#Paladin romances
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@beradan and I went to the Connecticut Renaissance Faire today as unnamed White Rat and Saint of Steel acolytes.
Emily's embroidery is from art by @magpiemalarkey, mine was designed by my partner based on art from various Kingfisher romance covers.
#Thank you Emily for helping me finish this late last night 😭#The embroidery took. So long. So worth it though!#T Kingfisher#world of the white rat#clocktaur war#Paladin romances#My cosplay
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Love her. She also did some great work under her give name, Ursula Vernon. I'm particularly fond of the omnibus edition I have of her webcomic Digger, which is complete, free to read, and features a talking wombat engineer as the main character.
Just a lil rant about my newest beloved fantasy author
Something I love so, so much about T Kingfisher's (@tkingfisher) work is how she portrays the mundane as something so beautiful and wonderful. The majority of her protagonists are all quite regular people, with regular lives, regular hobbies, and regular bodies. And how despite that, all her characters are so interesting, so lovable, and so deeply and utterly human.
Its amazing seeing a series where multiple female romantic leads are plus sized, and there is a mix of both body positivity and body neutrality. Because like yeah, they are gorgeous. But also, at the end of the day bodies are just bodies. A bit in Paladin's Faith got me thinking about this, where the male lead asks about the female lead's stretchmarks, and its very much treated as just a normal thing that she has as a woman, not detracting from her beauty, not adding to it. They just are.
And don't get me started about how nearly all of her male romantic leads, who are for the most part, big, strong, sword-wielding paladins, have knowledge of some form of textile craft, and how it doesn't detract from their masculinity at all. And instead it is something that would actually be very useful for a soldier to know.
Tldr if anybody else is obsessed with T Kingfisher's work as much as I am please let me know so that my long suffering reading friend can have a break from it.
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Astolfo in his turn is lured to Atlante's Palace of Illusions (Orlando Furioso) by Gustave Doré
#gustave doré#art#orlando furioso#astolfo#knight#knights#atlante#palace#enchanted#enchantments#magic#middle ages#medieval#chivalric romance#chivalry#mediaeval#mythology#europe#european#illusions#architecture#ludovico ariosto#magician#sorcerer#necromancer#castle#paladins#paladin#atlantes#magical
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pov ur two clerics of warring goddesses getting ready to kill some goblins and kiss a little
#playing a cleric/paladin of selune while romancing shart . . . the tension#highly recommend#bg3#shadowheart#baldurs gate 3#my art
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babygirl
#idk why i drew this something overtook me#my art#gale dekarios#gale#bg3#baldur’s gate 3#his pathetic mannerisms and cringe fail demeanor have entranced me#in my first 2 playthroughs i very nearly romanced him and now im finally doing it with my giant dragonborn paladin#rizzard of waterdeep…
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Oath of Devotion
Summary: When you accompany Karlach to Avernus after the defeat of the Netherbrain, you assume it is the end of your romance with Gale. But you have a lot to learn about the meaning of devotion.
An exploration of the power of love and friendship, featuring Professor Gale, Paladin Tav, Karlach and Wyll.
Word count: 6.6k
AO3 link
Disclaimers: Non-18+. Mild hurt/comfort.
A/N: This fic is dedicated to @dekariosclan, who wanted a story about a Tav who romances Gale but goes with Karlach to Avernus. I hope this hits the spot for you!
The dialogue in the scene at Withers' party is canon but for a few additions- you can watch it here.
Thank you again to @inglorionamy-ammy, beta reader extraordinaire.
She barrels into you when you hold it out. It is a ratty, one-eyed thing, as bruised and battered as you look on this winding road through death and destruction. But Karlach’s face lights up like you are offering her a gold-plated battleaxe, not an abandoned rag of a teddy bear.
“Mate!” she screeches, and you lurch at the tackling force of her embrace. “You shouldn't have!”
You cackle, because every time it is the same. As the heap of discarded and deformed teddies in her tent grows, each one anointed with a name and cherished place next to the inimitable Clive, so too does Karlach’s excitement. When you found her the first couple in a deserted shack - whimsically named Sasha and Roberto - you assumed that the novelty would soon wear off. But as usual, Karlach's enthusiasm knows no bounds.
“He's so cute!” She shrieks as she draws back from you, squishing the mangled thing against her cheek. “He looks like a Gary. Yeah. That's right. Gary. That's what we'll call him.”
She beams as she assigns Gary a sacred place within the mound of teddies in the corner of her tent. Peering inside, you chuckle at the chaos of weapons, armour and trinkets littered around her. She pats Gary proudly on the head as she returns to you.
“Never gets old.” You mirror her grin.
“You’re the best.”
She gives you a quick squeeze. You ignore the way her skin sears yours in her elation - nothing that a simple healing spell cannot fix - and clasp her shoulder with a laugh. When she gestures towards the blanket laid out on the grass and the bottle of wine beside it, you nod keenly, bounding over to lay side by side, staring up at the stars.
You have always been a traveller, journeying from place to place to follow whatever orders you received from the Justiciars of Tyr. Camping out under the bright expanse of the night sky is as familiar to you as breathing. The road has always been your home.
It is not that you hated returning to the Halls of Justice, your headquarters in Waterdeep, where you spent most of your formative years. But over time, it has worn on you, the rigid, tight-lipped Tyrran priests, the narrow-eyed magistrates, knights and lords who were as joyless as they were harsh. It was not that you did not love Tyr, that you did not believe in truth and justice and law and order. It was not that you did not wish to defend and protect. You just could not see why you had to be so miserable while doing it.
You have never been the sombre, stick-up-the-arse sort, the type to inspire hushed envy. You have always had your feet firmly on the ground, quick to laugh, slow to put on airs and graces. You are straightforward, run of the mill. With you, what you see is what you get.
You are ordinary. Unremarkable.
So you have known, from the start, that you would never rise up the ranks. You know you will never be a Justiciar of Tyr. And though that harrowed you when you were young and wide eyed - so determined to bring honour and glory to your parents as they toiled away on their meagre farmstead - you find it amusing now. With the stench of the House of Hope still clinging to your pores, you and Karlach guffaw at Raphael’s ridiculous singing as you felled him, the crash of Yurgir falling to the floor like a drunken toddler as she delivered the killing blow. Though the threat of doom looms around every corner, the fate of Faerun hanging over you like a noose, joy burns within you with a ferocity that you have never felt before. You have never felt more alive, or less alone.
