#bg3 christmas

[trustworthy-liar]

Uh oh! The Archduke is being quite a grumpy gift it seems

Does it count as a "bow on top" prompt?

[moonselune]

🎄A Very BG3 Gentlemen Christmas🎄

Gale:

The cozy warmth of the study was offset by the faint chill of winter creeping through the frosted windows. The room was alight with the soft glow of a roaring fire, the scent of pine from the nearby Christmas tree mingling with the faint aroma of mulled wine. You stood in the middle of it all, wrapped—quite literally—in crimson ribbons that you had artfully tied around yourself, each bow a playful promise. This was your Christmas gift to Gale, and you couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

Unfortunately, your plan had hit a slight snag.

Gale was seated in his favorite armchair, his nose buried in the ancient tome you had painstakingly tracked down and gifted him earlier that day. The way his eyes lit up when he unwrapped it had been magical in its own way, but now, hours later, the book had fully consumed him. He hadn’t even noticed your grand entrance.

You cleared your throat. “Gale.”

“Mm?” he hummed absently, his finger tracing a line of text. “Fascinating… Did you know the original binding techniques of this era often involved enchanted thread? Remarkable craftsmanship.”

You took a step closer, deliberately letting the bows on the ribbons sway as you leaned against the desk. “That’s wonderful, Gale, but I have… another gift for you.”

“Another gift?” His head tilted slightly, but his eyes remained glued to the page. “You’ve already outdone yourself, my love. Truly, this is the best Christmas in years.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“This one is… special,” you said, your voice laced with suggestion.

“Special, you say?” he murmured, finally glancing up for a fleeting moment. His gaze brushed over you but didn’t linger, his focus drawn back to the book. “I can’t imagine what could top this, but I’m intrigued.”

You were starting to lose patience. With a sigh, you circled behind him and rested your hands on his shoulders, leaning close.

“Gale,” you said, your voice low and insistent. “Look. At. Me.”

“In just a moment,” he replied, oblivious. “I’m at a crucial section on the incantations of—"

Enough was enough. You stepped in front of him, bent slightly, and cupped his jaw with both hands, tilting his face upward.

“Gale Dekarios,” you said firmly. “Look at me.”

And then it happened. His eyes finally focused on you, and the book slipped from his hands, landing on the floor with a dull thud. His expression was priceless—a mixture of shock, wonder, and sheer disbelief as he took in the sight of you, wrapped in ribbons and glowing with a mischievous smile.

“You’re… you’re…” Gale stammered, his voice catching as he gestured helplessly at you. “You’re wearing ribbons?”

“Only ribbons,” you clarified with a playful tilt of your head.

His cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and he reached up to gently touch one of the bows on your shoulder. “This… this is… I mean, you…”

“You’re welcome,” you teased, stepping closer until his hands instinctively came to rest on your bare waist.

Gale exhaled a shaky laugh, his amazement giving way to warmth. “You are the most enchanting, most extraordinary gift I could ever hope for.”

“Better than the book?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Far better than the book,” he said, his voice soft as his hands slid around to pull you into his lap. “Though I may need to thank you for both… at length.”

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him, and for once, the ancient tome lay forgotten as Gale’s full attention was exactly where it belonged—on you.

Astarion:

The room was filled with a cloud of warm steam, the scent of pine, cloves, and orange peels lingering in the air from the simmering pot of mulled wine you’d prepared earlier. Astarion reclined in the large copper bathtub, the water rippling as he shifted dramatically, his arms flung over the sides as though recovering from some great ordeal. His wet silver curls clung to his forehead, and his crimson eyes fixed on you with an exaggerated pout.

“I can’t believe you,” he drawled, his voice a mixture of mockery and genuine indignation. “How could you do this to me, your own lover? It was ruthless. Merciless. Positively inhumane.”

You stifled a giggle, your hand dipping into the water to scoop some of it and gently pour it over his hair.

“I didn’t realize you were so delicate, Astarion,” you teased, fingers working a lather of soap into his damp locks. “It was just a snowball fight.”

“‘Just a snowball fight’?” He turned his head slightly, though the luxurious massage you were giving his scalp quickly dissuaded him from moving too much. “You ambushed me. I didn’t even see that last one coming! And you—I saw you laughing! Laughing at my suffering!”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again as you recalled the memory. The way he’d flailed when your expertly thrown snowball had hit him square in the chest was nothing short of theatrical.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” you lied, poorly, as another giggle escaped. “It was just… you looked so surprised.”

