick's Girlfriend?

☆⁠ NOTES : It's just a cute and funny headcanon and should not be taken seriously. Y/n obviously have no feeling for him and see him as a little brother. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You’ve been dating Dick for a while, and naturally, this means you’re in Wayne Manor a lot. It’s not that you mind, but being around the Batfamily is like trying to survive a sitcom where every character is armed.

And then there’s Damien.

Oh, sweet, little, stabby Damien.

At first, he’s a little terror. He’s always scowling at you, calling you things like “Richard’s latest concubine” or “another unnecessary attachment.”

It’s fine. You ignore him. He’s a kid. A weird kid with ninja skills and a superiority complex, but a kid nonetheless.

But then something shifts.

You don’t know when it started—maybe it was the first time you helped Damian with his homework (because, let's face it, the kid can’t count past ten without losing his temper), or maybe it was the first time you accidentally brushed his hair aside while he was brooding on the roof. Either way, the moment you paid him just a little bit of attention, you sealed your fate.

Now Damien was everywhere. Not in an obvious “he’s following you” way—no, he was stealthier than that. He would conveniently show up whenever you visited the Wayne Manor, leaning against a doorframe, pretending he hadn’t been waiting there for 45 minutes.

“Oh, it’s you again. Why are you always lurking like a feral cat, Damien?” you’d tease, and he’d scowl, muttering about how you wouldn’t understand his “intellectual pursuits.”

He starts showing up wherever you are, uninvited. Oh, you’re in the kitchen trying to make breakfast? Guess who just landed behind you, silently hovering like a tiny, murderous shadow? "I see you're using the wrong knife to cut that," he says, smugly eyeing the blade, “and you should be cutting it at a 45-degree angle. Let me handle it.”

You look over, blink a few times, and try to avoid an aneurysm. "Damian, what—"

"I’m simply trying to prevent you from making mistakes," he interrupts, already taking the knife from your hand with the confidence of someone who’s never been told ‘no’ in their entire life. Yes, he did just steal your kitchen knife.

He goes from glaring at you across the dinner table to…well, staring at you.

It’s subtle at first, but you notice. You’ll catch his eyes lingering a little too long when you’re laughing with Dick, or feel him trailing after you when you wander the manor.

You think it’s cute. Like a kid with a crush on their babysitter.

When he insists on showing you his katana skills? You humor him. “Wow, Damien, you’re so talented!” you gush. Dick thinks you’re being nice. Damien thinks you’re in love.

When he critiques your relationship with Dick? “Grayson isn’t good enough for you. He’s reckless, emotionally stunted, and too busy pretending to be a circus clown to prioritize your needs.”

You laugh it off. “I’ll keep that in mind, Damien.”

Mistake #1. He interprets this as you agreeing with him.

When he starts bringing you tea? Complimenting your outfit choices? Sitting way too close to you during movie night?

“Aww, he’s opening up to me!” you think.

Damien is so dramatic about it. Every time Dick kisses you, hugs you, or just breathes in your direction, Damien is in the background like a Shakespearean villain.

He walks into the room, sees you cuddling with Dick, and immediately storms out with a loud, "Tt. Disgusting."

Alfred offers him cookies to calm him down. Damien refuses because he’s too furious to snack.

Mistake #2. You’re feeding the monster.

Damien moves from “weirdly attached” to “what the hell is happening” alarmingly fast.

He wasn’t subtle. He decided to prove his superiority over Dick by painting your portrait. At midnight.

“Damien,” you said when you caught him, holding a brush like he was Da Vinci reincarnated, “why are you painting me?”

“Because no one else can capture your essence,” he replied, dead serious.

You left before he could explain that he was also building a shrine in his closet.

He doesn’t interrupt your date... at first, not directly. He doesn’t need to. Damian’s signature passive-aggressive commentary will follow you home, like a ghost. "I saw you let Dick drive. You know his driving skills are subpar at best, right? I wouldn’t trust him with a paper airplane." You’re not even sure how he knew you two were driving, but the comment lands, and it cuts like a knife.

You try to confront him. “Damian, stop following me around like a puppy! You’re a child. A literal child. Go play with toys or something.”

Damian’s face twists with a mix of indignation and disgust. “I do not play with toys, Y/N. I train. Unlike some people.”

And the best part? Damian doesn't even hide his feelings for you. One night, after you and Dick have spent a quiet evening watching movies, Damian barges in, wearing his usual scowl, and just points at you. "I’ve decided," he declares dramatically. "You’re mine now."

You almost choke on your popcorn. "Excuse me??"

"That’s right. You’ve been chosen." He’s so serious, like this is some ancient prophecy he’s about to fulfill.

He starts referring to you as his beloved in casual conversation.

“Father, inform Grayson he’s no longer allowed to monopolize my beloved’s time.”

“Your what?!” Dick is confused.

At first, you thought it was a joke. “That’s cute, Damien, but I’m pretty sure you learned that from a Victorian novel.”

But he wasn’t joking. He never joked. He’d say it with all the seriousness of someone discussing global diplomacy. “One day, you’ll understand why I call you that, Beloved.”

One day, you accidentally called him a kid in front of everyone. “Relax, kiddo.”

You’d barely finished the sentence before he stormed off, muttering about how ungrateful you were for his “protection.”

Later, Alfred informed you that Damien spent the evening sulking on the roof. “It’s not sulking, Pennyworth. It’s strategizing.”

The moment Damien saw how you look at Dick, something inside him snapped. Why does Grayson get everything? he thought bitterly, watching from the shadows like a gremlin.

From then on, he started… intervening.

He’d interrupt your dates by calling Dick with “emergencies.” (“Richard, Gotham is on fire. I require your assistance.”)

Or other ways.

Dick: “Sorry I’m late. My motorcycle suddenly lost all its tires.”

You: “Wow, weird coincidence. Damien’s been in the garage all day.”

Damien innocently: “You should’ve asked me for a ride, beloved.”

He’d conveniently sit between you on the couch during movie nights, arms crossed, glaring at the screen like he wanted to kill the romantic lead just for existing.

Once, when Dick brought you flowers, Damien helpfully reminded you that roses often carried pests. You gave him a side-eye but thanked him for the warning.

One time, you catch him trying to slip his number into your phone.

“Damien, what are you doing?”

“Ensuring you can contact someone competent in emergencies.”

“That’s what Dick is for?”

“Grayson couldn’t competently fold a bedsheet.”

It all comes to a head when you find Damien casually trying to poison Dick.

You walk into the kitchen and there he is, sprinkling something suspicious into a smoothie.

“Damien, what the hell?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “It’s non-lethal. He’ll just feel weak enough to stay in bed for a few days. That way, we can spend quality time together.”

“QUALITY TIME?!”

He tilts his head, genuinely confused. “Don’t you want that?”

One day, you accidentally brought up his height. “Wow, Damien, have you grown an inch?”

That was it. That was the moment he vowed to become taller than Dick at any cost. He spent weeks researching growth supplements, adjusting his diet, and hanging upside down from the training bars in the Batcave.

Mistake #3. You don’t run immediately.

He “accidentally” breaks the bracelet Dick gave you (oops, it was an inferior material anyway).

Your favorite coffee cup disappears, and suddenly Damien has one just like it. "Strange coincidence, isn’t it?"

Damien starts “correcting” everything Dick tells you, from battle tactics to what kind of wine pairs best with dinner.

He trains Titus to growl whenever Dick comes near you. "Good boy, Titus. Show him who’s unworthy."

He steals your phone to block Dick’s number. "We should eliminate distractions."

You once made the mistake of jokingly calling him "cute," and now he’s convinced you’re secretly in love with him.

Dick, bless his heart, is completely oblivious.

“I think it’s great how well you and Damien are getting along,” he says, grinning like a golden retriever. Meanwhile, Damien is plotting your future wedding.

"I’m humoring her for your sake," Damien lies through his teeth while handing you a handmade sword engraved with your initials.

Damien constantly tries to prove he’s a better option than Dick:

“Richard is reckless. I, however, would never put you in harm’s way.” (Meanwhile, Damien drags you into an actual rooftop stakeout just so he can show off.)

“He can’t even cook. Did you know I can make authentic Middle Eastern cuisine?”

“You deserve someone who values you.”

You find a locked box in your room one day. Inside is a collection of…disturbingly Damien things.

A pressed flower you don’t remember receiving.

A strand of your hair.

A list titled “Reasons Why I’m Better Than Richard” (it’s very thorough).

A draft of a love letter in calligraphy that starts with “Dearest light of my tortured soul…”

You finally sit him down for a talk.

“Damien, you’re like a little brother to me.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I’m not your brother. Nor will I ever be.”

“Damien, you’re sweet, but—”

“I’m not sweet.”

“Okay, you’re terrifying, but you’re also 13.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowing. “I’ll wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For you to realize that I’m the only one worthy of your affection.”

“Damien…”

“The age gap will be irrelevant in five years.”

“And when that day comes, I’ll be ready.”

When you reject him (because obviously), he tries to play it cool but fails miserably.

“Tt. I wasn’t serious anyway. Your taste is terrible.”

Proceeds to storm off, but not before stealing your scarf.

You find it later in his room draped over a practice dummy he definitely punched several times while muttering Dick’s name.

Bruce gets involved after Damien “accidentally” pushes Dick off a rooftop.

“You need therapy,” Bruce says bluntly.

“You’re just upset I succeeded where you failed,” Damien snaps back.

He does go to therapy but somehow convinces his therapist he’s completely normal. (Because of course he does.)

Alfred is the real MVP.

“Perhaps you’d like to consider not obsessing over your brother’s partner, Master Damien.”

“You don’t understand, Pennyworth. She needs to be protected.”

“From what, sir? A happy relationship?”

Everything become worse when Damien starts sparring with Dick for no reason other than to “test his worthiness.” You have to physically drag him away while Dick just stands there, confused and bleeding.

“He’s weak,” Damien hisses as you shove him into a chair.

“He’s your brother!”

“And yet, he’s undeserving.”