But when Karlach tells you, in a conspiratorial, slightly bashful tone, about how tenderly Wyll removed a stray leaf from her hair earlier, she suddenly halts. Her face contorts as she sucks in a sharp breath. Her hand flies to her chest. You jerk up, stiff with worry.
“It’s alright.” She grits her teeth. “It’ll pass. It’s alright.”
Scorching tendrils pulse out from her chest, serrated cuts threatening to rip her apart. You grimace, your fingers sizzling as they rest on her arm. She curls into herself, braced against the onslaught. You feel frenzied, helpless. All you can do is wait.
“Karlach,” you plead after a pause. “We need to get you to–”
“Don’t,” she chokes. “Don’t even say it.”
Her fire is hurting now. You cannot help but flinch back. “It’s getting worse. I can’t just watch you-”
“Tav.” Her eyes are dark wells, flickering with flame. You realise that she is crying from the pain. “Don’t ask me. I won’t go back. I’m never going back.”
You shake your head. It is an argument you have had with her before. You do not wish to see the glee in your friend’s eyes shatter into rage, to hear her breathless from anguish rather than laughter. You do not wish to tell her what she does not want to hear. But you cannot bear it. You cannot allow her to suffer when there is a solution within her grasp.
“Ten years,” she spits out. “Ten years in that fucking place, with nothing and no one to call my own.” A fine mist rises from her heart as tears trickle down her skin. “I would rather die than be alone again.”
You notice that the flare of her chest is dimming, her breaths levelling as her features soften. But her resolve remains, as unyielding as her goodness, her loyalty, her zeal for life. You would not change her, not for all the fame and glory in the realms.
In that moment, you want to promise her. You want to tell her that she would not be returning to Avernus alone. But your mind is flooded by indigo streaks across a blue-green sky, the sandalwood scent of a brown sea, the spell of stubble on your skin. And you cannot speak.
So you take her hand, and you do not let go, even when your skin begins to blister.
*****
“How in the hells did you get everyone to clear off for the night?”
You are still adjusting to the stillness of your room at the Elfsong Tavern. After the whirlwind of panting cries and thrown off armour, the lurching groans of the bed beneath you, the calm feels almost unnatural.
Your head rises and falls on Gale’s chest as he laughs. You feel it as a low rumble through you, your arm draped over the muscled grooves of his abdomen. The damp down on his skin tickles your cheek as your fingers weave upwards through his tangled locks. You are drunk on the taste and scent of him, heady and bittersweet. It is a crackling bonfire on the coldest of nights, a bottomless ache that rubs you raw. You cannot get enough of him. You do not know how you will survive a separation.
“I confess, I did have some help from Karlach and Wyll.” He chuckles. “The three of us can be very persuasive. As can a generous budget for evening entertainment.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
You flick your tongue playfully over his nipple. He tenses, moans, tightens his grip on the cheek of your ass. All at once, you are ravenous.
“I live to impress you.”
The kiss starts as it always does, tender with longing, a gentle caress. And then you are all hunger and need, wanting and grasping and seeking, drinking from each other with a thirst that cannot be slaked. Drowning in the sea of him.
It scares you. The all-consuming demand of it, the fierceness of the passion that swallows you whole. The way the yearning blazes through every part of you, breaking down the barriers you have fortified between your mind, body and soul. How completely you want him, as though he is the answer to your every question. A feeling like no other, for a man like no other.
You have always been wary of reckless abandon. It was a lesson you learned early on in your travels. Love was a recipe for disaster when you could not guarantee you would be alive from one week to the next, or predict the movements of your missions. Love was a privilege you could not afford. Temporary delights sated the cravings of your flesh. You told yourself that was enough.
And then you met him.
“I’ve never felt this way before.”
You are not sure why you say it. Perhaps it is your body speaking, wrapped up in him, caught in a drowsy lull, fleetingly sated. He has expressed his love for you countless times, but you have not yet used the word. You are not sure what love means, beyond the orb and Mystra and the Crown of Karsus, beyond the Netherbrain and the threat of the end of the world. You see no half measures, no deceit or reserve in him. When he speaks of love, he means it.
But who is to say his love is not formed from desperation? That it is not just gratitude at unexpected companionship, a compulsion to seize every moment for fear that it might be his last? If you defeat the danger that threw you together, how can you be sure his love will endure? That you will not return to your vastly separate lives, as though it were all just a passing reprieve?
He smiles, glowing with the sheen of sweat, soft and hard and magnificent.
“Nor have I. And I never will again.”
His sincerity still surprises you. The openness of his gaze, like a clear horizon. You could lose yourself in the promise of his love. But you steel yourself. You remember who you are, the life you have led. He jumps on your hesitation.
“Do you doubt me?”
You try to sound wry, teasing.
“We’ve both been around awhile, Gale. You’ve had lovers before Mystra. You know your way around a bedroom.”
He tilts his head. “I can't tell if that's a compliment or a caveat.” His brow flickers, the beginnings of a frown. “Is that a cause for doubt, or…?”
“No. Yes. Well.” You look away, and when you meet his eyes again, you see that he is not fooled. Sometimes, it is unnerving to be known. To be seen. “What I’m saying is… you could have anyone you want. You did before, and you can again.”
You cannot bring yourself to mention the future. To ask, even implicitly, what will happen if you save the world and survive. If this is to be a pleasurable distraction, a momentary delight, then you would not want to ruin it. Yet somehow, the uncertainty is a thorn in your heart. It hurts to acknowledge it.
His eyes widen, as though he is stricken, almost offended.
“And I want you. Only you.”
He cups your cheek. There is an urgency there. Under the intensity of his gaze, you feel vaguely embarrassed. You had not planned to show him this. Your doubt. Your vulnerability.
But it does not deter him. Inexplicably, you know it never would.
