#gale sees them and immediately passes out

[honorablefrogs]

just a sketch of two intelligence 8 disasters in love <3

[avocado-writing]

BG3 companions reacting to Tav calling them mommy/daddy?

huehehehehe >:) writing as if you shout it out in the middle of sex without meaning to - minors DNI.

Astarion

Surprised but super into it? Not necessarily because he likes being called daddy but because he can see how much it turns you on.

“Oh? Do you like it when daddy slides his cock into you, darling?”

You go glassy-eyed immediately and he continues to murmur against your skin as he fucks you, aren’t you doing well for daddy? you want to cum around daddy’s cock, hmm?

You do. Harder than you have in weeks.

Afterwards you apologise that you sort of sprung that on him out of nowhere. He smiles and says it was a wonderful little secret for you to share with him.

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” “Absolutely not, darling. Now let daddy give you a kiss. 😌”

Gale

Fucking flabbergasted lmao. Stops mid-thrust

He has never considered himself a “daddy”…

When you see how baffled he is, you clamp your hands over your mouth. You are mortified.

“I am so, so sorry, Gale…” “No, no, love, it’s fine… but maybe… maybe ‘sir’? Not ‘daddy’?”

Your face splits into a devilish smile. “Oh, I can do that… sir.”

His cock hardens even further and he gets to work fucking you again, with gusto…

Karlach

Grins so so so wide

If you try to cover your face in embarrassment, she pulls your hands away so she can make eye contact.

“Aww, you want mummy to take care of you, darling? Make sure you cum?”

All you can do is nod. She fucks you with such vigour that you think you might be about to pass out.

Afterwards she gives you lots of cuddles and checks that you’re okay with how rough she was (you are. A lot.)

Is definitely happy for you to call her that in bed again…

Shadowheart

Is surprised… but interested.

Gives another thrust of her hips, encouraging you to repeat it, letting you be a little writing mess beneath her.

Will keep prompting you. “Call me that again.” “Mummy…” “Again.” “Mummy…!”

Is a bit smug afterwards, when you’re lying there blissed out of your mind from having cum a lot.

“You know, you could have just told me you wanted to use some pet names, rather than letting it slip out in flagrante delicto…”

Laughs when you’re all flustered, using healing magic to soothe any bruises she’s given you. ❤️

Wyll

Another one not super keen on it, and will tell you so.

He just doesn’t find it particularly sexy? He wants sex to be a sweet and intimate thing and well… if you’re going to use names then…

”can you call me your blade? or the blade of frontiers?”

You apologise for springing the ‘daddy’ on him out of nowhere, but when you begin to whisper about him being your 'brave blade' he gets back into it quickly.

Grab onto his horns while telling him to drive his sword home… he’s putty in your hands.

Both have a healthy discussion about what kinks you are and aren’t into the next day. We LOVE a respectful king 👑

Lae’zel

”What? I am not your mother.” “I know Lae’zel, it’s uhh, a sex thing.” “Oh. Why?”

You then have to explain that it’s sort of about respect and domination. A compliment to someone who’s rocked your world.

She smiles enthusiastically and begins to fuck you again properly. Fucks you so hard that your body aches afterwards.

Pillow talk after: “you may call me that again. I enjoy hearing that you know how well I pleasure you.” “Mmm, thank you for that, Lae’zel.” “You are welcome.”

I think it gets brought up in camp because you didn’t realise how loud you shouted it. Your face is on fire for the whole day. Lae’zel just looks pleased with herself.

Halsin

All the blood goes straight to his cock, if that’s even possible when he’s already inside you. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life before.

He’s been called many things in bed before, but hearing that? From you?

Fucks you with an enthusiasm he didn’t realise he was capable of. You moan and cry out and keep chanting “daddy, daddy, daddy” and he cums so much that it drips out your used little hole all down your legs.

He apologises for his over enthusiasm and checks that you’re alright. You grin and kiss him, and promise to start using that word more…

Minthara

She just smiles, I think, and you know she has you wrapped around her little finger.

She fucks you with what borders on violence, so much force that you actually pass out because you came so hard.

So worth it though.

You wake up in her arms and she’s still grinning, stroking your hair.