In the end, Damien doesn’t give up. He’s stubborn like that.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 2 Part 3

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[lowkeyren]

BUT YOU BELONG TO ME!

in which — some jealousy headcanons / scenarios for our favourite luofu men!

featuring — dan heng, blade, jing yuan (separately) x gn!reader

wc: total 1.8k, from req: here!, they're so silly goodbye, march + fu xuan cameo ;) reblogs w comments are appreciated, please enjoy!!!

#DAN HENG

look me in the eyes and tell me dan heng wouldn’t be the “i'm jealous, but i don’t wanna show it” (but it’s so PAINFULLY obvious that he’s jealous) type, you can’t.

definitely amusing to watch him play it cool, cus he has nothing else going on in his brain when you’re within 10 metre radius from him. 

honestly it would have to be quite specific situations if he ever gets jealous because he likes to keep you close by his side as often as possible. dating or not, he would have some sort of protective instinct —always making sure you’re secure and cared for. (and yes of course march teases him for it, he never admits it though.)

dan heng tries to focus on the book in his hands, but his mind refuses to make any sense of the words on the page —at least not when you’re standing so close to boothill. (too close for his liking anyway)

the cyborg sits at the opposite end of the couch where dan heng was, while you deftly adjust a compartment of his, engaging in small talk as he makes lighthearted jokes with you. dan heng hears your laughter ring out; the laughter that he adores so dearly, the laughter that never fails to warm his chest, and the laughter he wishes he was the reason for instead.

his eyes flicker up from the page to sneak a glance at you, the way your hands glide over boothill's body churns an ugly feeling, twisting in his chest. he shifts in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the unease remains.

his focus on you is suddenly shattered by a loud voice that belongs to no other than march, "dan heng, if you grip that book any harder, you might tear off a page." she stands in front of him, hands on her waist. 

“the way i am holding my book is perfectly fine, now if you will, i must get back to re—”

“oh c’mon! we all know your ass is not actually reading that book!” he raises an eyebrow, and march only rolls her eyes in response. “it’s literally upside-down.” she teases, unable to hold back a chuckle. 

dan heng glances down at the book in his hands, finally noticing the upside-down text, to which he quickly closes the book and puts it down. "maybe i was just testing your observational skills.”

march shakes her head, "yeah right… just admit you’re too busy staring at them!”

“no i’m n—” he begins to protest but is interrupted when you suddenly appear in front of him. “staring at who?” you tilt your head curiously, and he can only hope that you don’t hear the loud thumping of his heart. 

march giggles as she runs off to who-knows-where, he silently curses her for leaving him in this predicament. he manages to regain his composure, though his cheeks retain a faint pink hue. “ahem, anyway…” he trails off when you sit down next to him, your thighs brushing against each other.

alright you can’t keep doing this to him. he’s not a cyborg but it certainly seems like he’s malfunctioning at that moment. (though he doesn't mind if you have to “repair” him next; he considers it far preferable to having your hands on boothill anyway.)

#BLADE

this guy REEKS of jealousy. 

he gets jealous over anything —saying “good night!” to an acquaintance? well unfortunately, i don’t think they’re going to be having a very good night; a friendly smile from a passerby? the sudden chill in the air accompanied by his sharp glare is enough to make them rethink their life decisions. 

and the worst part? he knows it. he's aware of how irrational his jealousy can be, but that doesn't stop the surge of possessiveness that washes over him.

(deep down, he just wants to feel secure in your attention and affection, but it’s true that his jealousy sometimes gets the better of him.) 

blade’s “things to get rid of” list exponentially grows with each passing day, ranging from general items he sees no use of, to addresses of people who have wronged you in the past. 

but there’s one item on the list that stands out from the rest, the one item he can’t seem to bring himself to get rid of, no matter how hard he tries.

37. “blade plushie”

okay but what kind of website is “stellaron hunters fan merch for sell.com” anyway? since when do they have a fanbase, and why did you have to buy a plushie of him, of all things? 

he shoots daggers at the plushie sitting on your bed, on his side of your bed. while he can't always be by your side, surely there's no need for an inferior replacement?

blade sits down beside you, discreetly moving the plushie out of the way. just as you turn to reach for it, he wraps his arm around you and snuggles up to your side; you immediately pause at his affectionate gesture; his hair brushes against your neck as he buries his face into it.

“blade.. what are you doing?” you turn your attention to him, much to his delight. 

“why not spend more time with the real deal instead of… that.” he tightens his grip around you, at this point he isn’t even trying to hide his jealousy (over a plushie lmao) anymore. 

"you mean mr. edgelord...?" you barely manage to stifle your laughter as blade shoots up beside you. doesn’t hurt to tease him for a bit, right?

“what did you say… “edgelord”?” he scoffs, his face twisting into a scowl. he can’t believe you gave that thing a nickname, how ridiculous. he makes a mental note to get rid of it asap. 

“yeah, what about it? jealous that he’s better than you?” you smirk, leaning in close to his face. perhaps you’re enjoying his expression of pure bitterness a little too much, who knew such a handsome face could look so hilariously indignant? 

his eyes twinkle in amusement, before closing in the distance. “hah, never.” his tone tinged with a touch of possessiveness that he can't quite hide.

“really? you seem like you’re about to kill it.” you wrap your arms around his neck, his expression softens for just a split second, but you’re able to catch it anyway. “would you please spare mr. edgelord if i give you a kiss?”

he doesn’t respond with words; he presses his lips against yours, gently cradling the back of your head. (you quickly turn mr. edgelord to face the wall before blade pulls you away)

maybe he’ll spare “it” for another day or so, just don’t let him catch you hugging “it” in your sleep again, alas you want “it” to suffer the same fate as the others on his list.

#JING YUAN

hmm our beloved general… well he trusts you, and believes that you won’t do anything rash; but on the other hand there are just some things that neither of you can control, whether it’s letters sent in to ask for his hand in marriage or admires trying to sweep you off your feet (before he can). 

though not many people would approach you once your relationship goes public, given that he’s the general and all. but imagine him before the two of you became official, clinging to you to fend off your admirers, and the expression on their faces when you shake your head, denying that you’re dating at all. 

“as for the situation at cloudford— general, are you even listening?” fu xuan furrows her brows, and crosses her arms, clearly annoyed. “ah my apologies lady fu, please keep going.” jing yuan only flashes a half-hearted smile at her before glancing over to your direction again.

you feel a pair of eyes boring into your back, undoubtedly jing yuan’s; but you pay it no mind, choosing to focus on the discussion at hand. his grip on his teacup tightens when he sees the foxian talking to you leans closer to catch your words. fu xuan raises an eyebrow in concern, unaware but still sensing the rising tension; his eyes visibly twitch the moment their hand brushes against yours.

“lady fu, let’s reschedule our meeting for another time. i believe i have some… important matters to attend to.” jing yuan rises up from his seat before fu xuan can reply, swiftly making his way towards you.

you’re startled by the sudden feeling of jing yuan’s arms around you, his chest pressing against your back, as he places his chin against your head. “sorry to interrupt, what’re you two discussing about?” the foxian is taken aback by the general's sudden appearance, and especially by your current position with him. 

“n-nothing general!” the foxian seems to hesitate before continuing, “if it isn’t rude to ask, are the two of you…in a relationship?” jing yuan’s face lights up with his usual lazy smile, but this time it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

your eyes widen in surprise as he presses his lips against your nape, you shiver at his touch, a rush of warmth spreads across your cheeks. you should deny it, to say that you're not in a relationship at all, but you can't bring yourself to. instead, you divert your gaze from the foxian, hoping to spare yourself any further embarrassment.

“go on, tell them.” he whispers lowly so that only you can hear him. this bastard, you’re going to give him a stern talking to after this..! “sorry to cut this short, please excuse us.” you give a polite nod before pulling the general away.

two days later, as you’re walking along the streets of central starskiff haven, you come across a group of people gathered around a stall. curious, you head over to check out what’s happening. —you’re absolutely mortified to discover stacks of articles detailing recent events of you and jing yuan.

“breaking news! the general is secretly married?!” / “the truth behind general jing yuan’s relationship status” / “rumours confirmed: a detailed guide to the general of luofu’s relationship saga”

well at least the pictures of you and jing yuan got your good side… and your bad side, and your “i definitely did not sign up for this” side. and oh look, there’s one of you dragging jing yuan by his ponytail too, how wonderful, you’re definitely purchasing that one. 

but yeah no, you’re not beating the allegations after this. 

masterlist

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ GREAT CUSTOMER SERVICE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Yandere Salesperson ENA X Yandere Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): Abusive Behaviour

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

★ Requested By: Anon

☆ You don’t remember who fell first. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was the moment you met, when she asked your name like it was a line in a sales pitch, and you gave it to her like it was your last will and testament. “Could I interest you in a life spent entirely in my proximity?” she said, Salesperson side smiling like an infomercial. You smiled back. The Meanie side narrowed her eye. “OH MY GØD. You’re smiling? What are you, a psycho?” “Yes,” you replied. And just like that, the contract was signed.

☆ You collect ENA’s discarded voice recordings like they’re pressed flowers. Her angry outbursts. Her poetic ramblings. Her emotional breakdowns. You catalog each one with timestamps and notes. She finds out. She doesn’t get mad. She starts recording custom messages for you. “Business update: You’re mine. That’s non-negotiable.” Or sometimes, in that crackling Meanie voice: “Tchhh—don’t go playing cute with other freaks. I’ll murder the trend.”

☆ ENA walks into your room, blood on her shoes. “There was…competition. Very limited-time offer.” You don’t ask who. You wipe the blood off with your sleeve and offer her tea. “Wanna watch that surveillance footage together? You looked sooooo brave.” “I did, didn’t I?” “Criminally charming.”

☆ You have both tried to poison each other. Not out of hate. Out of love. You just wanted to see if she’d be clever enough to survive. She was. She liked the taste. “You put foxglove in the tea?” “You drank the whole thing?” “We’re married now,” she declares. “Cool. Our vows will be televised.”

☆ She sends you a bouquet of audio files. Each one is a threat to someone who got too close to you. “Excuse me—PING!—you were seen looking at my darling with both eyes open. That is now a Class A felony. You have been reported to the love police.” “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! BACK OFF OR I’LL SHOVE YOUR HEAD INTO THE GENIE’S TOILET!” You play them on loop when you’re feeling low.