“I love you, Tav.” His voice trembles with conviction. “I've never met anyone like you. You're…extraordinary. Extraordinarily beautiful. Extraordinarily strong. Extraordinarily kind, and wise.”
He pauses briefly, and the curl of his upper lip sends a roiling through your core.
“Extraordinary in your…unique talents.”
Your eyelids flutter as his fingers whisper over your hip, settling just beneath your navel. The catch in his breath mirrors your own.
“I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you, and I'd wait a thousand more.”
He says the words like they are easy. Like they are not oaths, solemn and harrowing - a sacrifice only made for the greatest reward. You struggle against them, and you are not sure why. You want to trust him, but you do not know how.
Because you have always suspected that love was never meant for the likes of you. The love Gale speaks of is the stuff of songs and sagas, fairytales of noble maidens, not gruffly scarred farmer's daughters who have made no mark on the world. And you know, with every fibre of your being, that Gale deserves immeasurably more than your mediocre offering.
Fear and hope flit across Gale’s features as he gazes at you, waiting. You know he wants you to reply. He needs you to tell him you feel the same. To declare that you love him with the same consuming constancy. That you are his, just as he is yours.
But you cannot speak. His turmoil pierces you, and you feel helpless, frenzied. So you crush yourself against him, and you answer with a kiss.
*****
You are grumbling at the rip in your breeches, your punishment for swinging at a rabid imp just a second too late. The sky is darkening like a blood clot. Karlach is jabbing at the caves in the distance where you will make camp, launching into ancient strategies and hoarded secrets. With her engine stabilised here, she is broader, defter, more self-assured. In spite of the smothering decay of Avernus, she radiates with life.
But you are exhausted. The stink of sulphur scours you, and you wonder if you will ever feel clean again. You long for the relief of lush greens and blinding blues, the caress of silk and softness. You miss the cool brush of the wind and sea. And beneath the murk and mire, a chasm has opened inside you that you struggle to ignore.
You are nodding and grunting as Karlach spitballs, and then you see it. A mangled lump by your feet. A soiled leather cover, clinging to shreds of charred vellum. You surge forward to pick it up.
“I reckon we'll be safe there tonight, but–”
Karlach stops, glancing over. “What?”
You sweep away the crust of dust and blood from its scorched surface. Nearby, a half-buried skeleton gapes in rotted robes.
“A spell book. Useless now.”
Karlach stares at you. You can feel the weight of her appraisal as the memories assail you - dancing fingers and lavender lightning, intricate crow's feet adorning smiling eyes. Rumbling incantations, tingling on your skin.
You stuff the tattered tome into your pack and walk on.
***
You are flicking through the remains of the torched tome. In the glow of the dying campfire, you can just about make out the haphazard scrawl of its dead owner. You are disappointed by the sharp, messy strokes, so harsh and ugly compared to the elegant cursive you know so well. The sparse pages, devoid of elaborate diagrams and rambling annotations. Their emptiness winds you. Grief follows like a wave, and you fight against the shaking of your hands.
“Come on then, soldier. Out with it.”
You start at Karlach's voice. The force of her presence jars you back from the brink. When you look up, her eyes are firm and gentle at the same time.
“Out with what?” you blurt.
She huffs, picking at the carcass of the abyssal chicken you shared for supper.
“Whatever’s got your goat.”
Instinctively, you wave her away. But you gasp as she lurches forward, grabbing you by the shoulders. When you break free, she holds your gaze.
“You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, right?”
You are stunned by her unexpected seriousness. She waits, expectant, stubborn. You sigh.
“Of course I do.”
Her brows steeple. “Then talk to me. Because if I have to go one more day seeing you this fucking miserable, my heart might actually break.”
You raise an eyebrow, your last defence. “We came here to stop that from happening.”
“Exactly!” She throws her hands up. “So ‘fess up.”
You shift awkwardly. You suddenly realise how difficult it is to speak about your feelings, even to Karlach. Not simple feelings like lust or anger, amusement or delight. Not the stuff of throwaway comments, wry banter or gushing anecdotes. Those things come as easily to you as your friendship.
No. What you cannot admit is the gaping hole inside you. How it felt to be cocooned in his embrace. The miracle of joining your soul to his, as though you had always been complete. The boundless warmth of him nestled inside you, flowing around you, melting into you. The ebb and flow of home.
You remember the anguished panic on his face, shadowed in the setting sun. The realisation in his searching eyes as you knelt beside Karlach on the docks, paralysed by choice. The tight line of his soft lips as you looked at him one last time, haunted by the ghost of that final, unclaimed kiss, of everything spoken and unspoken.
If you speak of these things, they will swallow you whole. And you are not sure you can endure that, even after all the battles you have survived.
“You can talk about him, you know,” she says, as though she can read your mind. As though you never needed a tadpole to understand each other.
“Who?” A knee jerk answer.
Karlach rolls her eyes. “Who do you think? Do you know another magic man with big doe eyes who can ride you into the astral plane?”
You grimace. On a drunken ramble back in Baldur’s Gate, you had described in detail to Karlach all the places and ways Gale had taken you. You will never live it down.
“Admit it. You miss Gale. That's what's eating at you.”
Part of you wants to shrug her off, tell her to drop it. But you know the doggedness of Karlach’s loyalty, constant as the sun. She jostles you, a motion meant to reassure. Her nails rap loudly against her chest, a clattering echo around the darkness of the cave.
“When we've fixed this baby, we'll go home. I'll find Wyll, and you'll find Gale. It'll all work out. You'll see.”
She sounds so certain. Once again, you marvel at her stalwart optimism, unwavering through the most unimaginable cruelties. You feel almost ashamed to burst her bubble.
“Karlach, Gale and I aren't…”
You gesture uselessly. Your chest heaves.
“It's not like you and Wyll,” you manage. “You guys are practically married. You know he's waiting for you in Baldur’s Gate. He knows you'll go back to him when all this is done.”
“And?” She frowns. “How's that different?”
You look down at the spell book in your lap. A sliver of vellum dissolves into black dust on your fingers.
“I left, Karlach.” You sound defeated. Small.
You watch as Karlach’s features tighten in thought, then widen in realisation. Sorrow twists on her face.