“Oh, is that all?” he huffed, his eyes closing as your fingers continued to knead into his scalp, the tension in his posture melting away despite his indignation. “I suppose it’s funny when the vampire freezes to death.”

“You’re not freezing to death,” you pointed out, rinsing the soap out of his hair with a gentle stream of water. “You’re in a hot bath now, aren’t you? Being pampered no less.”

“It’s the very least you could do after your assault,” he countered, though his tone was softening with each stroke of your fingers. He opened one eye to peer at you. “I’m still wet. And cold. And utterly traumatized.”

“Utterly traumatized,” you repeated with mock seriousness, leaning over to grab the goblet of blood you’d set on the edge of the tub for him. “Here. Maybe this will help with your recovery.”

He sat up slightly, taking the goblet with an exaggerated sigh.

“I suppose this will do… for now.” His fingers brushed yours as he accepted the drink, a hint of gratitude in his expression despite his theatrics. He sipped slowly, savouring the blood you had so kindly donated to him, before setting it aside. “Though I’m not entirely convinced you’re sorry.”

“I am sorry,” you said, though your grin betrayed you.

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look sorry.”

You leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips. His indignation melted completely as he kissed you back, his hand reaching up to cradle your cheek. When you pulled away, he was smiling despite himself.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his voice now filled with warmth. “But I suppose I’ll forgive you… this time.”

“Good,” you said, your fingers returning to his hair. “Because I’m not apologizing if we have a rematch tomorrow.”

He laughed, the sound rich and light, as he reclined back into the tub.

“We’ll see who’s laughing then, darling.” But the way his eyes gleamed with affection told you he didn’t mind losing—not if it meant moments like this.

Wyll:

The living room was an absolute disaster, a whirlwind of crumpled wrapping paper, tangled ribbon, and half-used rolls scattered across the floor. You and Wyll sat cross-legged on the rug amidst the chaos, determined to make progress on wrapping presents for the orphans at Halsin's shelter. The intention had been pure; the execution, however, was rapidly devolving into a comedy of errors.

"I don’t understand," Wyll said, brow furrowed as he wrestled with a piece of overly creased paper. "This shouldn’t be that hard! Fold, tape, fold again. How do people do this?"

You tried not to laugh as you watched him; Wyll’s hands were far too big for the small wooden box he was trying to wrap. His brow furrowed deeply as he pulled a strip of ribbon from the ball, only to somehow manage to tie it to his fingers—and then, with shocking precision, his whole palm became firmly affixed to the paper.

“Uh…help?” Wyll said, sheepishly holding up his hand, now cocooned in wrapping paper and ribbon. He wiggled his fingers, unable to escape his accidental gift-trap. “This was not part of the plan.”

You covered your mouth, your shoulders shaking with laughter. “How did you even—? Wyll, are you trying to wrap yourself?”

“Apparently,” he sighed with a dramatic groan, though the smile on his face told you he wasn’t really upset. “The Blade of Frontiers: slayer of fiends, champion of justice…bested by ribbons and paper.”

“Hang on,” you said, crawling over to help free him. “I’ll rescue you, O mighty hero.”

Before you could finish untangling him, however, you got distracted. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted one of the toy wooden trains meant for the children—a quaint little thing, painted red and green, its wheels polished and ready to roll. Without thinking, you picked it up, running it back and forth on the floor with a soft click-clack sound.

Wyll raised a brow, his hand still half-wrapped like a bizarre festive mitten. “Are you seriously playing with the orphans’ toys right now?”

“I’m testing it for quality,” you replied innocently, rolling the train along an invisible track. “We want them to be happy, don’t we?”

He snorted, watching you for a moment before shaking his head and finally freeing his hand from the ribboned trap. “Maker’s breath, you’re worse than me. Come on—we’re supposed to be getting back on track.”

You sighed and set the train aside, giving him a sheepish grin. “You’re right, back to work.”

However, as you grabbed another roll of ribbon, inspiration struck. Wyll was still sitting there with his horns through his hair, utterly unaware of the devious sparkle in your eyes. Quiet as a whisper, you scooted closer, ribbons in hand.

“What are you doing?” Wyll asked, narrowing his eyes as you leaned toward him.

“Nothing,” you said sweetly, fighting back laughter as you began tying a festive red ribbon onto one of his horns. Wyll froze, a mix of amusement and bewilderment crossing his face.

“Wait. Are you decorating me?” His voice was incredulous, though he didn’t move to stop you.

“Yes,” you replied matter-of-factly, adjusting the bow so it sat perfectly. “Hold still—you’ll ruin my work.”

He huffed dramatically, though his grin betrayed him. “This is absurd. I’m not a…a tree.”