☆ You show up at her megaphone event with a knife in your pocket, a smile on your lips, and a homemade t-shirt that reads, ‘ENA IS MY GØD, GET LOST’. She sees you from the stage, stutters, then speaks in dual voices at once: “A blessed sermon! A capital campaign! MY DEVOTEE IS ARMED AND ADORABLE!” You blow her a kiss. Someone in the crowd blinks too long in your direction. They don’t blink again.

☆ Your love notes are like war declarations. Hers are like sales pitches written in blood. “I’m going to carve our initials into the psyche of this universe.” She writes back, “Let’s bundle that emotion with a limited-time offer! If you commit mass homicide in my name, I’ll give you a 30% increase in cuddles.” You frame that note and hang it above your bed.

☆ You both have matching calendars where you mark off each other’s violent outbursts as anniversaries. July 9th: ENA stabbed a flirtatious mannequin in the eye. August 12th: You mailed her a jar of someone else’s tears with a love poem tied to it. September 23rd: You screamed her name into the megaphone tower until your throat gave out. She tattooed the waveform across her stomach with her sharpest blade.

☆ Her Meanie side thinks you’re unstable. “OH, YOU’RE NUTS. EVEN I CAN’T STAND YOU!” Her Salesperson side giggles. “They love me so bad it hurts. Isn’t that romantic?” You kiss her right in front of herself and she short-circuits, screaming and blushing and threatening to rearrange the cosmos for a double date. She picks the Froggy as your chaperone. “To keep us out of trouble,” she lies. You’re both armed under the table.

☆ If she’s broken, you’re the wrecking ball that smashes her pieces into a prettier pattern. If you’re unhinged, she’s the velvet box the blade sleeps in. She curls into your lap one night, whispering like a lost confession: “I’m going to turn the world into a convenience store. And you’ll be the only item I’ll keep restocking.” You smile and say, “You’ll run out of shelf space before I run out of love.” Together, you make obsession look like art.

[oldermen-enthusiast]

Loki Headcanons

This is just my opinion on how I imagine Loki!! Fluff with just a hint of smut 🤭

He loves simple physical touch like when you take his face in your hands and be gentle with him, forehead kisses and running your fingers through his hair. He just wants to be taken care of. 🥹

He’s very needy when kissing you, he can’t get you close enough to him.

He’s a whining mess when you kiss his neck, give him back scratches and lightly pull his hair.

Loves giving you kisses on your palm of your hands especially in public

In the morning waking up with you he’s very clingy and handsy kissing you anywhere and everywhere he can. Won’t let you go, he’ll keep pulling you back into bed.

He’s a attention seeker, when your busy doing something he just loves to give you kisses to your temples and the sensitive places on your neck to try and distract you and give him attention

He always has a grumpy mad face but Whenever he see you walk in the room his face lights up with the cutest smirk.

He loves foreplay, loves taking his time with you. Kissing every inch of your body tell he has you begging him for more. He’s definitely a huge tease.

He loves aftercare, he loves to take care of you; he’ll run the shower for you both, clean you up, gives you a massage and cuddles in bed tell you both fall asleep.

Loki loves going down on you while he’s wearing his helmet; so you can hold onto the horns. 😏

His pet names for you include “kitten” “my love” “darling” & “princess”

When he’s away on missions he carries a picture of you in his suit that he’ll glance at when he’s missing you, But won’t ever admit it.

Loki has a way with words but with you he stumbles on his words, distracted when you look him in the eyes, makes him blush.

He loves giving you gifts for no reason except that he just loves you.

He loves to watch you read, He finds it fascinating and adorable how your facial expressions change with each page.

He LOVES to cook for you, he’s a very good chef.

Loki could listen to you talk for hours, he loves the sound of your voice so much

He loves to make you blush by his words and actions. He gets a kick out of it; like i said he’s a big tease, he is the god mischief.

When you wear green it makes him go feral, he automatically gets horny.

He’s very protective over you and can get jealous easily. If anyone just tries to hurt/touch you, they're DONE.

He loves how you can see through his facade and understand the pain and loneliness that he feels. You’re the only one he can be vulnerable with.

You both Understand each other without needing to talk, you know each other so well.

He loves when you lay your head in his lap while he reads.

Loki likes to sneak up on you, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around you.

He is desperate for your Moans. He loves to hear you Scream his Name

Loves to take showers together, He especially Loves to wash/brush your hair. But he definitely loves shower sex even more.

will always Express how happy he is that your his "You're everything to me" “Your my world” “I don’t know what I do without you my love”

Lokis kinks

- Praise Kink: when you praise him he loves when you call him a good Boy and when he praises you “your doing so good for me, kitten” and “You Look so good under me”.

- Knife Play: using his Knife to free you from your Shirt/Bra. Using the cold side of the blade on your skin. But he could never hurt you.

- Love bites: He loves leaving hickeys and bite marks everywhere, especially where everyone can see so they know your his.

. ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + . ๑・° ๑

For more writings/fics check out @joelmillermylove & @olderman-enthusiast 💕

[hellsitedotcom]

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✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ (Kinda) Romance Headcanons ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

ft. Blade, Sunday, Aventurine, Moze.

˚₊‧ Currently struggling with the Sunday piece I'm writing, so here's some snippets/headcanons to distract myself before I lose my mind, destroy my PC, and then jump into oncoming traffic˚₊‧

info/warnings: none; a mixture of headcanons for the characters in established relationship & also in a ''crushing'' stage, but some of it can also be seen platonically.

not proof-read + english isn't my native language.

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‧₊˚✧ [BLADE] ✧˚₊‧

⇢ Regardless if he's dating you or not, Blade is often enough called ''your shadow'', always found standing wordlessly beside you. He might not be the biggest talker, but he's definitely the kind of person that just enjoys - maybe even needs - to be close to you, something anyone with functioning eye sight will notice.

⇢ Since he can canonically drive (which. what the fuck.), I can see him driving you around places whenever you want - something he rarely does for anyone else unless Destiny's Slave demands it. You'll show up wherever he's resting, dramatically tell him that he's your favorite Stellaron Hunter, and he'll instantly know that you want to go for a drive.

⇢ You're one of the only people he allows anywhere near his scars, surprisingly open to letting you touch them and replace his bandages. At first, he'll be extremely tense under your touch, not because he doesn't trust you, but because of the sheer unfamiliarity of the situation.

⇢ When in a relationship, he really isn't the most affectionate or physical, but he found himself quite enjoying holding you in his arms, listening to your breathing or the sound of your heart beating while you rest on his chest. That might be the only physical touch you'll get from him most of the time.

⇢ I want to think his brain short-circuited when you kissed him the first time. Blade seems like the kind of person to just seize to function, a thousand thoughts running through his head and not a single one of them is coherent. Depending on how you headcanon him, I can see him kiss you back with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

⇢ I've mentioned this before, but he's a wildcard when it comes to kissing you, though nowadays I'm more inclined to view him as a gentle lover rather than a ferocious, aggressive, or overly dominant one. He's still the more dominant one most of the time, but the man carries a softness inside himself only you were blessed with meeting.

‧₊˚✧ You were standing in front of your bathroom mirror, a soaked napkin in your hand as you tried to clean the deep cut on your forehead, when you noticed Blade's reflection standing in the doorway behind you, arms crossed as he watched you expressionlessly. ''You know,'' you huffed, wincing whenever you touched your injury, ''You don't have to stand there all ominously. I don't mind your company.'' Blade didn't reply at first, continuing to stare at you for a few more seconds before you saw him shake his head and approach you. Your brows furrowing, you turned around to face him, confusion flitting across your face, ''Is everything alright? Did you need something?'' ''Firefly told me what happened,'' the man muttered, snatching the soaked napkin from your hands without warning before disposing of it and reaching for a clean one, ''You need to be more careful.'' You barely had time to react before he grabbed your chin and tilted your head up, gently tapping the napkin over your wounds. Blinking, it took you a second to process what was happening, your heart skipping a beat at the man's touch, ''I- I know. They caught me off-guard. It was my mistake.'' ''I didn't mean to worry you,'' you added more quietly. Only now did Blade finally lock eyes with you, his movement halting for a split second before he continued cleaning your wound, keeping his expression blank, ''You always worry me, regardless of where you are or what you do.''

‧₊˚✧ [SUNDAY] ✧˚₊‧

⇢ What I need to get off my chest first is that Sunday would definitely write you letters - I mean, this man writes his sister constantly and also used to journal. He wrote you letters even before realizing that he loves you, though you never got to read those.

⇢ The kind of guy that asks you to join him for the smallest stuff. He needs to get something from the post office, do you want to join him? He's taking a break on his balcony, you'd surely want to give him some company, no? Hey, he's planing on doing this thing in his office, would you mind being there so he doesn't get bored?

⇢ You are also among the few people that Sunday fully trusts. When in private, he'll let his guard down completely, on many occasions even asking for your input on official Family matters, or allowing you to help him with his attire and appearance. And yes, he'd let you clean his Halo if necessary..

⇢ He's the type that really just...loves you in such a soft, almost innocent way. The love letters, the blushing/giddiness whenever with you, the gentleness he treats you with, the personal gifts and desire to spend all his time around you. Maybe that's what being a "dreamer" did to him.

⇢ Definitely among the most vocal about his feelings for you - at least after he's finally confessed, which definitely took longer. I imagine him being extremely nervous on the day he confessed, having avoided it for the longest time out of fear how the Family would react, how a confession would affect you, and he was also just terrified that you wouldn't reciprocate his feelings.

⇢ Since I'm over here swooning over this man; kisses you on the lips in the most gentleman-fashion to ever exist. Always wraps an arm around you before kissing you, and its always on the forehead or on the lips - if not even both, one after the other. Also enjoys holding your hand, especially while sitting next to you. Also: Kisses on your palm.