“Soldier,” she whispers. “I never asked for–”
You straighten immediately. “You didn't have to. I wanted to." Your voice swells as you clasp her arm. "You're my best mate, Karlach. My sister. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you.”
For a moment, you think she might cry. Then she clutches you against her so tightly you can barely breathe. She does not smell of sandalwood and soap, but oil and sweat. And though her warmth is that of a blazing furnace and not the summer sea, you rest in it for a while.
“He loves you, Tav." Her words are muffled by her embrace. "More than anything.”
“Maybe he did," you concede. "Maybe he was lonely, and horny, and scared. But I left. He’s probably given the Crown back to Mystra by now. She's probably taken him back.”
Karlach pulls back roughly. “You’re joking. You think Gale would go back to Mystra, after everything? After you?”
You shrug. “Well, if not Mystra, he could have his pick. Plenty for him to choose from.”
“I can't tell if you're being serious. Are you serious?”
She stares at you, incredulous. You draw in a shaky breath.
“It would never have lasted, Karlach."
You offer it as an explanation, but she seems more baffled than before.
“What in the hells are you talking about?”
An image of Gale comes to you unbidden. Poised and ready, all broad shoulders and billowing robes, threads of silver shining amidst the brown waves that frame his chiselled face. He flashes you that smouldering look, halfway between a smile and a smirk, as his lithe fingers whip up a storm in the distance.
You toss the spell book on the ground.
"A man like Gale... a woman like me." Your jaw clenches. "What happened between us was a fluke. A blip for him. I probably did him a favour by leaving. No loose ends to tie up. Now he can move on. Greener pastures, and all that.”
Karlach stiffens and scoffs. “Now I know you can't be serious. Because my mate Tav isn't a total idiot who's completely lost the plot.”
You are taken aback by her uncharacteristic scorn. You are about to shoot back a reflexive retort when she halts.
“Oh.” She blows out a long breath. “I get it.”
You twitch. “What now?”
“It’s your blind spot." She nods smugly, as though she has cracked a puzzle. "Like how you drop your guard sometimes when you dodge.”
You do not follow. It does not escape Karlach's notice, the mounting frustration squirming beneath your skin.
“You can't see what's fucking obvious.” Her words are harsh, but her tone is placating. Patient. She sighs, heavy with affection.
“Tav.”
There is tenderness in the way she leans forward, looking you straight in the eye. You cannot help but soften. To be mad at Karlach would be like fighting without your sword. You just cannot do it.
“This is a bloke who talked my ear off about how your armour brought out the green of your eyes.” She chuckles. “He just wouldn't shut up about you. How brave you are, how kind, how awesome you are. How the sun shines out of your arse. We used to leave him with Minsc just so we could have a break.”
She chortles, then notices your surprise. In mock defence, she raises her palms to you.
“Look, I love Gale. You know I love Gale. And I adore you. But I really don't want to hear about your muscles bulging in the heat of battle. Or anywhere else.”
When you burst into laughter, Karlach beams.
“Even Wyll couldn't take Gale's lectures. I think he even fell asleep once.”
She bobs her head, lowering her voice into a husky baritone, her pointed finger wiggling in the air.
“Do you have a minute? Because I need to tell you about how loyal and smart and caring Tav is. No, I must insist on telling you all about it. Now. Pish posh.”
You cackle, but you cannot stifle the ache that tears through you. What you would not give to have him here with you now, and not an absurd imitation.
“Gods, that man would not let up about you," Karlach groans. "Shadowheart almost threw up when Gale started talking about your musk. He almost melted Astarion’s brain, too, when he said your scars were ugly."
You wish you had been there for these interchanges. You had no idea of them, beyond curiosity at Gale's unexpected affinity with Minsc. Now, the idea of Gale singing your praises and defending your honour makes you want to weep.
"A couple times, I even saw Lae'zel chuckle at the way Gale looked at you." She guffaws. "Lae'zel! Chuckling! She didn't even go off on one about istiks being pathetic. That's the power of love, right there.”
You are staring at your trembling hands. A whirlwind of hunger, hurt and hope is gathering inside you. You do not know what to do with it.
Karlach is silent for a while. When she speaks again, her voice is solemn as a promise.
“He loves you, Tav. That kind of love doesn't just go away.”
'I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you,' he had said, 'and I'd wait a thousand more.' You wrestle with the weight of his words, the weight of hers. You shake your head.
“I never told him, Karlach. I never got to say….”
The tears choke you. All at once, you cannot think, cannot speak. She takes your hand, and she does not let it go.
“We'll fix me up, and then you can tell him. You can tell him everything.”
****
“So you came back.”
His gaze darts away from you, his hands clasping and unclasping. He looks as nervous as you feel, stooping awkwardly to greet you like a half-stranger. But in the haze of candlelight, buoyed by the heavenly breeze of meat and mead and flowers, he glows. He is just as you remember him, a vision in purple and gold. Your every longing and memory made flesh.
“You look well.” He shuffles, a halting smile quivering on his lips. “A little singed around the edges, but well.”
You have never before felt self-conscious in his presence. But standing before him now, so close you could reach out and touch him, you are ashamed. You are embarrassed by your dented armour, your torn and dusty boots. Having just narrowly survived a group of cambions sent by Zariel, there had not been time for you and Karlach to primp and preen - not that the two of you ever wasted energy on that. You could not have leapt faster through the portal back to Faerun to answer Withers’ summons.
Appearances never mattered to Gale. He always saw through to the heart of a person, finding beauty in the alignment of a soul. It is one of the things you love most about him. But tonight, as the strange stiffness between you expands, you find yourself fretting over the bunching of your braids, your unpainted eyes, the fresh scars on your arms.
“So do you, Gale.”
Your voice is strained. Every muscle in your body yearns to spring forward, to talk to him with touch. But he stands apart, worlds away. Perhaps he is beyond your reach, after everything that has passed between you.
At the corner of your eye, Karlach throws her arms around Wyll’s neck with a squeal. You turn to watch as she lifts him up, twirling him around to a chorus of hoots and whistles. You grin and clap as they collapse into each other. You hear Gale chuckling behind you, that most soothing of sounds.