“No, you’re better than a tree,” you said with a wink, tying another bow to the opposite horn. “You’re the most festive champion Faerûn has ever seen.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but when you leaned back to admire your handiwork—bright ribbons trailing from his horns—he started laughing. The deep, rich sound filled the room, infectious and warm.

“If anyone walks in and sees me like this…,” Wyll said, his cheeks flushed as he pulled a loose piece of ribbon from his lap.

“They’ll know you’re the life of the party,” you teased, sitting back with a smug grin. “Besides, it suits you.”

Wyll’s eyes softened as he looked at you, his smile lingering. “You’re lucky I adore you.”

“By the gods I am,” you said with a cheeky wink, grabbing another ribbon and waving it like a threat. “Now hold still—I’m thinking of adding some bells next. Ooh! And a star!”

Wyll groaned dramatically, but he couldn’t stop smiling as you playfully reached for him again. For all the mess and chaos, the two of you sat there surrounded by wrapping paper and laughter, the firelight flickering warmly across the room. It was imperfect, clumsy, and entirely yours—exactly how a holiday together should be.

Halsin:

The grove was finally still, the soft hush of evening settling over the festivities. After hours of chaos—distributing presents to bright-eyed orphans, sharing stories by the fire, and ensuring everyone was warm, fed, and smiling—you and Halsin found a moment to simply be. The two of you had retreated to the great oaken hall, where a large pine tree still stood, its branches weighed down with simple ornaments and twinkling lights. The room smelled of pine resin and the faint embers of a dying hearth fire.

With a contented sigh, you collapsed onto a bench, leaning heavily into Halsin, your body still buzzing from the day’s busyness. He chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating through his chest as he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“You did well today,” Halsin murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “The children’s laughter… their joy. It was worth every moment of chaos.”

You hummed in agreement, eyes fluttering closed. “It was a perfect Christmas, but exhausting.”

“Indeed,” Halsin said, a teasing edge to his voice. “Though you seem to have missed one thing.”

You cracked open one eye, looking up at him suspiciously. “What? No way. We double-checked the list. Twice.”

Halsin’s lips twitched into a small smile as he nodded toward the tree. “Look again, my heart.”

With a groan, you hauled yourself upright and stumbled over to the tree. Sure enough, tucked just beneath its branches was a small box wrapped in green paper and tied with twine. You blinked, suddenly alert, and picked it up. A gift tag dangled from the twine, with your name scrawled across it in Halsin’s neat, unmistakable handwriting.

You turned around, holding the box aloft and fixing him with an accusing glare. “Halsin. We already exchanged our gifts this morning.”

The archdruid smiled serenely, utterly unrepentant. “I may have planned ahead.”

With a mix of curiosity and suspicion, you sat back down next to him, carefully untying the twine and peeling back the paper. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft moss, was a delicate silver necklace. The pendant was small but exquisitely crafted: a single snowdrop flower, petals inlaid with white enamel, and a tiny glimmering gemstone at its center.

You froze, your fingers trembling as you held it up, the light catching on its intricate details. A lump formed in your throat. Snowdrops—symbols of hope, of rebirth, of beauty in the harshest winters.

“Halsin…” you breathed, barely able to get the words out.

He watched you with infinite warmth, his large hand coming to rest gently on your knee. “It is a small thing, but meaningful. When I saw it, I thought of you: a rare light in the coldest times. It seemed fitting.”

Your chest tightened, emotion swelling as you turned the pendant over in your hand. You knew Halsin well enough to understand the significance of this. He was no fan of crowded cities—the noise, the smells, the clamor of it all. For him to have gone into the heart of one, just to find this for you, made the gift all the more precious.

“You went into the city for this?” you asked, your voice soft, incredulous.

Halsin gave you a sheepish smile, as if the idea of it were no great feat. “I did. I cannot deny it tested my patience, but you are worth that and more.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly wiped at them with your sleeve.

“You big softie,” you choked out, trying to tease him but failing miserably as your voice wavered. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently, reaching to take the necklace from your hand. “Here. Allow me.”

You turned your back to him, sweeping your hair aside as his warm, calloused fingers brushed against your skin. He clasped the necklace around your neck, the cool metal settling just above your collarbone. When you turned back to him, his eyes softened as they took you in, the snowdrop resting perfectly against your chest.

“It suits you,” he said softly, his voice low and reverent.

You managed a watery smile, blinking against the tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know how you keep topping yourself, but this… it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Halsin chuckled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You flatter me, my heart. But perfection is fleeting. This moment, however…” He reached up, his thumb brushing a tear away from your cheek. “…this moment I will treasure.”