”Mummy’s very pleased with you.” This is the only acknowledgment she ever gives of it, but if you bring up the name again in bed, she gives a repeat performance 😌

[moonselune]

You're dark bg3 stuff is amazing, what do you think about the reader getting sick and them ever over reacting or not reacting

Separate idea: Them dressing up with reader like a doll not a person showing how they think about them.

Okay okay, so I did a mix of injured reader and ill reader, feel free to send in the separate idea as an additional request !

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Dark!BG3 | Help (Please don't) !

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

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CW: Controlling, manipulation, murder, arson, coercion, forced memory loss, illness, injury,

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Whether out of defiance or out of poor luck, you are in need of healing, how do they react to this?

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Conqueror Minthara:

The injury happened quickly, too quickly for you to react. In the chaos of the skirmish, a blade had sliced across your side, leaving a deep, ragged gash. You had snuck out of the House and landed yourself in some trouble. You knew Minthara would be furious if she found out, so you did the only thing you could think of: you hid it.

Back in your quarters, you bandaged the wound as best as you could, gritting your teeth against the searing pain. You knew it wasn't enough, but you hoped it would hold until the bleeding stopped. You went about your restricted duties, ignoring the throbbing pain in your side. As the day went on, however, the wound worsened, the edges growing inflamed and hot to the touch. You moved stiffly, every step a reminder of the injury you were concealing.

Minthara was perceptive, always watching, always aware. So it was only a matter of time before she noticed.

As you were preparing for bed, she entered your shared room. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the blood seeping through your bandages and staining your clothes. Her expression turned from curiosity to fury in an instant.

“What is this?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Why did you not tell me?”

You tried to straighten up, to look composed, but the pain was too much. “It’s nothing. I can handle it.”

Minthara crossed the room in a flash, her eyes blazing with anger and something else—something that looked dangerously like panic. She grabbed your arm, forcing you to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Clearly, you cannot,” she hissed, tearing the bandage away with a swift, angry motion. The sight of the infected wound made her pale. “Why did you hide this from me?”

“I didn’t want your help,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Minthara’s eyes softened for a brief moment, a flicker of something almost tender passing through them. She barked orders to the servants to bring hot water and clean cloths, her hands never leaving your arm.

“Minthara, I’m fine,” you tried again, but she silenced you with a glare that could have melted stone.

“Do not speak,” she commanded, her voice cold and unyielding. “You will only make it worse.”

The servants arrived quickly, setting down the supplies before hastily retreating from the room. Minthara’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as she cleaned the wound, her touch precise despite the anger simmering in her eyes. She applied a healing salve, the warmth of the magic easing the pain slightly.

“Y/N, really, why did you not tell me?” she asked again, her voice quieter now but no less insistent.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t want you to see me as weak.”

“You are mine,” she said quietly, her eyes locking onto yours. “Your pain, your wounds—they are my concern. Do not hide anything from me again.”

“I can take care of myself,” you insisted, a weak attempt at retaining some form of independence. “I don’t need you to—”

“Enough,” she interrupted, her voice brooking no argument. “You are not in a position to argue.”

She helped you lie down, her hands lingering on your skin as she pulled the covers over you. You tried to resist, to show that you were still strong, still independent, but the pain and exhaustion were too much. You sank back into the pillows, your body trembling with the effort.

“Rest now,” she murmured, her fingers brushing against your cheek. “You need to heal, and I will ensure that you do.”

She sat by your side, her hand resting lightly on your arm. Her presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the power she held over you. You couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of safety in her presence. Minthara’s fierce protectiveness was a double-edged sword, but for now, it was a comfort you were willing to accept.

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Mother Superior Shadowheart:

Falling ill in the shadowy sanctum of Shadowheart's temple was an unexpected and grueling ordeal. The illness had come on suddenly, a vicious fever that left you weak and disoriented. Shadowheart, usually composed and stoic, transformed into a flurry of anxious care and vigilant oversight, treating you as if you were a fragile, precious doll.