When you turn back, there is a moment when you simply gaze at him. You notice the empty canvas of his chest, laid bare by the tantalising dip of his richly embroidered doublet. Freedom, plain and pure, radiates from the unmarred plane of his bronze-kissed skin.
You think of all the times you traced the mark of the orb with your fingers, your lips, your tongue, pressing your love into his wounds, covering them with the balm of your desire. Is it recognition that glimmers in his eyes as they meet yours? Yearning?
He clears his throat. Perhaps not.
“I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Not sure where to begin.”
For months, you have imagined what you would say to him. All the doubts you would lay down, all the things you would confess. In the silence of your loneliest nights, you prayed and pleaded with Tyr for a second chance, promising, with a resolve as strong as your Oath of Devotion, that you would not waste it.
But now that he is here, words fail you. What you want, in this instant, is to listen. To hear the resonant song of his voice, the lilting passion of it. To soak in the gentle earth of his eyes, the gossamer lines of delight and wisdom that dance on his face. To bask in the miracle of him.
“Why don't you start at the beginning?” you ask.
He tilts his head. Then his jaw clenches, as though he is bracing himself.
“I promise I've not been moping around waiting for your return.”
It jolts you, the hint of bitterness. You have hurt him, and maybe there can be no second chances after that. Perhaps you cannot make amends for who you truly are.
But then his voice drops. His brow arches ever so slightly. There is the ghost of that sideways smile that has always driven you wild.
“Though of course I longed for it.”
It takes you a moment to register it. He longed for your return. Waited. Slowly, mercifully, he begins to tell you about his life at Blackstaff Academy. You savour the familiar enthusiasm that snowballs as he speaks, the lively flurry of his hands, a secret language in itself. When you learn that he is a Professor of Illusory Magic, hear him extol the manifold wonders of imagination and lament the ineptitude of his apprentices with wry affection, you grin so widely that your cheeks ache.
You have always believed in Gale - his stout heart, girded with goodness, his keen mind, honed as the sharpest blade. It has always been your greatest hope for him - to see him content with the man he is, no longer shackled to a mirage of the man he should be. If this is the end of the road, if a stilted goodbye is all that lies between you now, it would be a torment. An agony you will carry with you for the rest of your days. But there is no doubt in your mind. You would suffer any pain for his peace. His happiness.
It is like you are old friends when he asks about your time in Avernus. You tell him about the endless hoards of hunters trailing after you, the running count of kills that Karlach insists on keeping (she is currently leading by three). He shares your disgust with what passes as food in the hells, your excitement about the blueprints you found. When you tell him about Zariel’s forge, where you and Karlach are heading to fix her heart, you can almost hear the gears turning in his mind as he furrows his brow. You explain that Karlach is making inroads with one of Zariel’s guards, an old acquaintance of hers who thrives on chaos. Now, it is just a matter of biding your time before you make a move.
You are struck, again and again, by how much you have missed Gale’s laugh. The brightness of his discerning eyes. The plump arc of his lips curving into a grin. Lost pieces of yourself, restored for a fleeting night.
“I almost feel sorry for the devils in your path.” He smirks. “I mean, I don’t, of course. I’m sure they deserve it.”
He leans forward. As the wind weaves through his hair, you catch the notes of leather, scrolls, and sandalwood. Home. You breathe deeply, storing up his scent. You do not ever want to forget it.
“I've told my students plenty of tales about our escapades. You're something of a hero to them, you know?”
Something reverberates inside you. Dimly, you recall the weariness in your parents’ eyes when you returned to their farm on your thirtieth birthday. “Not a Justiciar, no. Still just an ordinary Paladin.” When, a few steps down the dirt track on the day of your departure, you turned back to wave goodbye, they had already scurried back into the house. Relieved to see the back of you, to be done with yet another disappointment in the ceaseless toil of their lives.
But Gale looks at you with pride, a kind of awe. A hero, he says. Extraordinary, he once called you.
“I'll be delighted to introduce you to them when you return. That is, if you wish to return to Faerun. Or to me.”
There is a fullness in his gaze now. The brown flame that flares is unmistakable. It is a swollen, throbbing desire that roils through you, a desperate mirror of your want.
He waits. For all this time, he has waited. Standing together where it all began, surrounded by the symphony of those you cherish most, you see him so clearly. The depths of his devotion. The boundlessness of his love. His need and hunger, wrestling against his fear.
There is so much you want to tell him, so much of your soul you wish to lay bare. It is not too late, you realise. If you open yourself to him, he will embrace you, as though there is no past, no future. Only the endless horizon of the astral sea.
“I want nothing more, Gale,” you whisper.
He heaves, a burst of relief, disbelief, elation. His whole body seems to vibrate, beaming with the bliss of a burden lifted, a mystery finally solved. The glorious end to a grueling journey, a terminus for which he has fought tooth and nail, trusting, against all odds, in a home where you would both come to rest. And when he steps forward, reaching out to you, you drift towards him like a star falling back to earth.
But then it seizes you. You stop in your tracks, bowled over by a compulsion to protect. An urge to throw yourself before him like a shield. This man, who has sacrificed and suffered for you. This marvel of a man, who deserves nothing less than the full measure of you. You cannot take away the victory he has won, against all odds, over the demons of his history. You cannot jeopardise the peace he has laboured so hard for. You could never forgive yourself.
You force yourself back.
“Zariel knows we're coming.” Your voice breaks. “She has an army guarding the forge.”
Gale’s features freeze in shock, the anticipation of pain. Your withdrawal is a blow. To hurt him so soon after hope - it is unbearable. But you must protect him. You cannot take the risk.
"We might not make it in. Or out. I don't want you to…I can't let you…”
He searches your face. You push out the words - a guttering plea, woefully inadequate.
“I might not make it back, Gale.”
There is a twisting in his face, a faltering as he considers you. Then his eyes widen, blazing with sudden understanding. He huffs, a gentle half-laugh, brimming with affection. It throws you, and when he speaks, his tenderness reminds you of all those nights when you lay beside him, wanting for nothing.
“Your caution is warranted. But believe me, I know enough about divination to promise you that our future is one worth looking forward to.”