‧₊˚✧ ''I have to admit, this might've been one of my favorite theater performances,'' you hummed, leaning back against the couch as you watched the actors assemble on the stage, your eyes bright. ''I know,'' Sunday chuckled, his arm resting behind you as he spoke, ''I remember you telling me about it a while ago. It did take me some back and forth to organize it, but it was definitely worth it.'' ''Wait, you organized all of this?'' ''I did,'' the man confirmed, meeting your gaze with a smile, ''You seemed a little down these past couple of weeks, and I figured this might be a good way to cheer you up again.'' At a loss for words, you just held his gaze, your mind racing, ''Sunday, you truly didn't have to. I have no idea how to repay you-'' ''I don't want you to repay me,'' he interrupted gently, the rest of the play forgotten as he turned to face you, ''Consider it an early birthday present. Besides, organizing a theater play is the least I can do to show you my gratitude for everything you've done to help me in these past months.'' ''I've barely done anything,'' you were visibly overwhelmed by the generous gesture, sounding almost upset, ''I'd feel horrible accepting this without-'' ''Your happiness is more than enough for me,'' the man reassured you before you could even finish your sentence, stunning you into silence, ''It will always be more than enough for me.''

‧₊˚✧ [AVENTURINE] ✧˚₊‧

⇢ ''His constant smile makes it difficult for people to discern his true feelings'' WRONG. I mean, at least when you get into a relationship with him. I believe, he's actually quite easy to read when he lets his walls down.

⇢ Loves physical touch, definitely. Not necessarily in public or around the IPC, since he wants to protect you from them in any way possible, but in private he'll want to be as close to you as physically possible. There will be hand holding, cuddling, him wanting you to play with his hair, etc.

⇢ He's actually quite talkative, especially after warming up around you/after you've earned his trust. At first, he'll just be sharing random thoughts with you before eventually opening up about his work at the IPC, and then his past. By that point, he trusts you with his entire life.

⇢ Definitely enjoys teaching you different gambling tricks, or how those coin tricks work - not even for the sake of gambling, but because he's mesmerized by how your eyes start to shine when you get excited after successfully coping a trick or winning against him in a round of cards.

⇢ One of those men that's impressed by everything his partner does - he'll be your biggest supporter, really. I've mentioned this in another headcanon post, but he definitely showers you in compliments and praise on top of that. Later, after growing closer to you, those compliments will actually turn quite creative and personal even.

⇢ When he's in a good mood (or trying to distract from something serious), Aventurine's a complete tease as long as he knows you're not bothered by it. The same goes for his kisses at those times - fleeting, leaving you wanting more, catching you off-guard. Though, in more private and intimate settings, he can be surprisingly gentle and affectionate...

‧₊˚✧ ''Is that...my shirt?'' Aventurine's voice drew your attention away from your phone, your eyes widening, making you look like a deer caught in headlights. ''...No?'' well, that was an arguably bad lie, but it was worth a try, wasn't it? You were sitting on your shared bed in one of his black shirts, having grabbed the first top you found while stumbling around the bathroom after a shower, and here you were now, caught red-handed. Aventurine just blinked at you slowly, as if believing your lie for a moment before he shook his head, his previous confusion now replaced by a smirk, ''Aw, did you miss me so much that you had to steal my clothes?'' You watched him approach you with confident steps, excitement making your heart skip a beat as you held his gaze. ''Maybe I did?'' you eventually quipped back, feeling your face grow hot, ''Anything you'd do about it?'' At that, the man's smirk only grew, his eyes never leaving yours as he climbed onto the bed, leaning close enough for you to feel his breath on your face, ''Mhm. Want to find out?''

‧₊˚✧ [MOZE] ✧˚₊‧

⇢ Your personal guard, basically. After growing close to you, people have spotted him across the Yaoqing far more often than before. And while he is fully aware that you don't need his constant protection, he feels a lot better being around you in his free time, mostly since he rarely gets the chance to see you anyways.

⇢ I can see him be someone that loves sparring with you. At first, he'd definitely be a little too rough until he got a grasp of your skill level. After that, he'll teach you as many tricks of his as possible, sparring with you being his favorite way to pass time.

⇢ I've headcanoned Moze to be someone that randomly shows up in your apartment in a textpost before, and I want to pick that up again for this one: Definitely just materializes from the shadows while you're cooking or working on something. At one point, you've grown so used to it that you started preparing dinner for two, or an extra cup of tea for when he interrupts you while you're working.

⇢ Definitely enjoys just...spending time with you. You'll be cooking, preparing dinner while he's cleaning up your place. Sometimes you just stand at the side of the room and watch him in his element, mesmerized by this different side of him. That's also how he grew to trust you so much.

⇢ I feel like even if he'd want to keep your relationship private, he would fail at it horribly. Feixiao and Jiaoqiu definitely know, and they've both teased him (affectionately) for it. He's not embarrassed by his feelings for you, nor does he consider them a weakness or anything. It did take him a while to process them and figure them out, though.

⇢ Not the most affectionate of people, at least in that ''traditional romantic sense'', lol. Quality Time and Acts of Service might be his most common way of showing you that he cares, though he definitely adapts to your love languages, too, and has tried picking up a thing or two from you - his first compliments definitely left you speechless.

‧₊˚✧ ''You're too slow.'' Despite the harsh comment, Moze's voice was surprisingly gentle as he helped you back on his feet, eyes checking you for any injuries, ''You need to work on your reflexes.'' ''So I've noticed,'' you huffed, struggling to catch your breath while he took a step back, ''Maybe you could pipe it down a notch? Go at least a little easier on me?'' Moze didn't visibly react to your words, his expression unreadable, though when you saw him put his dagger away, surprise flitted across your face. ''Have I injured you?'' ''What? No, I'm fine,'' you reassured, dismissing his concerns with a wave of your hand, ''I'm just struggling to keep up with you, that's all.'' Silence settled between you as you watched Moze merely nod, a tinge of guilt settling at the back of your mind, ''I just need a quick break. We can continue after that?'' ''No. You shouldn't push yourself too much,'' the man replied with a shake of his head, making his way past you, ''We can continue this another day.'' But you weren't ready to let him go just yet, trying your best to recall one of his lessons and put it to use in order to keep him from leaving. Yet, before you could even come close to executing your last move, Moze had sensed your intentions, easily sidestepping your attack and outsmarting you in the process. With his face only mere inches away from yours now, you found yourself struggling to breathe, the intensity of his gaze making your knees grow weak. "Still too slow."

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[rubistella]

Use the generator to generate headcanons for your muse and post 5 to 10 results that you agree with!

Astarion does not know what sleep is. Astarion can't handle criticism. Astarion has chronic nightmares. Astarion has been to prison. Astarion sucks at saying tongue twisters. Astarion can kill you in an instant, but wont. Astarion steals other peoples clothes. Astarion sings in the shower. Astarion is a horrible liar. It would not take much for Astarion to turn evil.

yoinked it from @relentlessgrief

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for Sunday, Boothill, Welt, Gallagher, Blade, and Dan Heng react gn s/o who always makes it a habit to tell him that they love him whenever they can like when they wake up, before going to sleep, before they leave, and when they return?

Welt: loves, loves, loves the domesticity of it all.

It never fails in making him smile knowing just how much you love him, so much so it was enough to melt his heart as he smiles softly every time he heard you say it.

For it never gets old for welt and never will as its quite possibly his most favourite thing to hear.

He feels warm, loved and happy knowing you felt so strongly about him to make a habit of letting him know just how much.

‘I love you too my dear.’ Welt would say with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to your forehead. ‘So much.’ He adds fondly as he strokes his thumbs against your cheeks as he looks at you fondly.

‘Not as much as I love you.’ You cheeked as you pressed kisses into his large hands.

‘My dear don’t start something we both know you can’t finish.’ Welt replies with a chuckle.

He didn’t want nor need much in life to be happy. He’s a hopeless romantic and this was the easiest way to his soft, old heart.

Blade:

Not use to it at first.

He grows stiff and doesn’t know what to say in response because it wasn’t everyday someone openly admitted to loving him at any given moment.

So the more you do tell him you love him, the more Blade will grow accustomed to having that one special someone who’s seeing his scars and still looks at him as though he were the most beautiful man in existence.

Someone who loved him unconditionally and wasn’t afraid to show it, whether in public or in private settings.

Sooner or later Blade would become addicted to you saying you love him at any given moment and will sometimes not let go do your until you did tell him you love him.

‘You’ve known what I’ve done and yet you still feel brave enough to admit that you love me?’ He asks.

‘I do,’ you replied, ‘and I don’t regret ever admitting that I love you because if I ever did it’d be a lie. I love you beyond words but am forced to use words because there is no action that could truly convey how much I love you.’

‘Then I hope you don’t live to see the day where you regret saying those three words.’ Blade then said seriously as he keeps you close.

‘I won’t.’ You assured him and all he could do in response was chuckle humourlessly and say. ‘Don’t make promises to someone you’ll later regret giving ownership of your heart.’

Sunday:

It’s like music to his ears.

It’s all he wants to hear from you and now he has it, he felt as though he had everything he could possibly want.

He’s selfish with your love and wants it all directed towards him, and so to hear you admit your love for him at every possible opportunity makes him feel more entitled to you and your love.

He don’t want you uttering those words to anyone else other than him for the rest of your life together.

‘Say it again.’ He’d say.

‘I love you.’ You reply.

‘Again.’ He then says with a look in his eye.

‘I love you.’ You reply once more.

‘Good.’ Was all he said before he’d go on about his day.

He often wouldn’t let you leave until you’ve told him you loved him enough to satisfy his own greedy desires.

Dan Heng:

Blushy baby who loves gets all weak in the knees when you say you love him whenever you could.

He can’t look you in the eyes the first time you said it because it took him aback that badly.

Now however Dan Heng only smiles and lightly blushes as he scratched the tip of his nose.

You’ve still got a strong effect over him and he knows that you’ll be the death of him one day with your sweet words and affection. He swears upon this.

He could be doing something a simple as reading a book and you’ll come along, sit on his lap and rest your head against his chest only to casually say that you love him; causing him to go rigid as you could obviously hear his heart go at a million miles an hour.

He swore you got a thrill out of his reactions and seeing him caught unawares, he just knew you did but he couldn’t help but love you for brining light and unexpected joy into his life.

Boothill:

Can’t stop smiling whenever you tell him you love him.

‘Really sugar? You mean it?’ He’d ask.