Her concern was overwhelming. She scarcely left your side, tending to your every need with meticulous care, administering potions and checking your temperature frequently. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, were filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

One evening, feeling a fleeting burst of strength, you decided to leave your bed. The air in the room felt stifling, and you yearned for the cool breeze of the temple gardens. You managed to slip out of bed, your legs trembling with the effort, and slowly made your way towards the door.

You had barely reached the threshold when you heard Shadowheart's voice, sharp and filled with a mixture of relief and anger. "What do you think you are doing out of bed?"

Before you could respond, she was at your side, her grip firm but not painful as she took your arm and began to guide you back to your quarters.

"You need to rest," she scolded, her voice low and intense. "You are far too weak to be wandering around."

As she practically dragged you back to your bed, she continued her lecture. "Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You could have collapsed, or worse! The fever could have spiked again, and I might not have been there in time to help you."

You tried to protest, to explain that you just needed a bit of fresh air, but she cut you off, her eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. "No. You are to stay in bed until you are fully recovered. I cannot lose you. Do you understand?"

Her words were both a command and a plea. You nodded, feeling the weight of her worry and care pressing down on you. As she helped you back into bed, her touch was gentle, but her eyes were filled with a steely resolve. Shadowheart sat beside you, her hand resting on your forehead to check for any signs of fever.

"I am doing this for your own good," she said softly, her voice a mixture of exasperation and tenderness. "You mean too much to me to take any risks with your health."

You sighed, realizing that any resistance would be futile. "I understand," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satisfied, she nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "Good. Now rest. I'll be right here if you need anything."

As you lay back, exhaustion overtaking you once more, you couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. Shadowheart's protectiveness was suffocating, yet her care was undeniable. Despite her strictness, there was a deep affection in her actions, a need to keep you safe at all costs.

Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to relax, the comfort of her presence soothing the lingering anxiety. Shadowheart remained by your side, her vigilant watch never faltering, determined to see you through this illness and ensure your recovery.

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God of Ambition Gale:

Gale's realm, an ethereal expanse of arcane wonders and mystical beauty, had become a gilded cage. After days of being chained to his godly throne, you were finally released, left to wander the opulent halls while he attended to some mortal matters. Boredom gnawed at you as you meandered through the labyrinthine corridors, the silence broken only by the distant hum of magical energies.

Your exploration led you to a dimly lit chamber filled with ancient artifacts and relics. Curious, you began to examine them, marveling at the power and history they held. One object, in particular, caught your eye—a small, intricately designed amulet pulsating with a faint, eerie glow. Drawn to its strange allure, you picked it up, feeling a sudden jolt of energy course through you.

Almost immediately, you knew something was wrong. The amulet's energy began to leech into you, draining your power and leaving you feeling weak and disoriented. Panic set in as your vision blurred, your legs giving way beneath you. You collapsed to the floor, the amulet still clutched in your hand, its malevolent power sapping your strength.

As darkness closed in, you heard Gale’s voice, a mixture of shock and fury, echoing through the chamber. You tried to call out to him, but the words died in your throat as unconsciousness claimed you.

When you finally woke, you found yourself in your ethereal bed, the soft, shimmering sheets cool against your skin. Gale was beside you, his expression one of intense concentration and worry as he tended to you with meticulous care. His hands moved with practiced precision, channeling restorative magic into your weakened body.

"You scared me," Gale admitted, his voice a low murmur. "Although you couldn't die, you would have been imprisoned in that cursed object. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

You managed a weak smile, the familiar tenderness in his eyes reminding you of the mortal Gale you had once known. It made him more bearable, a fleeting glimpse of the man he used to be.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice still shaky. "It’s good to see you care."

He looked at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You are precious to me, more than you know. Losing you would have been unbearable."

For a moment, the godly arrogance faded, replaced by genuine concern and affection. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, his expression hardened once more.

"I never should have let you out of the chains," he said, his tone now cold and commanding. "Clearly, you cannot be trusted on your own."

The warmth you had seen in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze of a god. The fleeting moment of vulnerability was gone, and you realized that the Gale you had once known was buried deep beneath layers of power and control.

You nodded, feeling a pang of sadness. These glimpses of the man he used to be were all you had left, and you would have to savor them whenever they appeared.

As he continued to tend to you, you closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his magic wash over you. For now, you would accept his care, knowing that the moments of tenderness, however rare, were a precious reminder of the love that had once existed between you.