You stare at him. Divination? Has he sought out your future, while he yearned for your return? Can it be that he has seen it, the two of you living as one, the answer to every prayer you feared to offer up to Tyr? Your breath hitches.
“A crackling hearth. Two cosy armchairs beside it. A bottle of wine to be poured. And your battleworn boots, discarded at long last by the door. That is the life we have waiting for us. Believe in it, and it will come.”
You can almost see it. The fine veins of his forearm flickering as he turns a page. His moist lips tingling on your fingers as they trail through his beard. Beads of sweat like pearls, settling into the nook of his clavicle, shadowed in the firelight.
Desire takes you like a flood. You can no longer resist the tide of his resolve, the smouldering embrace of his certainty. All of your questions, all of your doubts, dissolve like mist as he strides towards you.
His closeness is a spell. You are enthralled by the whisper of his hair against your temple, the caress of wine on his breath. The bold curve of his nose ghosts over yours, luring you closer. All at once, you are dizzy, falling into him. He draws back, teasing and playful, and when he laughs, you grab hold of him and crush your lips on his.
And then, all you can feel and smell and taste is him.
*****
He is stooped over his desk at the front of the lecture hall. Framed by intricate oak walls and animated portraits of Blackstaff legends, the fervent undulations of his cursive on the chalk board behind him, his beauty takes your breath away. His hair is longer now, lighter, adorned with gleaming clusters of white-grey. He is leaner, sharper at the edges, but somehow more solid. More true.
Squinting into a mass of scrolls, he is in a world of his own, muttering and gesturing to himself, a mixture of irritation, confusion, determination. Even from the back of the room, you can make out the wrinkle of his thinking line, that most endearing of expressions. You chuckle.
He barely glances up at the sound. He calls out with a practised weariness, a sternness that you have never heard before but instantly relish.
“If you're here for the lecture on the nature and use of simulacrums, you are disgracefully, appallingly late–”
He jerks his head, his gaze finally lifting towards you. When his eyes meet yours, he lets out a gasp that lurches through his shaking frame. And then he is sprinting, leaping through the rows of chairs, hurtling into you like a flaming comet.
Your bodies weave together, clutching, seeking, finding. His hot tears, his juddering breaths, the frenetic beating of his heart, echoing and melting into yours.
“You're back.” He cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours. “You came back.”
You lean into his touch, ravenous for more. All this time, believing you could not love him, doubting he could feel the same - now, all you want is to fill yourself with him. The musk of soap and bookdust, the taste of coffee and salt, the heat of his thrumming muscles flush against yours. You are dissolving into a flurry of kisses, each one more eager than the last, sealing your promise against his tear-streaked skin. You do not hold back. You will never hold back again.
“I love you, Gale,” you pant. “I've loved you since the day we met. I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you, and I'd wait a thousand more.”
The awe and wonder in his eyes reflects your own. He is quivering, letting out tiny sighs of jubilation. As his fingers dance up your chest, your neck, the knots of your braids, you tremble under his touch, grinning at the certainty that you will never again go without it.
“Where's Karlach?” he murmurs into your hair, as you run your nose over the stubble on his jawline, savouring the rough and smooth of him.
“She's headed for Baldur’s Gate to find Wyll. She’s promised to visit us as soon as they can.” You draw back. “That is, if you want me to stay here, with you.”
He huffs, amused, incredulous. His fingers find yours. Time stands still as he raises your hand to his lips. When he plants a kiss along the scarred ridge of your knuckles, it has the passion and devotion of an oath.
“I want you to marry me,” he breathes.
You look at him for a long time. You will never tire of the sight. Yours is a love that will last a lifetime, a love greater than any legend or saga, stronger than any fairytale. This man, this miracle, forever yours, just as you are forever his. You have no doubts about it now.
Joy burns within you, a fire in your soul that will never fade.
You laugh, and you answer with a kiss.
*********
Liked this fic? Check out my other work.
#gale dekarios#gale of waterdeep#bg3#baldurs gate 3#bg3 gale#gale fanfiction#gale fic#bg3 gale fanfiction#bg3 gale fic#gale romance#gale x tav#gale x oc#karlach#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 fic#baldurs gate 3 fanfiction#baldurs gate 3 fic#karlach fic#karlach fanfiction#paladin tav
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Temerity the Cleric of Ilmater from my multiplayer campaign absolutely was smitten from her first conversation with the druid Halsin because he tried to heal her no questions asked
#bg3#baldurs gate 3#my art#my OCs#halsin#oc temerity#who knows when we’ll ever reach act 3 I’m so sorry temerity#fun fact she was supposed to romance lae but I made an off brand temerity for a solo run#that became Ennui who is an oath of ancients durge paladin and she is very much gonna romance Lae’zel even if it doesn’t seem to be working
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Ssussun pholor dos. // Light upon you.
Minthara Baenre, I am beset by thoughts of you.
#baldur's gate 3#baldur's gate 3 art#bg3#minthara#minthara baenre#minthara bg3#yes i did start playing bg3 solely to romance her.#this is saved as ''baby baby'' in my files even though i fully think she's like. halfway through her lifespan. 300 years old minimum.#her big sad eyes rampant projection and hungry ambition have enraptured me#as has her ability to deal 60+ points of damage a round#she looked at my tav like this and it was over. if you don't want to save her are you really even a paladin.
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Kat you’re planning on writing/publishing a book!?! Could we perhaps have a hint about the genre …👀? Either way I’m so excited and hope to hear more about it in the future.
:3
There's water dripping somewhere close, echoing off the broken stone, and Grey’s breath rasps in his throat, too loud, too harsh, too noticeable. Jagged edges of stone dig deep into his spine where he’s pressed up tight against a fallen column, and the world swims like a heat haze.
At the edge of the cracked column, sprawled out and twisted, still twitching, is the commander’s hand. Grey knows it is because he saw the man fall there, but—
It hardly looks like a hand at all anymore, and fear beats harsh and bloody in the back of Grey’s throat as he strains his ears, tries to quiet his breathing. Nothing is moving but the dripping water, and somehow, that’s a thousand times more frightening than the screams that rose a moment ago.