You couldn’t help but laugh through the tears, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Halsin pulled you against him, his embrace strong and grounding, his chin resting atop your head as you breathed him in—the smell of pine, earth, and warmth.

“I should scold you for making me cry,” you murmured into his shoulder.

“And yet you haven’t,” Halsin teased softly.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your lips curling into a smirk. “Because you’re lucky I love you.”

He grinned, his eyes bright and filled with love as he leaned forward to kiss you—a kiss slow and lingering, full of warmth and tenderness. Outside, the wind howled and snow fell steadily, but in this moment, everything was still and perfect.

Credit to @tsunami-of-tears for the super cute dividers !

The gentlemen as promised! Hope you guys enjoyed this, will hopefully get back to requests now I just really wanted to make sure I got something christmassy out before the holiday is over. - Seluney xox

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

[darkurgetrash]

🎄 Umm, yeah, sure Rolan. 🎄

Bonus HD Rolan regretting his life choices:

[thechaoticdruid]

Merry early Christmas y'all. Sorry for the lack of updates so here's an Astarielf to put on your shelf.

[ellekhen]

The stars in between.

Chapter 3 - Gifts

(Happy holidays, folks! Cozy Churchstarion continues.)

Chapter Summary: Astarion finds the warmth of his former companions’ company by the fire, although he is again intimidated by the gifts Church has lovingly crafted for them. But before Astarion can find another excuse to wallow, Church steals him away for a dance — as well as yet another precious moment for just them.

Excerpt below:

A warm hand slips into Astarion’s, squeezing it.   “Everyone seems so happy,” Church says softly, resting his head against his partner’s shoulder.  “As do you,” Astarion murmurs, smiling down at him. For the most part, it’s true. But the tiefling still seems preoccupied by something. “What’s troubling you, my dear?” “Ah, nothing,” Church lies.  “Darling, you’ve hardly eaten a thing all night,” Astarion chides him. “Don’t think I haven’t been watching.” He grabs one of Mrs. Dekarios’s fruit tartlets and holds it up to the protesting tiefling’s mouth — insistently.  “Eat,” he commands. “It’s no wonder you haven’t been holding your drinks well.” “Fine,” Church grumbles, taking a messy bite of the tart from the elf’s hand. “Ugh. Delicious.” He lets Astarion shove the rest into his mouth, grinning as he watches the tiefling chew it happily.  “Honestly, how do you manage without me?” Astarion scolds him as he swallows, brushing away the crumbs.  “No idea,” Church smiles at him, warmly. “Dance with me?” “What?” the elf blinks.  “Dance with me!” Church laughs, pulling the rogue over to where Wyll leaps and spins somewhere beyond the fire. 

Read more on Ao3!

...or, start from the beginning!

[thrawns-babygirl]

He's grumpy but in the Christmas spirit (reluctantly)

Original image from @hourlyastarion

[vargassdottir]

This video literally had me in stitches 😂 love that the cast decided to do this!

Baldur's Gate 3: Christmas Gift

[sofi-thunder]

Happy new year ^*^

[vvagoley]

So who's gonna be the first for a kiss under the mistletoe? 😘

[lesbianshadowheart]

[legomocfodder]

It's actually not withers. It's Geoff from the Christmas animation Larian put out

The 6 origin companions from Baldur's Gate 3

Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, Gale, Wyll, and Karlach

I tried to base these minifigs off of their default looks right at the beginning of the game, that's why Wyll doesn't have his horns yet (and I couldn't find a good way to do them)

[oolong---latte]

blood red

[moonselune]

🎄A Very BG3 Ladies Christmas 🎄

Karlach:

The cottage was alive with the warmth of anticipation and the smell of a Christmas dinner in the making. The air was fragrant with roasting vegetables, a hint of spiced cider simmering on the stove, and the rich, buttery aroma of a pie baking in the oven. The small Christmas tree in the corner stood proudly, adorned with mismatched trinkets and tinsel—an endearing chaos that spoke of love and effort rather than precision. You hummed a cheerful yuletide tune as you stirred the gravy, your mind lost in the rhythm of preparation.

Outside, the steady thwack of an axe splitting wood echoed through the snow-covered landscape. Karlach had insisted on chopping wood, declaring that no infernal engine-powered warrior was going to let a little cold stop her. Occasionally, a loud curse or exclamation of triumph would ring out, bringing a smile to your face.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a gust of icy wind, snowflakes tumbling inside like tiny invaders. Karlach filled the doorway, her broad frame outlined against the snowy backdrop, steam rising from her in wispy tendrils as her infernal engine battled the chill. She stomped her boots on the mat, shaking off the snow, and let out a loud, exuberant curse.