‘Of course I mean it Boothill, why would I say something I don’t mean?’ You replied.

‘Never mind, just say it once more for your handsome boy?’ He’d try to the quickly change the subject with a smile.

He just doesn’t see what was there to love about him at all but he feared that if he brought this up to you then he was questioning your genuine feelings for him, which wasn’t what he wanted.

He knows you adore him to death but he doesn’t understand what appeal he has going for him when 90% of him was unfeeling metal, and the only part of him that could feel was his face.

It was something that he frequently felt invalidate about, but hearing you say you love him gives him a semblance of confidence that he had been missing after getting his new body.

He needed someone to look at him and think he was beautiful, handsome and above all a sweet soul and that’s what you did, but you also did so much more for him then anyone else had and he didn’t want to throw all of that away because he felt as though he wasn’t worth you.

Gallagher:

Enjoys the moment as much as he possibly can.

Acts like he didn’t hear you the first time when he did just because he wants to hear you say ‘I love you’ in that heavenly voice of yours.

‘Don’t think I caught that one, this old dog doesn’t hear as well as he use to.’ He says with a cheeky smile.

‘Of course he doesn’t.’ You scoffed before continuing. ‘I love you, you old dog.’

Gallagher smiles sleepily as he brings you into his chest for an extra five minute nap. ‘Love you too, you punk.’ He said affectionately.

He loves the moments where it’s just you and him, living in your own little fantasy where no one else besides you two exist, and drinking in the love and how happy you made each other without really even trying.

He loves how playful you can get, how serious you can get with it and for it to always end in you saying ‘I love you.’ A hundred percent of the time.

And Gallagher would love nothing more then to hear you say if a hundred times more in the future.

[whispering-about-the-tmnt]

Some headcanons regarding TMNT physiology

Over the years, I have come up with some headcanons regarding how I believe the Ninja Turtles' bodies work. I thought that perhaps it might be nice to finally share them with all of you.

These don't apply to all the iterations, of course, but they are pretty well universal in my mind, and I tend to incorporate most of them into my fanfics.

The Turtles (like leatherback sea turtles, echidnas, and some dinosaurs) are mesotherms, meaning they are neither warm nor cold blooded. They are, instead, in a middle-ground: they internally generate heat, but not to a constant temperature. In the Turtles' case, they will shiver when cold, and their bodies will not shut down right away when the temperature dips too low, though they may lose some energy and find it hard to concentrate.

Unlike many other modern reptiles and amphibians, who have a three-chambered heart, the Turtles have four-chambered hearts (like mammals and dinosaurs) that are larger and stronger than average human hearts and located at the center of their chests.

While the average human blood capacity is around five liters, the Turtles have about seven. Much of the blood flows under the shell -- a remnant of their lives as ordinary turtles, whose own blood does so in order to warm them when they bask. This means that the Turtles could lose close to three liters of blood before dying, while a human would only be able to lose two.

Their blood is also highly efficient at clotting, but that also means that storing blood for transfusions is difficult, and so must be directly transfused from one turtle to another in emergency situations.

Owing to their extensive circulatory system, they also have a larger lung capacity than humans and more oxygen-rich blood, and so are able to hold their breath for extended periods of time without adverse effects. Other than this, the Turtles' respiratory system is very much like humans', utilizing a diaphragm to inflate and deflate their lungs.

Like regular turtles, they do not have ribs, but rather their carapaces and plastrons serve that purpose, and they have muscles under their shells that keep their internal organs right where they belong.

Also like regular turtles, their spines curve along the insides of their shells. A direct hit on the center of their shells, then, could cause damage to their spinal column and nervous system, but fortunately their vertebral shields offer a fair amount of protection, so it would take quite an impact.

The Turtles are highly resistant to most infections and diseases, which increases their immunological responses. They do not get sick easily, and they recover quickly.

While their scales are not apparent, they are integrated into their skin, making it tougher than human skin. It takes a very hard hit to raise a bruise, and it is difficult to cut through without a very sharp or pointed blade.

Their bones are similar to humans, but are more resistant to breaking. They also heal quicker and stronger if they are broken.

Their muscles are also very close to human-like, but they are stronger than an average human due to compensating for the extra weight they carry in their shells. Because of this, their ligaments and tendons are also tougher, and it is difficult for them to have a joint dislocated.

Their sense of smell is more acute than humans, but not to an extreme degree. They are also not as bothered by foul smells (though this has more to do with living in a sewer than their physiology).

Their eyes are a bit tougher and more resistant to damage than human eyes due to a protective membrane that covers them. They see a bit better than humans in dark places and underwater.

Their hearing is somewhat more attuned to lower frequencies than human hearing, and is not dependent on external ears but rather an internal auditory system (making direct damage to their hearing unlikely).

They are capable of being knocked unconscious, but it takes a significant impact. Permanent or lingering damage to their brains is unlikely due to their structure, and so they also do not tend to suffer the same side-effects that humans would in the same circumstances (nausea, memory loss, etc.).

Although their nutritional needs are similar to humans, they do not need to eat every day, and in fact can get by quite well without food for a week if necessary (though they won't enjoy it). When food is readily available, however, they will eat as much as possible to store up energy. Their metabolism does not slow down when they do not eat, so overexerting themselves when they haven't had any food for a while can burn them out suddenly.

Their sleep schedules are much like most diurnal animals, though they are able to stay awake for extended periods of time and can get by on little sleep, if necessary. There have been times when they have been awake for days on end, getting by on short one hour naps here and there. In general, though, they like to have a regular sleep/wake cycle.

Like other reptiles, the Turtles never stop growing throughout their lifetimes; however their growth is slow, topping off at about 1-2 inches every five years.

Does anyone have anything they would like to add to the list? I actually had fun compiling it!

[aventurineswife]

Your lips, my lips, apocalypse

Synopsis: How would they kiss you?

Tags: Headcanons, Kisses, Intimate Moments, Emotional Connections, Fluff and Comfort, Affectionate Gestures, Playful Interactions, Vulnerability, Established Relationship.

Blade

Blade’s kisses are intense and deliberate, like he’s trying to etch the moment into his memory forever.

His touch is both soft and firm, a paradox of the broken man he’s become. His lips are warm despite the coldness he often exudes.

He kisses with a sense of finality, as if each kiss could be the last. There’s a lingering sadness, but also deep passion behind it.

He pulls you close, his body shielding you, as if he’s protecting you from the world for just a brief moment.

After kissing you, Blade stays silent, resting his forehead against yours as if words are unnecessary, the moment speaks for itself.

Sampo Koski

Sampo’s kisses are playful and mischievous, often accompanied by a teasing remark or a sly grin just before his lips meet yours.

He likes to catch you off-guard, pulling you into his arms unexpectedly, only to steal a quick, light kiss before pulling back with a wink.

Despite his carefree attitude, there’s a tenderness to his kisses when he’s in a more genuine mood, as if he’s trying to show you a side of him he doesn’t often reveal.

He’s the type to playfully kiss your cheek or forehead before moving to your lips, always making the moment feel fun and exciting.

When he kisses you, it’s often part of a bigger plan—Sampo loves to mix affection with mischief, so a kiss could be followed by some scheme of his.

Gepard Landau

Gepard kisses you with the same sense of honor and care he puts into his duties—slow, intentional, and filled with meaning.

He prefers to cup your face gently in his hands when he kisses you, making sure you know you’re his priority in that moment.

There’s a sweetness to his kisses, and he often hesitates slightly, as if wanting to ensure he’s expressing the depth of his feelings properly.

His kisses can be protective, especially when he feels you’re in danger or stressed—his way of grounding you in his presence and safety.

After a kiss, Gepard often looks into your eyes with a soft, reassuring smile, as if promising that he’ll always be there to protect you.

Aventurine

Aventurine’s kisses are daring and confident, as if he’s placing a high-stakes bet with each one, always certain of the outcome.

He often initiates kisses with a smirk, pulling you close with an air of playful arrogance, fully expecting you to give in to his charms.

There’s a calculated passion in his kisses—he’s always aware of your reactions, adjusting his approach to elicit exactly what he wants from you.

He enjoys the thrill of keeping you on your toes, often teasingly hovering close before sealing the kiss, making you anticipate the moment.

Despite his risk-taker persona, there’s a gentleness hidden beneath the surface, especially when he feels vulnerable, and in those moments, his kisses are slower, more heartfelt.

Sunday

Sunday’s kisses feel almost ethereal, as if you’re sharing something divine. His lips are soft, and he always kisses you with reverence, like you’re someone sacred to him.

He tends to be methodical, brushing his fingers through your hair or caressing your cheek before leaning in, his golden eyes locking onto yours.

His kisses carry a sense of calm and comfort, like he’s taking you away from the harshness of the world and into his serene, idealized dream.

There’s a hint of melancholy in his kisses, as though he’s expressing the part of him that wishes to protect you from life’s suffering, even if it means trapping you in a dream.

After a kiss, he often lingers close, his forehead resting against yours, silently conveying his wish for you to share in his peaceful, perfect world.

[abbotjack]

⠀˖⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀⠀JACK ABBOT TATTOO HEADCANON (wc : 1757) ˖ ✦⠀

Jack Abbot has one tattoo.

It covers nearly his entire back — thick black ink pressed deep into the skin, running from the base of his neck down the length of his spine. A gothic cross, built wide across the shoulders and heavy through the middle, the lines rough-edged from the start. Not sloppy — just deliberate. Meant to hold. Meant to last.

Behind it, broad wings stretch low and battered across the blades of his shoulders. No soaring angles. No graceful lift. The wings look like they've been dragged through hell and stayed standing anyway, snapped at the ends where scars have broken the ink, feathers ragged, blackening into the burn-scored skin.

It isn't a decoration.

It isn’t a statement.

It’s a brand.

It’s a map of a man stitched together out of survival and failure and the kind of duty no amount of discharge papers can strip out.

He got the cross first.

Late 2003. Afghanistan.

Jack had just finished his first back-to-back rotation.

He was twenty-seven and already carried himself like someone older — shoulders squared against the weight of shit he didn’t have the time or the luxury to process.

He wasn’t a grunt, not exactly.

Combat medics never are.