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Ascended Astarion:

Finding yourself alone for the first time in weeks, you eagerly seized the opportunity to venture into the city. The palace, with its grandiose rooms and oppressive atmosphere, had begun to feel like a gilded cage. You longed for a taste of freedom, a moment to reconnect with the world outside Astarion's watchful gaze. Disguised in a cloak and moving through the busy streets, you enjoyed the anonymity that the city offered, if only for a short while.

However, the city held dangers you hadn't anticipated. You had barely turned down a quiet alley when a figure emerged from the shadows. A member of the Gur, a survivor of the massacre Astarion had orchestrated, stood before you. His eyes were filled with a burning hatred, and before you could react, he lunged, driving a wooden stake towards you. It was intended for your heart but in your surprise you had managed to twist away, but the stake drove into your leg instead. The pain was immediate and excruciating, and you collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

"You'll pay for what he did," the Gur spat, his voice trembling with rage. "All of you will."

Summoning every ounce of strength, you managed to fend him off just enough to escape. Bleeding and limping, you made your way back to the palace, each step a searing agony. When you finally stumbled through the grand doors, you were barely conscious, the loss of blood and pain clouding your vision.

Astarion was immediately at your side, his usual composed demeanor shattered by the sight of you.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice a mix of fury and panic.

You could barely speak, each breath a struggle. "Gur… attacked me," you managed to gasp.

Astarion face contorted in fury and quickly scooped you up in his arms and carried you to a nearby chaise. He crouched and inspected the wooden stake.

" Y'know...this wouldn't… be a problem if… if you made me a true vampire… like you promised." You managed to get out, your leg throbbing in agony. Astarion's eyes flashed with anger, and he let out a low, frustrated growl.

"Not this again," he snapped. "I don't have time for your petty complaints."

Before you could argue further, Astarion raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, darkness engulfed you as you lost consciousness.

When you awoke, you were back in the opulent bedroom you shared with Astarion, lying on the soft bed. The stake was gone, and the wound in your leg had been meticulously cleaned and bandaged. Astarion sat beside you, his expression unreadable as he watched you stir.

"You're awake," he said quietly, his tone lacking its usual sharpness. "Good. I was beginning to worry."

You tried to sit up, but Astarion gently pushed you back down. "Don't move. The wound is still healing."

"You knocked me out," you said, the accusation clear in your voice.

Astarion sighed, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "I had to. You were manic, and I needed to get the stake out without causing more damage."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so 'manic' if you kept your promises," you retorted, your voice weak but defiant.

Astarion's eyes darkened, and he looked away. "I will make you a true vampire, but you must trust me. Everything in its time."

You wanted to argue, to demand more, but the exhaustion and pain were overwhelming. Instead, you closed your eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh. Astarion's hand rested on yours, a rare gesture of genuine comfort.

"Rest now," he said softly. "You're safe here. I'll ensure nothing like this happens again."

Despite your anger and frustration, you couldn't deny the relief of being back in the palace, away from the dangers of the city. As you drifted back into a fitful sleep, you wondered if you would ever truly be free of Astarion's control or if you were forever destined to be his dark consort, caught in a web of promises and power.

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Naturist Halsin:

The allure of the forbidden part of the forest was too strong to resist. Despite Halsin’s stern warnings about the dangers lurking within, you couldn't help but venture into its depths, driven by curiosity and a need to prove your independence. The trees grew denser, their branches interwoven like a living labyrinth, and an eerie silence pervaded the air.

You were careful at first, stepping lightly and avoiding any obvious dangers. But your caution wasn't enough. As you pushed past a particularly dense thicket, you felt a sharp sting on your hand. Looking down, you saw a deep scratch from a thorn-covered vine, the flesh around the wound already starting to swell and turn an angry red. Panic set in as the pain intensified, and you knew immediately that the thorn was poisonous.

Reluctant to face Halsin's inevitable scolding, you stumbled back to the grove, clutching your throbbing hand. Desperation drove you to his work area, where you began to tear through his meticulously organized supplies, searching for an antidote or anti-toxin. Herbs and vials clattered to the ground, your movements growing more frantic with each passing second.