“Hellfire and holly berries, it smells amazing in here!” she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of you. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly damp from melted snow, and she carried an armful of wood, which she promptly dumped by the fire.

You turned, laughing, wiping your hands on a dishtowel. “Karlach! You’re bringing half the snow inside with you!”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she practically bounded across the room to your side.

“Forget the snow—what are you making? It smells like heaven in here!” Her voice was full of wonder as she peeked over your shoulder at the pots and pans.

“It’s a practice run for Christmas dinner,” you explained, still smiling. “I wanted to make sure everything turns out right for the big day.”

“Well, let me be your taste-tester,” she declared, already reaching for a spoon. You playfully swatted her hand away but couldn’t stop laughing as her persistence wore you down.

One by one, you let her sample everything—the velvety mashed potatoes, the savory gravy, the tender roasted vegetables, and even a bite of the pie crust you’d saved from earlier. Each taste was met with exaggerated groans of delight and compliments that made your cheeks warm.

“You’re going to spoil your appetite for the actual dinner,” you teased as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Karlach leaned against the counter, her grin widening. “Worth it.”

Just as you were about to turn back to the stove, she cleared her throat dramatically.

“You missed something,” she said, her voice full of playful mischief.

You frowned, looking at her in confusion. “What? Did I forget a seasoning?”

Karlach simply gestured upward with a devilish smile. You followed her gaze and froze. Dangling above the two of you, tied hastily with a red ribbon, was a sprig of mistletoe. Your mouth opened in mock indignation.

“When did you even—”

Karlach didn’t give you a chance to finish. She closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, her arms wrapping around your waist as she pulled you close.

“Merry Christmas,” she murmured, her voice warm and soft despite the grin on her lips. Then, with the snow melting in her hair and the scent of Christmas filling the air, she kissed you—a kiss full of love, fire, and all the joy of the season.

As you pulled away, her grin turned cheeky. “Best practice run ever.”

Minthara:

The hearth crackled softly, its warmth radiating across the fur rug where you and Minthara lay intertwined. Limbs tangled effortlessly, her pale, slender fingers tracing lazy circles along your arm as you both held goblets of wine. The flickering firelight painted her silver hair with streaks of gold, her crimson eyes glowing with a rare softness reserved for these quiet moments.

Minthara tilted her head, her lips brushing against yours briefly before she pulled back with a smirk. "So, tell me more about this… Christmas of yours. You say it is a time of joy, but from what you’ve described, it sounds more like an invitation for chaos."

You chuckled, swirling your wine thoughtfully. "Well, it’s a celebration of togetherness, goodwill, and generosity. There are decorations, like holly and mistletoe, feasts, gifts exchanged, and songs sung by the hearth."

She raised a silver brow, clearly unconvinced.

"So, you gather your loved ones in one place, get them drunk on wine and spirits, fatten them with food, and create an air of contentment with gifts and song?" She leaned closer, her expression sharpening with amusement. "If I were in Menzoberranzan, that would be the perfect time to eliminate one's foes. No one would see it coming. Poison in the goblet, a knife between the ribs. A massacre veiled in celebration."

Her words, spoken with an alarming mixture of sincerity and delight, made you burst into laughter. She frowned, watching you with mock offense as your shoulders shook.

"Minthara," you said, catching your breath, "never change."

She huffed softly, though her lips twitched upward. As you turned to refill her goblet, a glint of red and green caught her eye. She plucked a sprig of holly from where it had fallen from the mantlepiece, holding it up with curiosity.

"Is this the plant you mentioned? The one you claim people kiss beneath?"

You glanced at the holly, shaking your head with a grin. "No, that's holly. The plant you're thinking of is mistletoe. It has white berries and hangs in doorways."

Minthara scowled at the holly as if it had personally offended her and tossed it into the fire without a second thought. The flames hissed as they consumed the sprig.

"Useless," she muttered, but her smirk returned as she fixed her gaze on you. "And mistletoe means you must kiss, no matter what? Such an excellent tradition. I like that power."

You reached to brush a strand of her hair away from her face, your voice soft and amused. "Minthara, you don’t need mistletoe to kiss me. You already have that power."

Her eyes narrowed, and her smirk grew predatory. She set her goblet aside and in one fluid motion, she was on top of you, pressing you down into the soft fur beneath. Her fingers curled into your hair as her lips hovered just above yours, her smile wicked yet filled with an undeniable affection.