His job was to keep people alive long enough to die somewhere cleaner.

Tourniquets. Decompressions. Chest tubes jammed through ribs slick with blood and dirt. Dragging men out of wrecked Humvees with their legs hanging by threads. Holding arteries shut with bare hands. Telling men who knew better that they were going to be alright even when Jack could already see it in their eyes — the knowing.

When they died, Jack made sure the bodies went home right.

Flagged caskets. Dusty salutes on the tarmac. Honor, at least, if nothing else.

But what nobody told you was what stayed behind — the blood that didn’t wash out of the sandbags. The personal effects that never made it onto the inventory lists. The things they never trained you to carry.

He didn’t go out drinking with the others when they got home.

Didn’t crash motorcycles or get in bar fights trying to feel something.

Didn’t call his family, not even once.

Didn’t tell them he was back.

Instead, he drove forty miles outside of Columbus, Georgia in the middle of the night, past the closed gas stations and darkened diners, until he found the place someone in his unit told him about — a concrete block of a tattoo shop, all flickering neon and cracked windows.

The artist was an older guy. Ex-infantry. The kind of man who looked Jack over once and didn’t say anything stupid like, “You sure about this?”

Jack stripped off his jacket. Turned his back to the counter.

Said, flat and unflinching: "Cross. Centered. Big."

That was it.

No explanation.

He sat down in the chair and took the pain without a flinch, the buzz of the machine burning low into his bones.

Three hours.

No breaks.

When it was done, Jack paid cash and walked out without glancing at the mirror.

He didn’t need to see it.

He already knew it was there.

For a while, the cross was enough.

It wasn't about God. Jack stopped believing in anything higher than the people bleeding out in front of him years ago.

The cross was a mark. A ledger.

The weight of every body he couldn’t save.

Every face he couldn't scrub out of memory.

Every time he held pressure over a bleeding chest and knew it wouldn’t be enough but stayed there anyway because you don’t let go until someone else makes you.

The cross is the line between standing and falling.

Between duty and despair.

It’s what he chose when he realized coming home didn’t mean coming back clean.

A reminder that there are weights you carry even when nobody else sees them.

He didn't talk about it.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t even think about it most days — the way you don’t think about breathing when you’ve done it long enough.

It just was.

Then Iraq happened. 2005.

Jack had been attached to a mechanized unit, running convoys through streets that changed loyalty every two hours.

He wasn't supposed to be in the blast radius.

Wasn't supposed to be on that street at all.

But orders change, radios go silent, and Jack went where he always went — where the bleeding was loudest.

The explosion ripped through the front of the convoy, tossing the first Humvee into the air like a kicked can and sending debris raining down onto the asphalt. Jack was moving before the dust even cleared, tourniquets slapping onto stumps, IVs jammed into collapsing veins, adrenaline and muscle memory dragging him forward.

He didn’t make it out clean.

He doesn’t remember the blast that took his leg.

Just waking up in a field hospital in Baghdad, throat raw, leg missing below the knee, an unfamiliar medic looking down at him and saying:

"You're still here."

Like that meant something.

Recovery was hell. Not because of the pain.

Jack could take pain.

It was the slowness that killed him — the waiting, the crawling pace of days stacking up like bodies you couldn’t bury.

Learning how to walk again wasn’t heroic.

It was survival, stripped down to its ugliest parts.

He got his prosthetic.

Did the work.

Moved forward.

Because there was nothing else.

When he was cleared to leave, Jack didn’t go home.

He went back to the shop.

Same cracked concrete. Same flickering neon.

Different guy behind the counter this time — younger, trying too hard to look tough.

Jack didn’t explain anything.

He pulled off his shirt.

Turned his back.

Pointed once at the black cross burned into his spine and said, voice low: "Add wings. Heavy ones."

No more words.

The artist didn’t ask what kind. Didn’t offer designs.

He just nodded, pulled on gloves, and started building them straight into the skin.

The machine buzzed steady over old scar tissue, dragging new lines over broken skin.

Jack sat through the whole thing in silence.

No grimacing.

No posturing.

No fucking catharsis.

Just pain.

Real. Clean. Useful.

They spread low across his shoulders, broken at the ends, snapped where the ink drags over old shrapnel scars.

They aren’t wings built for flight.

They’re built for burden.

Jack never wanted to soar.

Never wanted to be lifted out of the dirt and the blood and the endless fucking work of keeping people alive long enough to break again.

The wings carry weight.

The wings remind him — every time the prosthetic clicks against the tile, every time he feels the stitch of old wounds under new movements — that some things you don’t escape.

Some things you live with, whether you want to or not.

When it was done, Jack pulled his shirt back on and left.

Now, twenty years later, the ink rides over every scar the surgeons couldn’t smooth out.

The cross still holds fast over his spine.

The wings still stretch wide across his back, battered and blackened, torn at the edges by old shrapnel wounds and skin grafts.

He never touched it up.

Never will.

The breaks are the point.

The fact that it held together — not perfectly, but still standing — matters more than any clean line ever could.

Nobody at the Pitt sees it.

Not unless they catch him stripped down in the locker room after a shift gone bad — the kind where blood stains deep into the seams of his scrubs and there’s no pretending you can just walk out without washing it off.

Not unless they’re careless enough, stupid enough, to glance over at the wrong moment — when Jack pulls his top over his head with the sharp economy of a man who doesn't waste movement, exposing the thick black lines burned into the wreck of his back.

Even then, most of them don’t realize what they’re seeing.

They look away fast.

Learn not to ask.

Jack doesn’t invite questions.

He doesn’t offer answers.

He peels the ruined scrub top off, tosses it into the biohazard bin, and steps into the biting rush of the locker room shower — washing off blood that isn’t his, wounds he can’t name, losses too old to mourn.

The water stings where the skin splits open again along old scar lines, where the ink feathers into the broken places, but Jack doesn't flinch.

Pain is familiar.

Pain is simple.

He scrubs until the pink water runs clear.

Pulls on clean black scrubs with his back turned to the rest of the room, working around the ache in his knee, the stubborn old prosthetic that never fits quite right when the humidity climbs high.

The tattoo isn’t about grief.

It isn’t about forgiveness.

It isn’t about the dead.

It’s about what you bear when no one else will.

It’s about standing up when every goddamn inch of you has been telling you to stay down.

It’s about the blood you wash off and the blood that stays under your skin no matter how many times you scrub.

It’s about the debt you can’t ever pay back because there’s no one left to take the payment.

It’s about surviving when surviving means dragging the dead with you — not out of guilt, not out of penance, but because it’s what they deserve.

Because they deserved someone to remember.

And Jack remembers.

He remembers every tourniquet that slipped under his fingers.

Every heartbeat that flatlined under his palms.

Every name he never let himself learn because it was easier to bury strangers than brothers.

He carries them all.

Quiet. Heavy. Without complaint.

The tattoo rides the same way.

Not a badge. Not a wound. Not a plea for understanding. Just a part of him. Fixed in the bone. Written into muscle and scar tissue.

Same as the limp he pretends isn’t there.

Same as the uneven thud of his boot against the tile — a sound no one dares to call out.

Same as the empty silences he leaves between sentences, where everything real still lives.

Jack carries it.

Has carried it for twenty years.

Will carry it for twenty more if that’s what’s asked of him.

Without complaint.

Without prayer.

Without hope.

Because that's what you do when the cost isn’t yours to decide. When you survive and you shouldn’t have.

You carry it.

You stand up.

You move forward.

And you never, ever forget.

Even when the rest of the world does.

[aspenmissing]

Can I request headcanons for Karlach, Gale, Halsin, Astarion, poly Gale & Astarion, and poly Astarion & Halsin flustering her/his/their shy female s/o by showering her with kisses because she absolutely loves it but she's always feel extra bashful afterwards please?

ᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ

ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ | ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ | ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ | ɢᴀʟᴇ | ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ/ɢᴀʟᴇ | ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ/ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 4692 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ! ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴀꜱᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ | ᴋᴀʀʟᴀᴄʜ | ʜᴀʟꜱɪɴ | ɢᴀʟᴇ

ASTARION

The fire crackled softly, casting a golden glow on the mossy rocks and worn leather bedrolls. Shadows danced on nearby trees like slow-moving ghosts, and the occasional breeze carried the scent of pine needles and smoldering embers. The night was calm—a rare, precious gift after a day marked by bloodshed and the screaming of the dying.

The others had drifted off to their corners of camp, either asleep or feigning it. Gale was mumbling in his sleep again, something about “Weave compatibility,” while Karlach’s snores rolled through the clearing like distant thunder. Shadowheart sat in her tent, quietly reading. Lae’zel had long since retreated to sharpen her blade—or her temper.

But not you. And certainly not Astarion.

You sat beside him near the fire, your knees drawn up, your hair slightly damp from a hasty rinse in the river. The ends curled softly in the heat. You’d just finished recounting a particularly mortifying story from your childhood—one Astarion had insisted on hearing, after expertly needling you into it with those teasing eyes and that unbearably smug smile.

“Oh gods,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as the final detail slipped from your lips like a death sentence. “Why did I tell you that?”

Astarion let out a delighted laugh, sharp and musical, like chimes caught in a summer wind. It made your heart stutter, every time.

“My dear, that was positively adorable,” he cooed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Who knew the mighty, fearsome warrior of our little troupe once got her foot stuck in a pumpkin of all things?”

“Please,” you moaned, voice muffled by your hands. “Let me melt into the ground now.”

“But if you do,” he said, scooting closer, “how will I keep you all to myself?”

You peeked through your fingers to find him already far too close, the firelight reflecting off his pale skin like moonlight on silk. Instead of mocking you further, Astarion did something worse—far worse.

He reached out, gently taking your wrists in his cool hands, and pried your hands away from your face. His touch was light, reverent, as though you might vanish at the slightest protest. When your gaze met his, you forgot how to breathe for a moment.

“I simply can’t resist you when you’re like this,” he purred, his voice dropping into that dangerous velvet register. “All pink in the cheeks, lips twitching, trying so hard not to smile…”

“Astarion—” you warned, though it lacked any real conviction.

His lips brushed your forehead.