"What do you think you're doing?" Halsin's voice, calm but laced with amusement, startled you. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised in a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation.

You quickly hid your injured hand behind your back, trying to compose yourself. "Nothing, just… looking for something."

Halsin's eyes narrowed as he took in the mess you'd made. "Is that so? Show me your hand."

You shook your head, backing away slightly. "It's nothing, really."

He sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You can't fool me. Show me your hand, now."

You tried to make a break for it, but Halsin was quicker. With a firm grip, he pulled your hand from behind your back, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the inflamed wound.

"I warned you about that part of the forest," he scolded, his tone a blend of frustration and concern. "Why must you always ignore my advice?"

You winced, both from the pain and his reprimand. "I just… I wanted to see for myself."

Halsin shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he examined the wound. "You're fortunate it wasn't something more deadly."

With practiced ease, he began to mix herbs and apply a salve to your hand, his touch gentle despite his stern expression. The relief was almost immediate, the burning pain subsiding as the antidote took effect.

"You need to be more careful," Halsin lectured, his voice softer now. "I may be able to heal you, but there are some things even I can't fix if you continue to be reckless."

You nodded, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "I'm sorry. I should have listened to you."

He finished bandaging your hand and looked at you, his eyes softening. "Just promise me you'll be more cautious in the future. I don't want to see you hurt."

"I promise," you said, genuinely contrite.

Halsin gave a small nod, satisfied for the moment, he brought up your injured hand to hiss lips and pressed a kiss to them. "Good. Now, return to our bed, you need rest."

"But I- Halsin!" Halsin, fed up of your combatance carried you over his shoulder, leaving the mess of his work area behind him as he carried you to your bed.

You tried to protest, to wriggle out of his grip but his hold on you was strong. He placed you down on the array of furs and pillows and before you could realise what he was doing he had already wildshaped into his bear form. He pinned your chest with a large paw and quickly settled, not excactly on top of you, but there was no way you would be able to leave. Sleep soon took you ,and you didn't put it past Halsin to have put something in the salve he used to treat your wound to have caused it.

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This series has been going so well and thank you so much everyone for your continued support! - Seluney xox

[brotherwtf]

Thoughts of Gale becoming almost unhealthily attached to John curls and longer hair because in the stalag when it was forced to grow out it became such a comfort for Gale, to stroke it and thread his fingers through it. We see that it got a lot shorter between being in the camp and meeting Gale at Thorpe Abbotts, so when Gale sees the short hair for the first time he kind of…freezes, goes offline a little, because he’s already feeling so lost and ungrounded and now one of his little lifelines is gone and he’s frustrated at himself because it’s such a stupid thing to be upset about but he’s already really struggling and now that comfort is gone and he didn’t realize how much he depended on it. Eventually John gets all this out of him and his heart breaks a little, telling Gale he’ll grow it out as soon as he can, and cuddles him more often.

yes definitely John's curls are MY lifeline too can't live without em

maybe it all started when John came into the compound all beaten and bloody, hair matted with blood that it plastered to the side of his head and Gales so off kilter that he steps right to the front of the line and demands to wash John himself, he has to be the one to do it or he'll start to come undone (he'll never admit this ever)

it was a blessing and a curse to wash John, it was horrifying to see how much blood came out with every pass through of water but it calmed Gale to no degree to run his fingers through it, to pull out all of the tangles while he just listened to John's breathing, listened to the brief comments John would make about this dump or about how cold the water was, but it was the most centered Gale had felt to this point just running his fingers through John's hair

he did it in the bitter cold of the winter nights as well, John would nestle into Gale's chest and Gale's hands would immediately go to his hair, he hates how it's not as fluffy or as soft as it was on base but they're still John's curls, still his beautiful hair that Gale absolutely loves