"I suppose you’re right," she purred, her breath warm against your lips. "But hearing you admit it makes it all the sweeter."

And with that, she kissed you deeply, the fire crackling beside you as the warmth of her affection matched the heat of the hearth. You could only surrender, lost in her intoxicating mix of passion and dominance, silently thanking the universe for the strange, wonderful joy that was Minthara.

Lae'zel:

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warm glow casting flickering shadows across the room. You and Lae’zel sat on a plush rug, sharing a bottle of spiced wine you had brought out in the spirit of the season. Lae’zel’s cheeks were flushed, both from the alcohol and the comfort of the evening, and her usually sharp gaze had softened into something almost dreamlike—though her natural intensity never wavered entirely.

"Tell me more of this… Saint Nick," Lae’zel said, her words slow and slightly slurred. She leaned back, her movements less precise than usual, a rare sight for the disciplined warrior.

You grinned, already halfway through explaining Christmas traditions to her. The concept seemed to fascinate her, though not in the way you’d expected.

"Well," you began, swirling the wine in your cup, "he’s a mysterious figure. He watches over everyone and knows if you’ve been naughty or nice. Then, on Christmas Eve, he sneaks into homes and leaves gifts—or coal, if you’ve been bad."

Lae’zel stared at you, her golden eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"This… Saint Nick judges mortals?" she said, her tone low and dangerous, the way she might speak of an illithid. "He decides who is deserving and who is not? And then he enters your home without challenge?"

You blinked at her, trying not to laugh, but her fiery indignation was already bubbling to the surface.

"Well, yes," you said cautiously, "but it’s a good thing. People leave cookies and milk for him. And he travels the whole world in one night, pulled by a sleigh of flying reindeer."

Lae’zel froze, staring at you as though you’d just revealed some deep, existential threat.

"Flying reindeer?" she repeated slowly, as though tasting the words for the first time. "An army of magical beasts at his command? This is no benevolent figure. This is a tyrant cloaked in merriment and mystery! This… Saint Nick must be stopped."

You burst into laughter, doubling over as Lae’zel rose unsteadily to her feet. She wobbled slightly but held herself upright with the ferocity of sheer will.

"Lae’zel," you choked out between laughs, "it’s not like that—"

"It is exactly like that," she snapped, pointing a finger at you accusingly. "He knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you are awake. What kind of perverse spy is this?" She began pacing—well, swaying more than pacing—her usual commanding movements undermined by the wine.

"To pass judgment on us, he must have some means of divination," she continued, her voice rising dramatically. "And to cover the entire world in one night? That requires an artifact of immense power, or perhaps a pact with some vile entity." She stopped suddenly, glaring at you. "And you celebrate this?"

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tears streamed down your face as you laughed uncontrollably, clutching your sides. "Lae’zel, he’s not… He’s just a legend!"

"A legend that invades homes and enlists magical beasts!" she shot back, wobbling slightly as she pointed at the ceiling. "One of them with a glowing nose? That sounds like a weapon. A means to light the sky and strike terror into his enemies. This is an emergency, tav."

You tried to speak but could only wheeze through your laughter. Lae’zel glared at you, clearly unamused by your mirth.

She crossed her arms, swaying slightly, and declared, "This… Santa shall not enter our home unchallenged. If he dares to come, I will meet him blade in hand and show him the folly of judging Lae’zel of the crèche."

Her dramatic proclamation only made you laugh harder. She stepped closer, leaning down until her face was level with yours.

"Do not laugh," she growled, though there was no true anger in her tone. "You may mock now, but when the sky is filled with reindeer and the tyrant descends, you will thank me for my vigilance."

You gasped for breath, wiping tears from your eyes.

"Lae’zel, I can’t… I can’t breathe…" you managed, your sides aching.

She huffed and sat back down, muttering darkly to herself. "A man who spies on the world and judges mortals. Hmph. He should fear me."

You leaned against her shoulder, still laughing, and she begrudgingly allowed it, though she continued to mutter about "the audacity of Saint Nick" and "the treachery of reindeer." Even drunk, she was a force to be reckoned with, and as absurd as the moment was, you couldn’t help but adore her passion.

By the end of the night, you were both sprawled on the rug, her mutterings fading into soft breaths as she drifted off. You chuckled to yourself, imagining Lae’zel standing guard on Christmas Eve, ready to face Santa Claus himself. As chaotic as it was, it was moments like these that made you fall even more in love with her.