You froze, the warmth of the kiss blooming through you like wine in your veins.

Then he kissed your temple. Your breath caught.

Another kiss landed on your cheek. Then another. Then another. Quick, soft pecks. Featherlight. Mischievous. His mouth moved like a whisper across your skin, never lingering, always chasing the places you didn’t know you needed to feel.

He was grinning now, and your face burned hotter than the fire.

“A-Astarion!” you squeaked, trying to twist away, though the attempt was more symbolic than sincere. “You’re doing that thing again—”

“Oh? You mean the thing where I absolutely shower you with affection?” He captured your hands again, bringing them to his lips. He kissed each knuckle slowly, as if savoring the taste of your skin, like royalty or a relic. “Guilty as charged.”

You whined, half-laughing, half-mortified, your face so hot you could have sworn it was glowing. “You’re awful.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected smoothly, trailing his kisses down your wrist. “And—what was it?—irresistible? Wasn’t that what you called me the other night after your fourth glass of wine?”

“That was the wine talking,” you mumbled, hiding behind your free hand again.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, brushing his lips up your arm now, slow and lazy, “but you’ve never needed wine to look at me like I hung the stars.”

You peeked at him through your fingers again, flushed and trembling and melting in equal parts. “You said there was a secret.”

He raised an infuriating brow, smug as the devil. “Ah, yes. A little secret I’ve discovered about you.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “You love it when I do this.”

Your hands dropped to your lap, betrayed by your own curiosity. “...Do not.”

“Oh, really?” His eyes gleamed, and before you could think of a rebuttal, he began peppering kisses along your jawline. One, two, three—pausing only to smirk against your skin as you squirmed in his grasp.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice like silk dragging across bare skin.

You bit your lip, eyes squeezed shut, and tried very hard not to giggle. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, “you still haven’t stopped me.”

“I’m trying to hold onto some dignity,” you mumbled, voice featherlight and almost pleading.

“Darling,” he chuckled, pressing his forehead to yours, “I stole your dignity days ago. Right after you told me you dreamed of me feeding you grapes on a velvet couch.”

Your eyes flew open. “That was one time!”

“And a delicious detail it was,” he purred, all mischief and moonlight.

Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his lap. You landed against his chest with a soft yelp, and he held you there with startling gentleness.

“You’re far too precious,” he whispered, the tone of his voice suddenly shifting—less teasing now, more reverent. “Every time you blush, I swear my unbeating heart stirs.”

You buried your face in his shoulder with a muffled groan. “You are the worst.”

“And you,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple again, “are mine.”

The silence that followed was warm and heavy, broken only by the fire’s lullaby and the soft beating of your heart against his. He ran his fingers slowly along your spine, his other hand gently cradling the back of your head as though holding a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

You stayed like that, tangled in moonlight and warmth, your heart thudding embarrassingly loud in your chest while his lips found the soft spot just below your ear, the place that made your breath hitch every time.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

You never really meant it when you did.

KARLACH

The lake glittered under the afternoon sun, each ripple catching the light like a tossed coin. Wildflowers lined the grassy shore, and dragonflies skimmed lazily across the surface of the water. It was quiet—peaceful in a way the road rarely allowed. No shouting. No blades clashing. Just the hush of the breeze and the gentle lapping of water against smooth stones.

Y/N sat in the grass a few feet from the shoreline, boots kicked off and legs tucked beneath her. She ran her fingers absently through her damp hair, tugging out little knots and brushing dried blood from the ends. The fight earlier in the day hadn’t been bad, but it had been enough to leave her nerves buzzing, heart still trying to decide whether to calm down or stay on edge.

A shadow fell over her.

She looked up just in time to see Karlach grinning—wide, radiant, and slightly mischievous.

Before she could react, strong arms swooped down and lifted her off the ground.

“Karlach—!” Y/N yelped, flailing a little as she was hauled effortlessly into the barbarian’s lap.

Karlach plopped them both back into the soft grass with a huff of laughter. “There she is,” she said, nuzzling into Y/N’s shoulder like a happy bear. “My favourite girl.”

Y/N covered her face with both hands, already blushing furiously. “You can’t just—pick me up like that out of nowhere…”

Karlach leaned in, her voice warm and teasing in Y/N’s ear. “Pretty sure I just did.”

Y/N groaned softly, trying to hide in her own sleeves.

“Stop it,” she muttered, the words utterly devoid of conviction.

“Stop what?” Karlach asked innocently. “Showering my adorable girlfriend with affection?” She punctuated it with a kiss just below Y/N’s ear, then her jaw, her cheek, her temple—soft, rapid-fire kisses that made Y/N squirm and gasp with every one.

“Karlach—!” she half-laughed, half-whined, trying to duck away. “You’re not being fair!”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not trying to be fair.”

Before Y/N could wriggle out of her grasp, Karlach leaned them both back into the grass, rolling until she hovered above her. She braced herself on one arm while the other gently cupped Y/N’s flushed face, thumb brushing lightly against her cheek.

Pinned beneath her, Y/N looked up with wide, dazed eyes, the sky a perfect summer blue above Karlach’s silhouette.

The cold press of Karlach’s infernal engine brushed against Y/N’s stomach, barely felt through the fabric of her tunic—but it was the heat in Karlach’s eyes that made her breath catch.

“Look at you,” Karlach murmured, grinning down at her. “You’re blushing so hard I think the sun’s getting jealous.”

“D-Don’t say stuff like that,” Y/N stammered, covering her face with both hands again. “It’s embarrassing…”

Karlach chuckled low in her throat, eyes crinkling. She bent down and gently pried one of Y/N’s hands away, pressing a lingering kiss to the centre of her palm. “You love it,” she said smugly.

Y/N shook her head stubbornly, lips pursed into something between a pout and a bashful smile. “N-No I don’t.”

“Oh really?” Karlach grinned and kissed her nose. “Then what’s this?” A kiss to her cheek. “And this?” Another to the tip of her chin. “And this one right—here.”

A slow, soft kiss to Y/N’s lips shut her up entirely.

Y/N let out a tiny, startled noise, one hand curling into Karlach’s shirt like an anchor. She was melting—absolutely melting. Her thoughts turned to mist, her whole body tingling in the warm sunlight and the weight of the woman above her.

Karlach pulled back just enough to brush their foreheads together.

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered,” she whispered. “Like, devastatingly cute. I might never recover.”

Y/N made a soft, strangled sound, now covering her face again with both hands and mumbling something incoherent.

Karlach laughed again, a real belly laugh that rumbled through her chest. She leaned in, nuzzling against Y/N’s neck with exaggerated affection, nose scrunching up like a big, overgrown puppy.

“Okay,” she whispered dramatically. “I’m gonna keep kissing you until you admit you love it. No escape. This is your life now.”

Y/N peeked between her fingers, still bright red, voice muffled. “…Maybe just one more.”

Karlach froze. Then slowly, that grin returned, wide and unstoppable. “Oh, baby,” she said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea what you just unleashed.”

And with that, she kissed her again—slow, deep, sun-drenched—and didn’t stop for a very long time.

GALE

You were quietly reading by the campfire, the flickering flames casting warm, golden shadows across Gale’s face as he watched you with that familiar, soft smile that always made your heart flutter. The crackling fire filled the night air with a comforting rhythm, and for a while, nothing else mattered but the simple pleasure of being together.

You loved moments like these—peaceful, simple, shared.

The book in your hands slipped a little as you caught Gale’s gaze lingering on you, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. He looked almost… mesmerized. You smiled softly and glanced up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Before you could say a word, Gale leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

Your breath hitched, cheeks flushing a deep rose as a surge of warmth spread through you.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, voice low and tender, almost a secret meant just for you.

You swallowed, heart pounding, but before you could respond, his lips trailed down your cheek, slow and featherlight, teasing the sensitive skin beneath your eye. Then came the tip of your nose, which he nuzzled playfully.

You instinctively tried to pull back, eyes sparkling with laughter, but suddenly a shimmer of sparkling blue magic flickered around your wrists and ankles—a delicate yet firm Hold Person spell.

“Gale! What—?” you giggled, caught between surprise and amusement as you realized you were frozen in place.

He grinned like a mischievous child, eyes twinkling with delight. “Just a little spell to keep my favourite person still. I want to make sure I can show you exactly how much I adore you without you running away.”

Your cheeks burned hotter, both from the magic and the affection radiating off him in waves.

His hands cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as he leaned closer, lips capturing yours in a soft, insistent kiss. The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you—firelight flickering, your breaths mingling, and the steady beating of your hearts.

He pulled back just enough to pepper a dozen little kisses along your jawline and down to your collarbone, each one igniting tiny sparks beneath your skin. You sighed against him, body melting, heart pounding so hard you feared it might burst free.

When he finally released the spell, your limbs tingled, freed but reluctant to move. You instinctively tried to pull away, cheeks flushed a bright crimson, voice barely above a whisper.

“Gale… you’re… you’re impossible.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and deep, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a tender touch. “Only for you,” he replied softly.

You hid your face against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calm your own racing pulse. The moment felt infinite—intimate and perfect.

“More kisses?” you dared to ask, still shy but secretly hoping, your voice trembling with a bashful excitement.

Gale’s smile deepened, eyes shining with affection and a hint of playful mischief. “Always.”

Without hesitation, his lips found yours again—gentle, lingering, and utterly full of love. You laughed softly between kisses, the bashfulness melting away into pure, happy contentment.

When at last you pulled back, breathless and flushed, Gale tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and whispered, “You make me feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smiled shyly, fingers threading through his. “And you make me feel like I’m the most loved.”

He leaned in once more, a single tender kiss pressed to your forehead before resting his cheek against yours. The fire crackled on, but you barely noticed — because in that moment, nothing else existed but the warmth of his love and the sweetness of his kisses.

HALSIN

The forest around you was alive with the soft sounds of rustling leaves and distant birdcalls, but your focus was entirely on the steady, quick rhythm of your own heartbeat as you darted between the towering oaks. The air was cool and crisp, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth—a scent that grounded you even as adrenaline surged through your veins and made your pulse race with excitement.