Gale would never admit it but his hands itched when he was back on base and he didn't have anything to do with his fingers, John wasn't there with his beautiful head of curls to center Gale so he started to come undone again, started to freak out even though he was out of the Stalag, was out of that nightmare

their first reunion back on base, they both had their caps on, Gales wayward locks were trapped underneath and he hoped John's were too, until John casually pulled his cap off and Gale saw it was back to regulation length, curling ever so slightly on his forehead but not bunching on his neck, not swooping over his ears like it was in the Stalag, and Gale's hands itched ever the more and he felt his heart pounding like he was flying a mission again and cursed himself for how fucking stupid he felt

it's just hair, it's just Johns hair, it would grow back, but it wasn't the same, it wouldn't be the same until it did grow back because Gale's fingers were long and slender and when he ran his fingers through John's beautiful curls he had enough length to play with, this was not nearly enough and he finds his chest hurting, finds his breath shortening and John of course notices, the intuitive bastard and pulls him aside, asks what's wrong

"'S stupid," Gale mutters, looking down at his shaking hands

John grabs them, of course, to still them and brings the back of Gales hands up to his lips, pressing a chapped kiss to them that almost brings Gale back to earth, almost

"don't say that, doll, if it's bothering you it can't be stupid," John says, running his thumb over the back of Gale's hand in comfort

Gale shakes his head and looks down at their entwined hands, it's good but it's not good enough

"It's just.... your hair... it's short now," Gale manages and he looks away in shame when he gets the words out

John understands it all of course, he'll always understand his Gale, and he just smiles a little sadly, leans forward so he can press their foreheads together

"I know, I hate it too, it's all scratchy and too short for me. I promise, doll, I'll grow it out as soon as I can and then I'll be yours for all hours of the day," John whispers, huffing a laugh into Gale's face that forces the tiniest grin from him, which John of course kisses happily

when they get back to the states and get a little place of their own together, John makes sure to hide all of the scissors and razors and just lets his hair grow, lets it get long and fluffy and of course Gale loves every bit of it, won't keep his fingers out of John's hair if he can help it :)) good Lord the sweetness what if I melt

[dancingbirdie]

I saw you did a new submission for Astarion. Is it okay if I ask for another thing for Astarion who’s very submissive and whiny for your touch?

Hi anon! I hope I did your request justice. I was feeling a little angsty today and this is what came out. Feel free to submit another request if this didn't scratch your itch, so to speak.

As always, comments and reactions are appreciated.

xoxoxo

Bring Me Back

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x gn!Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings/Tags: Oral sex (Astarion receiving), slight hand/finger kink, body worship, mentions of blood & gore, trauma/trauma response, disassociation, fluff and angst and smut, p0rn with a little plot.

Summary: Astarion just needs some love and comfort from you after a particularly brutal fight.

*****

There was blood on his hands. Too much. Dried and crusted, saturating the wrinkles around his knuckles. He sat on the edge of the bed you were sharing, hands limp in his lap. 

He’d killed so many today. You all had, but he more so than anyone else. It had been a vicious battle, the reality of which seemed to be sinking into his bones now. 

“Astarion?” you ventured carefully. You were carrying in a water pitcher and basin you had pilfered from the cook’s quarters downstairs. 

He didn’t seem to register your voice. You tried again, moving cautiously to kneel on the floor before him. 

“Astarion?”

“Hmm?” he responded, his glassy eyes finally sharpening enough to take you in. “Oh, apologies, darling. My mind… it must’ve wandered.”

“Are you feeling all right?” you probed in a low murmur. 

“I feel…,” he trailed off, his head shifting to stare vacantly out the dingy window near the bedside. “Numb.”

“Numb?” you echoed.

“Mm. Disconnected, more like,” he amended distractedly. 

“Hm, I see,” you replied, unsure of what more there was to say. 

Certainly you could understand the feeling. And certainly it was justified, after the carnage you all had wrought today. No matter how noble the cause, things had still ended in a tide of blood and viscera. 

You were at a loss for how to comfort him. But the rational part of your brain settled on addressing the most immediate problem before you. Namely, the blood on his hands. 

“Astarion,” you soothed, waiting until he turned back to look down at you again. “I’d like to clean up your hands before we rest.”

He stared at you blankly. Then slowly, his gaze drifted down to his hands. He turned them over, palms up, studying them absently.

“Is that okay? Can I touch you?” you pressed. 

You knew his displeasure in being touched without warning. You’d seen his reactions frequently enough, on the road with your other companions. Each clap on the shoulder from Gale. Each good-natured shove from Karlach. His response was subtle, but not lost on you. He would grimace and shrink away. Every time.