Shadowheart:

Wyll's Christmas party as the Grand Duke was in full swing, the chatter of the guests blending with the faint sound of music and the warm crackle of a nearby hearth. You and Shadowheart had started the evening with the best of intentions—just a drink or two to toast the season. But as the night wore on, the drinks multiplied, and soon enough, you were both laughing louder and leaning on each other a little more than usual.

"We need to sober up," Shadowheart declared at one point, her words slurring ever so slightly. Her silver hair gleamed in the dim light, and her cheeks were flushed from laughter and drink. "We’re champions of the gods, or at least I am. We can't let this… festive nonsense take hoo-miliate us."

You nodded sagely, or as sagely as you could manage, trying to appear serious despite the hiccup that punctuated your agreement.

"Food," you said with a dramatic wave of your hand. "We need food. Lots of it. I’ll meet you in the cloakroom."

With that, you both set off on your respective missions, weaving through the throngs of merry partygoers with the determination of someone attempting a noble quest. You managed to swipe an entire tray of vol-au-vents from the buffet table, dodging a suspicious glance from the server as you disappeared into the hallway.

When you finally reached the cloakroom, precariously balancing your loot, you opened the door to find Shadowheart already there. She was perched on a pile of cloaks, her black dress blending with the dark fabric beneath her, and a plate piled high with food rested in her lap. Her mischievous smile greeted you as she popped a small tart into her mouth.

"Ah, there you are," she said, her voice tinged with amusement. "Impressive haul. Truly, you’re a scavenger after my own heart."

You stumbled into the room, letting the door close behind you as you plopped down beside her on the makeshift throne of cloaks. With a mouth full of food, you gestured proudly at your tray.

"Vol-au-vents," you mumbled, spraying crumbs as you grinned.

Shadowheart looked at your tray and gave an approving nod, but then her smile turned sly.

"Not bad," she admitted, "but I think I’ve outdone you."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as she reached behind her and pulled out a hidden bottle of wine, still corked. She held it up triumphantly, her grin widening as she caught your expression.

"You’re a genius," you said, reverence in your voice as you stared at her with newfound admiration. "I fell in love with a genius."

Shadowheart’s laughter filled the small room, warm and soft, as she handed you the bottle. "Well, don’t just sit there praising me. Open it. Let’s celebrate our brilliance."

You fumbled with the cork, eventually managing to pop it free with a satisfying thunk. The two of you toasted each other, forgetting entirely that this entire plan had been about sobering up. Between bites of stolen party food and sips of wine, the night blurred into a haze of laughter and whispered conversations.

At some point, you leaned your head against Shadowheart’s shoulder, and she rested hers against yours, both of you basking in the warmth of the small room and each other’s presence. The wine bottle lay empty on the floor, surrounded by crumbs and half-eaten vol-au-vents.

It was in this state that Wyll found you hours later. He opened the cloakroom door, intending to grab a spare scarf, and stopped short at the sight before him.

You and Shadowheart were curled up together on the pile of cloaks, both of you sound asleep. Your heads rested against each other, and her arm was draped loosely across your chest. The plate of food had tipped over, scattering crumbs everywhere, and the empty wine bottle glinted in the faint light from the hallway.

Wyll sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement crossing his face.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath. "The two of you are impossible."

He grabbed the nearest cloak, tossed it gently over the two of you, and quietly shut the door, shaking his head as he returned to the party. After all, it was Christmas—he could let you two have your moment.

Jaheira:

The smell of simmering spices and citrus filled the small kitchen, making the chilly winter air beyond the windows seem like a distant memory. You stood side by side with Jaheira, each of you tending to a pot of mulled wine over the crackling fire. Jaheira’s pot was a picture of precision—carefully balanced spices floating atop deep crimson wine, orange slices nestled just right. Yours, on the other hand, was more of a chaotic experiment, and Jaheira’s exasperation was already palpable.

"Now," Jaheira began, her voice steady with the wisdom of a seasoned teacher, "you must be patient. The key to good mulled wine is balance. Too much cinnamon, and it overpowers the rest. Too little, and it lacks warmth. Watch carefully as I—what are you doing?"

You glanced over guiltily, holding a small pinch of dried chili flakes above your pot.

"I thought it could use a little kick," you said with a sheepish smile.

Jaheira pinched the bridge of her nose. "Spiced wine is already warm. It does not need to burn the throat as well."

You shrugged. "It’ll be fine," you assured her, dropping the flakes in anyway. "I trust my instincts."