Your feet barely made a sound against the thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves, your movements light and fluid beneath the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. You weren’t running from danger—far from it. This was a game, a chase woven from laughter and shared moments, something wild and free that you cherished more than you could say.

Glancing behind you, just once, you caught sight of a familiar figure moving effortlessly through the trees. His amber eyes glinted with something playful, something warm that made your breath hitch and a smile tug at your lips despite yourself.

He was gaining on you fast, closing the distance with sure, steady strides that never broke the rhythm of the chase. You knew, without a doubt, that he could catch you whenever he wished—but the thrill was in the trying, in the momentary hope of escape.

You pushed yourself harder, laughter bubbling from your lips like a melody, light and bright as the sunbeams around you. Branches brushed against your arms, leaves tickled your skin, and your hair danced wildly around your face. Your heart soared, not from fear, but from the joy of being alive and being seen.

Just as you thought you might slip away—just as the soft whisper of victory brushed your mind—a rush of warm air brushed past your cheek. Before you could turn your head fully, strong arms wrapped gently but firmly around you, pulling you down onto the soft moss with careful ease.

You landed in a tangled heap, breath leaving you in a startled gasp as the world shifted beneath you. For a moment, all you could see were those warm amber eyes—bright, amused, sparkling with quiet delight—hovering just inches from your face.

A faint, tender smile played on his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. His touch was soft and reverent, like he was handling something precious, something delicate and dear.

“You thought you could outrun me?” The words came then, low and teasing, but you hadn’t even realized he’d spoken until you heard the rich rumble of his voice. It was a sound that sent a shiver down your spine, warm and comforting all at once.

Your cheeks burned as you struggled to meet his gaze, feeling utterly exposed and wonderfully vulnerable beneath the intensity of his eyes. “I… I wasn’t running away,” you said quickly, your voice trembling despite your best effort to sound casual and composed.

His smile widened, slow and affectionate, the kind of smile that made your heart flutter and your knees go weak. Before you could even find the words to respond, he leaned down, his breath warm against your skin. A gentle kiss pressed to your temple, soft and tender as the caress of a summer breeze.

Then another—softer still—landing on your cheek like a whispered secret meant only for you.

You barely had time to breathe before his lips found your jawline, each kiss slow, deliberate, like a promise held close and treasured. Your eyes fluttered closed, heart swelling with a blissful warmth that bloomed through every fiber of your being, a feeling that words could never quite capture.

When he finally pulled back, the flush in your cheeks deepened, and your breath came faster, uneven and shallow.

His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, tracing a path so gentle it was almost a question. He caught your shy smile, his own amusement and tenderness shining through like the golden light filtering through the trees.

“You really do love this, don’t you?” His voice was barely more than a murmur, teasing yet filled with something softer, something entirely his own.

You bit your lip, cheeks aflame, trying—and failing—to hide just how flustered you were beneath his gaze. “Maybe…” you whispered, voice soft, almost shy, the tiniest smile playing at your lips.

A quiet chuckle rumbled from deep within his chest as he tucked a stray curl behind your ear with delicate care. “Good,” he said simply, eyes gleaming with warmth and affection. “Because I’m not done yet.”

And then, with a final, lingering kiss pressed to your lips—slow, sweet, and full of quiet adoration—he wrapped you in a gentle embrace, holding you close beneath the ancient trees, the forest around you seeming to hold its breath in reverence to the moment.

You rested your forehead against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your skin, your own pulse still racing. Whispering breathlessly, you said, “Next time… I’m not running.”

He smiled against your hair, his voice low and certain, like a vow and a promise all at once. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

GALE / ASTARION

The dappled sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of ancient trees, casting warm golden patches on the mossy ground beneath your feet. The forest was alive with quiet sounds—the distant call of a bird, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, and somewhere nearby, a brook babbled in a soothing murmur. The air was crisp and fresh, filled with the scent of pine and wildflowers, grounding you in this peaceful moment far from the chaos of the road.

You, Gale, and Astarion had just finished dealing with a particularly troublesome patrol of goblins that had been harassing the trade routes. The fight had been swift but exhausting, and now you had a moment to catch your breath. The tension in your muscles began to ease as you sank down onto a smooth, sun-warmed stone, letting the soothing quiet wash over you.

Gale came to sit beside you, his presence steady and calming. His eyes, filled with that familiar blend of kindness and admiration, softened as he looked at you. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “You fought admirably,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, a tenderness threading through every word.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. Before you could respond, a shadow shifted nearby, and Astarion stepped forward from where he’d been lounging on a fallen log, his usual roguish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. “And it seems our dear is as fierce as ever,” he added, his tone teasing but genuine.

Your blush deepened, cheeks flaming like embers as you tried to suppress a shy laugh. But before you could protest or deflect their praise, Gale leaned in gently, closing the small distance between you, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. The warmth of his lips sent an immediate shiver through you, as if a current of electricity had sparked beneath your skin.

No sooner had Gale pulled back than Astarion slid down from the log with catlike grace and closed in on your other side. His lips brushed lightly against your cheek in a feather-light kiss, his breath warm and scented faintly of herbs and danger. “We do enjoy reminding you how much you’re adored,” he whispered, his voice a velvet caress that made your heart hammer wildly in your chest.

Your pulse raced as two pairs of lips lavished you with affection, each kiss feather-soft but charged with promise. Gale’s hands settled on your shoulders, steady and grounding, while Astarion’s fingers traced delicate, teasing circles along your forearm, sending delightful sparks of pleasure radiating beneath your skin.

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, savouring the sensation. When you opened them again, both men were watching you intently—Gale with that warm, open expression, and Astarion with a playful, almost triumphant gleam in his gaze.

You felt like you might melt where you sat, cheeks flushed with a deep rosy hue, lips parted slightly as if trying to find the words that seemed just out of reach. Instead, all you managed was a soft, breathless whisper. “You’re both impossible…”

Gale chuckled quietly, reaching up to brush his thumb lightly over your flushed cheek, the touch gentle and tender. “Only for you,” he said, voice thick with affection.

Astarion’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with unrestrained delight. “And we both rather enjoy making you this adorable,” he added, his tone teasing but filled with warmth.

You couldn’t help but glance up at them, heart swelling with something fierce and sweet all at once, warmth spreading through your entire being like sunlight on a cool morning. You bit your lip, voice shy but daring as it barely escaped your throat. “Well… maybe don’t stop, then.”

At that, Gale leaned in again, pressing a slow kiss just beneath your jawline, and Astarion’s lips found yours in a tender, lingering brush that left you breathless. Their hands found yours, fingers entwining easily, grounding you in the moment.

For a long while, the three of you simply existed in that quiet, sunlit glade—two men showering you with affection, and you, utterly and blissfully overwhelmed, basking in the warmth of their love, your cheeks forever stained with the sweetest kind of bashfulness.

ASTARION / HALSIN

The campfire flickered softly, casting warm, dancing shadows on the faces gathered around it. The air was crisp, carrying the subtle scent of pine and earth, but Y/N felt a comforting warmth radiate from the glowing embers nearby. She sat cross-legged on a soft patch of grass, the firelight catching the soft flush on her cheeks—part from the cool evening breeze, part from something else entirely.

Halsin sat quietly close by, his calm and steady presence a soothing anchor. He caught her eye and gave her that gentle, reassuring smile that made her heart flutter just a little. Across the fire, Astarion lounged with his usual mischievous smirk, the gleam in his eyes telling tales of some impish plan.

Y/N felt a quiet thrill run through her, knowing she was surrounded by two people who cared so deeply for her, even if their expressions said “plotting” more than “sweet moments.”

Then, without warning, Halsin’s form began to ripple and shift. His human features softened, muscles expanding, fur sprouting thick and glossy beneath the campfire’s glow. Within seconds, the massive, powerful bear stood where he had been only moments before.

The great, furry bear padded over to Y/N with surprising gentleness, each step soft despite the size of his paws. His warm breath brushed against her skin as he lowered himself carefully. With a low, affectionate growl, Halsin plopped down right on top of her, his broad, heavy body pressing her gently into the soft grass.

Y/N gasped, caught off guard, her breath hitching in a burst of surprised laughter. “H-Halsin! You’re—” She squirmed beneath his warm weight, trying to push him off playfully, but he was too steady, too strong.

Before she could get a proper protest out, Astarion was at her side like a shadow, graceful and quick. He leaned down, lips brushing over her cheeks, her jawline, her neck—each kiss soft, teasing, deliberate.

“Looks like we’ve got you, little one,” Astarion whispered with that sly grin of his, voice low and velvety as his lips trailed warm, feather-light kisses down her skin.

Y/N’s cheeks flamed hotter than the fire. She squirmed again, laughter bubbling out as her heart hammered in her chest. “S-stop… you’re going to—”

A deep, rumbling growl vibrated through Halsin’s thick fur, low and affectionate, as he nuzzled her gently with his massive head. His warm breath brushed her cheek, and with careful, deliberate weight, he settled himself to keep her pinned just enough—firm but tender.

Y/N’s bashful smile was a quiet confession. She did. She loved it. She loved how safe and adored she felt wrapped between these two—Halsin’s protective strength, Astarion’s playful intimacy.

Astarion’s lips lingered a moment longer just below her ear, a tender, teasing kiss that made a shiver ripple down her spine. Then he looked up at Halsin, eyes sparkling with affection and amusement.

The bear let out a soft huff, a contented sound like a purr, and gently pawed the grass beside her, as if marking this moment sacred and tender without words.

Y/N’s heart fluttered wildly, caught between embarrassment and the pure, joyful warmth that blossomed inside her chest. She felt the steady beat of Halsin’s heartbeat through his thick fur and the soft brush of Astarion’s breath on her skin.

Her cheeks burned as she whispered, “You’re impossible...” but the smile she gave them was full of affection and secret happiness.

Astarion grinned wider. “Oh, we’re just getting started.”

Another affectionate growl rumbled low and fond from Halsin, the bear’s eyes soft as he rested his massive head near her shoulder.

Y/N let herself melt under the weight of their love, surrendering to the safe, playful cocoon of their kisses and embraces. The night stretched on around them, the stars blinking down like silent witnesses to this perfect moment—full of laughter, whispered promises, and the sweet, electric joy of being utterly cherished.