In the echoing darkness, something shifts. It drags, scraping and crunching and liquid all at once, and blind panic rises, almost drives Grey to his feet to make a run for the distant dot of light that is the entrance. The limp, twisted forms of those who tried are scattered across the temple’s floor, though, and at the last moment Grey forces himself back down, digging his fingers hard into the stone as he tries desperately not to move.
The dragging slide of something too large and misshapen pauses, and then there's a high, thready, terrified moan. Armor scrapes across the stone, a desperate attempt to crawl to safety, but a bare second later there’s a hiss, too deep and multifaceted to come from any mortal throat. It rises and falls like a tide, and the paladin screams, bare and weak and full of nothing but terror—
The cry cuts off so sharply it makes Grey’s stomach turn, and something wet and meaty cracks, cracks again, thumps back to stone and metal and drags like a flayed corpse rolled across the floor.
The door, Grey thinks, that unbearable fear clawing at his insides. He needs to get to the door. They came to fight a god and failed, and now there’s no one left standing but him. If he can just get to the door while it’s distracted by the bodies—
“Please,” a thin, reedy voice calls, cracking in the middle of the word, falling away in fear. “Please, Ylthos, please—”
The fear doesn’t abate. Nothing changes. Ylthos doesn’t answer her paladin’s cries, even though Grey holds his breath, waiting. There's another hiss, another dragging, scraping slide as the thing moves, and nothing happens.
That paladin, or maybe another, is crying, and the thin sobs echo in the hidden temple, drowned out a moment later by the sound of a body twisting, breaking, reforming into something horrific. A wash of blood slides across the floor, stained black in thick ripples as it moves, and Grey squeezes his eyes closed, then forces them open again.
His sword fell into the water, back when the thing first hit them. It vanished into the deep pool, and if Grey turns his head, he can just see the edge of the water, still perfectly clear in the guttering light. All the other weapons the paladins bore in here were twisted, or changed, or broken, but—his sword wasn’t. If he can just get to it, there might be a chance.
Ylthos isn't answering their prayers, but the light of that last blessing is still there. Grey can feel her kiss against his forehead, can see the lights of the Sun Temple if he closes his eyes. Ylthos isn't answering, but maybe she can't. Maybe Grey is the only one who can do anything.
And then, dragging, slick and wet and heavy, something moves on the other side of the broken column.
This isn't how it’s supposed to go. This isn't how it happened.
Grey wrenches to his feet, but instead of bolting for the pool, he turns. In the same moment, a hand closes over cracked stone, and the thing that they came to contain hauls itself up, a dark, twisted shape that only shares the vaguest similarities with a human form. It drags itself along with its hands, long nails scoring deep into the stone as it hauls itself up and over the column, keening, reaching. Grey recoils with a shout, reaching for the blessing, the flame inside him—
Even as light kindles, pure white and blazing, the creature cries, the sound scraping Grey’s flesh raw, sinking barbs into his mind. He stumbles, goes down, sprawled out on the wet stone, and the creatures surges up, grabbing, pinning him even as he struggles. It’s like struggling against a tree, though, or a mountain, and his fingers slip on raw flesh that oozes black blood. With a surge of terror, Grey grabs for that light, throws it up between them like a barrier, and the thing wails. Ichor splatters Grey’s face, drips into his mouth as flesh singes, and he looks up into burning red eyes that are fixed solely on him.
Dark, limp, stringy hanks of hair tumble around them as the thing lowers its head, those long, broken spidery fingers clamping down tight around his arms. A mouth opens, too many teeth, another splatter of ichor that burns sharp enough to make Grey scream, and then—
A voice, wavering, broken, as sharp as needles and knives. It keens, right next to Grey’s ears, so loud it burns. None of the sounds it’s made have ever had words before, but now there are. Now there’s something in the midst of the rage and hatred and fear, and it inscribes itself into Grey’s bones like a vast hand is writing it with a red-hot quill.
Save me, the god says, and Grey stares up into red eyes, the perfect mirror of his own, as it leans in, claws digging in all the way to the bone. Save me save me save me save me—
#my writing#my love of horror is definitely playing a part#but it's fantasy romance-ish#basically tarnished paladin/vessel of a god x pathetic wet cat of a ridiculously powerful mage
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And that's how paladin oaths happen
Fighter falls for the cleric, tale as old as time. it's ok it worked out
#dragonborn 5e#bg3 dragonborn#fighter 5e#bg3 fighter#tempest cleric#cleric 5e#bg3 cleric#Aasimar 5e#aasimar cleric#dragonborn fighter#dnd#dnd art#bg3 tav#dungeons and dragons art#dungeons and dragons#dungeons and dragons pc#dnd pc#dnd oc#my art#personal art#digital art#character design#seahagart#illustration#comic#dnd romance#fantasy romance#Bg3#Tempest cleric#paladin
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Obsessive Cleaning (FO4 Preference)
Fandom: Fallout 4 Request: x x Pairings: Danse x Reader, Hancock x Reader, MacCready x Reader, Nick x Reader, Preston x Reader.
Notes:
I included Nick because he should be romanceable.
Idk if manic cleaning is the correct term for this so I didn't use it because I didn't want to be offensive.
Zero uses of Y/N or Sole so you can decide if Reader is Sole or not.
Trigger Warning: Reader obsessively cleaning and neglecting their own needs.
Danse:
Danse wakes up to an empty bed and immediately heads out to find you. He discovers you engrossed in your task of cleaning and making repairs to Sanctuary, impressed by your attention to detail.
He joins in to help, using his military training to streamline the process and increase efficiency.
Danse appreciates your dedication to improving your surroundings and sees it as a reflection of your strong work ethic.
After a bit when he notices that you're showing no signs of slowing or even taking a a break, that's when Danse would intervene. He'd make sure you're okay and encourage you to at least stop long enough for food and water.
"Alright, soldier, you're no good to anyone passed out from hunger. Let's just sit over here and take a brief respite."
Hancock:
Hancock wakes up and immediately notices your absence. He follows the sounds of cleaning to find you fully immersed in your task, determined to make Sanctuary perfect.
He admires your dedication but worries that you're neglecting your own well-being.
Hancock encourages you to take breaks and assures you that Sanctuary already looks great.