Jaheira’s lips pressed into a thin line, though you could see the flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Your instincts are going to ruin perfectly good wine," she muttered, returning her focus to her pot. "Pay attention to the proportions. A single bay leaf. Three cloves. One star anise. Not—" she gestured to your chaotic collection of additions, including what looked suspiciously like a sprig of mint, "whatever that is."

"It’s innovation!" you countered, adding a drizzle of honey without measuring.

"It’s madness," Jaheira replied, shaking her head. Still, there was a fondness in her tone as she stirred her pot with practiced grace.

You worked in silence for a while, sneaking glances at Jaheira’s meticulous process. Her hands moved with such certainty, each motion deliberate and confident. She was as commanding in the kitchen as she was on the battlefield, and you couldn’t help but admire her.

"Are you paying attention?" she asked suddenly, catching you watching her.

"Of course," you said quickly, though your pot told a different story. It bubbled ominously, the array of ingredients battling for dominance in a way that was decidedly unbalanced.

Jaheira sighed. "I’ve never met someone so determined to ruin a simple recipe," she said, but there was a softness in her voice that betrayed her amusement.

Finally, both pots were ready. You ladled some of your concoction into a mug and took a tentative sip, trying not to grimace as the chaotic blend of flavors assaulted your tongue. The chili was overpowering, the honey cloying, and the mint—why had you added mint?—was an unmitigated disaster.

Jaheira arched a brow, waiting for your verdict.

"Well?" she asked, the faintest smile playing on her lips.

"It’s, uh…" you hesitated, searching for the least damning word. "…Bold?"

Jaheira laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. "Bold is one word for it. Let me guess—too much chili?"

"Maybe a little," you admitted, setting the mug down and reaching for hers. "Can I try yours?"

"Be my guest," she said, handing you her mug with a triumphant look.

You took a sip, and your eyes widened as the flavors unfolded on your tongue. It was perfection—the warmth of cinnamon, the depth of cloves, the subtle sweetness of honey, and the brightness of citrus all working in harmony. It was everything mulled wine should be, and then some.

"Jaheira," you said, your voice almost reverent, "this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted."

Her expression softened, pleased with your praise, but before she could reply, you added with a grin, "Well, second best. You’ll always be number one."

Her cheeks flushed slightly, though she maintained her composure.

"Really?" she said, her voice laced with mock disapproval. "My children are around."

"Your children are always around, there are thousands of them." You chuckled, leaning in closer. "But I don’t see any now."

"That is beside the point," Jaheira said, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She took the mug from you and set it down before pointing a stern finger at your chest. "Next time, you follow my instructions to the letter. No improvising."

"Yes, ma’am," you said with a grin, earning an eye-roll and a small smile from her. You pout at her and move in, capturing her lips in a stolen - festive- kiss.

Credit to @tsunami-of-tears for the super cute dividers !

A little festive treat for you all, there will be a boys version coming up. I am getting back into writing after all the chaos that has been my personal life these past few weeks. So hope you guys enjoy it !! - Seluney xox

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

[ria-neearts]

🎁

[thechaoticdruid]

I got him a lil hat for Christmas. Gonna go put him on a shelf now because those little elf on a shelf dolls give me the creeps.

[ellekhen]

The stars in between.

Chapter 1 - Provisions

(Happy holidays, folks! It’s time for some cozy Churchstarion.)

Chapter Summary: Years after the events of the game, Withers invites Church, Astarion, and their former companions back for yet another party — a festive, cozy, winter Simril celebration! Thrilled at the prospect of seeing all his friends together again, Church takes the opportunity to indulge in a nostalgic tradition of his old village. But once Astarion realizes that this tradition involves giving gifts, he desperately tries to come up with a last-minute gift worthy enough for his partner with help from their friends and a certain (former) god of death.

Excerpt below:

“You’re awfully excited,” the elf observes. “Feeling nostalgic?”

“Hells, yes,” Church laughs. “It’s been literally years now since I’ve been able to celebrate with friends.” He gestures sheepishly at the bags. “I… might have gone a little overboard on gifts.”

Astarion chuckles, but then he sobers in an instant. “‘…gifts?’”

“Yeah,” his partner says, preoccupied as he frowns down at his collection of packages.

“Since when does Simril involve gifts?” Astarion asks, aghast.

“Ah — it was a village thing for Tarrin’s Hearth,” Church waves him away. “Supposedly a tradition to spoil the kids, but as long as I’ve known it, the adults can join in on the fun too…”

He continues to ramble on, but as much as he nods and smiles, Astarion’s stomach begins to squirm. Gifts? He had no idea, and he is very aware that he has nothing to offer Church for the occasion…

Read more on Ao3!