He'd even join in once he realizes that you're probably not going to stop until you believe Sanctuary is as good as it's going to get. And he'd do his best to keep the mood light.
"Damn, sweetheart, you keep at it like this you'll make the rest of us look like a bunch of do-nothings. How about we take a quick...nap?"
MacCready:
When MacCready wakes to find you missing and sets out to locate you. He discovers you hard at work, fixing and cleaning various areas of Sanctuary with a determined expression.
He's impressed by your dedication but also concerned that you're pushing yourself too hard.
He offers to help and tries to convince you to take breaks, knowing how important it is to avoid burnout.
He admires your commitment to making Sanctuary a better place and supports you throughout the process, ensuring you take breaks and stay hydrated.
"Sweetie, you need rest...and breakfast. I promise this rubble will still be here in a couple of hours."
Nick Valentine:
Being a synth, Nick doesn't need sleep. He was, however, going over some information on a case he was working when he noticed faint noises. He decided to investigate and found you diligently working around Sanctuary.
He's intrigued by your hyperfocus and deduces that you won't stop until you're satisfied with the results.
Nick offers his assistance, impressed by the progress you've already made. You were cleaning up trash and rubble, recycling anything that could be repurposed.
He keeps an eye on your well-being, reminding you to take breaks as you work together to improve
"You're definitely impressive but unlike me you do need food and sleep. How about you take a break and while I finish up?"
Preston Garvey:
Preston wakes up in the middle of the night and notices your absence. Concerned, he sets out to find you and is surprised to discover you tirelessly cleaning and fixing things in Sanctuary.
He admires your dedication to helping others but worries that you're neglecting your own needs.
Preston offers to assist you and encourages you to take breaks and rest.
Preston appreciates your commitment to making Sanctuary a safe and comfortable place for everyone and supports you throughout the cleaning process.
"You know, you really are amazing. But even you need water to continue going, honey."
#no use of y/n#fallout 4#preferences#fallout 4 preferences#fallout 4 companions react#fallout 4 romances#fallout 4 headcanons#cait x reader#curie x reader#paladin danse x reader#porter gage x reader#john hancock x reader#gender neutral reader#maccready x reader#nick valentine x reader#piper wright x reader#preston garvey x reader#tw: self neglect#tw: reader neglecting biological needs
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Good evening, I just spent two hours on a World of the White Rat "what religious order do you belong in" quiz.
#link in reblog because of how this webbed site works#world of the White rat#t kingfisher#saint of steel#paladin romances
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06.23.2024 | Minthara x Shadowheart
Tasha's Cauldron of Outfits by tashaweeds. Dyes for the Dark and Wary by ilikedetectives and I. Appearance Edit Enhanced by Eralyne. Piercing Edits by jerinski. Trips’ Accessory Collection by Trips. Camera by Frans Bouma. Captured using ReShade.
#minthara#shadowheart#minthara x shadowheart#minthara romance#shadowheart romance#drow#paladin#high half elf#cleric of shar#baldur's gate 3#virtual photography#pc games#pc gaming#pc mods#larian studios
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Imagine you're a paladin. You've traveled across the land sworn by oath to slay undead. You've become so powerful as a divine warrior that undead are harmed just by touching your skin, their bodies burning from the same divine light that heals mortal skin.
Eventually you're sent to kill a vampire whose been terrorizing a city in a far-off mountain range. After traveling for weeks to meet her you lay your eyes on her and she's something both horrifying and radiant, with skin like unageing marble, fangs like a mighty serpent within her mouth, and eyes glowing a brilliant yellow.
She asks you to hear her out before you harm her, and she tells you that she is mostly harmless, and was only defending herself when she attacked people. She tells you that she was outed against her will, and that she takes blood from the workshops of barber surgeons or from the necks of the recently beheaded. When you check the city records, she seems to be telling the truth, and your oath prevents you from harming the passive.
She travels with you for a time, and you begin to become friends with her. She's quite clever and has a sense of wit to her that few you've met could match. She plays music on an ancient instrument and sings songs from a time nobody of the living can still remember. You cannot help but witness the passing of time. As time goes on traits that were once horrifying seem lovely, and you forget the body that you witness is dead at all. There's still a primal urge within you to destroy her, that urge you have to destroy all her kind, the instincts of a predator within you, but you are able to resist.
You confess your love to her in a rainy city overlooking a series of grey-green canals. You're not sure anyone in the cafe knows what she is, though she still can't pass for human with how she looks. It doesn't matter what she is to you. Though when she tries to kiss you there's a feeling of worry, your skin still harms the dead, and you cannot help but remember that she is dead. Even when she touches your hand as it's fully covered in armored plates and mail, you can sense smoke coming off her skin.
When you try to embrace each other that night your greatest fears are proven true. As she touches your breast her hand is burnt as if by fire. She heals but you know to not touch again, no matter how you feel, her skin cannot so much as meet yours without her becoming a monster for you to harm again. Even if you can suppress your mind's desire to harm her, you cannot suppress your body's.
She kisses your helmet before letting you place it on your head, and you both ride off to the next city together. You tell her she's still yours, and she sings you a love song as you both ride away...
#196#my thougts#worldbuilding#fantasy#writing#my worldbuilding#my writing#vampirism#vampire#vampcore#vampyr#undead#monster girl#monster fucker#monster lover#vampire girl#paladin#sympathetic monster#tragic love#tragic romance#wlw#gay#queer#short fiction#short story
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July was a heck of a good reading month, and I've well and fallen into a historical romance hole. Both series by Allie Therin were *especially* good.
#july reads#july listens#audiobooks#books to read#queer books#indie books#historical romance#vampires of eden#jack of thorns#throw his heart over#kit and basie#making love with the land#a tale of two knights#proper scoundrels#once upon a rogue#magic in manhattan series#the necromancers light#the paladins shadow#one night in hartswood#unfit to print#slippery creatures
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So if you romance Astarion with a half-orc, YOU'RE THE ONE PICKING HIM UP! Don't mind me, I'm just so very amused and elated that Larian took into account the fact that this man has never done arm day in his life and could never realistically pick up a buff-ass half-orc lady so did a little role reversal.
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