“Touch me?” he repeated now, brows upturned.

“Yes,” you nodded. “To clean your hands of the blood, love.”

He shuddered. You watched as his fingertips twitched. His bottom lip trembled. 

“Please,” he uttered in a broken plea. 

You nodded again and set to work. Gingerly, you lifted each hand, cradling it with reverence. You passed the rag soaked in tepid, rose-scented water over each digit, in between them. You swiped under each nail, over each knuckle, clearing his fingers of blood, one by one. You soothed over his palms, over the patchwork of calluses on the pads of fingers, over the delicate skin of the backside of his palms. He watched you in silence as you carried out your cleaning, mesmerized. 

The basin was colored deep crimson by the time you finished. Grabbing a dry cloth, you patted his hands dry. You squeezed them both gently before moving to release them. You prepared to stand and get yourself ready for rest. 

But Astarion stopped you. His hands, once limp while you were caring for him, suddenly clutched yours desperately. Your eyes whipped up to meet his in surprise. They were limned in tears that had yet to fall. 

“Please,” he whispered in a desperate sort of voice. A whine, almost. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop touching me.”

You swallowed thickly, unsure of what to make of his plea. 

He plunged ahead at your reticence. “I can’t… I want to be here. In this moment. But I can’t find my way back,” he croaked. 

His voice, so broken, so desolate, was rending your heart in two. It was more than you could bear. 

“Touch me,” he begged. “Bring me back. Please.”

You nodded, never breaking eye contact, as you rose from your crouched position on the floor before him. Tears streamed silently down both of your faces. Neither of you made a move to wipe them away. 

Slowly, carefully, you urged him to shift back on the bed as your legs parted to straddle him. Perched atop his lap, you threaded your fingers through his silvery locks. Pulled on them slightly. Tugged at them until he groaned. 

His hands grasped your hip bones, hard enough that you were sure there would be finger-shaped bruises there tomorrow. You didn’t mind. You would cherish them, those marks from your lover. 

“Come back to me, love. Come back to me,” you whispered in between hot, open-mouthed kisses. Your tongues danced together, like old friends.

You nipped at the hollow place near his clavicle. You sucked on the skin where his neck met his shoulder. His needy, breathy whines only goaded you further. You hoped the fire that was igniting in your veins would transfer to his. If the way his hips were canting into you was any indication, you were both tinderboxes itching to be set ablaze. 

“Be here. Be here, in this moment with me,” you crooned in his ear, rolling your hips into his. You were both still fully dressed, but your bodies crested and fell together in perfect timing. A practice performance for what was to come. 

“Yes, yes,” Astarion keened, as you slipped a hand to brazenly rub the flat of your palm against his erection. The fabric of his breeches was strained to the point of stretching. 

“I’m here,” he panted. “I’m here.”

“Good, stay with me, I want to taste you,” you whispered. “Come back to me, let me taste you.”

“Fuck, please,” he moaned, his head drooping onto your shoulder. He was so pliant in this moment, like putty in your hands.

“Lie back,” you ordered, nudging him backwards with your body. “Untie your breeches.”

“Yes,” he agreed, all too eager to follow your command. Chest heaving, he reclined further back onto the bed. His fingers quickly set to work on freeing himself from his leathers. 

“That’s it, darling, yes,” you cooed, watching him bare himself before you. “Stay here with me. Watch me. Watch me keep you here.”

“Gods, yes, yes,” Astarion whined, lifting his head to witness you take him fully in your mouth. 

“Fuck,” you heard him bark wantonly above you. Felt his hips cant himself deeper into your mouth, until your lips were meeting the base of him. 

His dulcet whimpers and moans were music to your ears. As you worshiped him with your mouth. As you caressed him lovingly back into his body, back into this moment, back into this bed with you. 

You could sense he was close to climax as his hands gripped your hair tighter and tighter. You swirled your tongue around him with greater fervor, teasing him closer and closer to the edge. 

“Let me come in your mouth, please, darling, please,” he keened, hips bucking erratically against you. 

Refusing to bring him down from this high with words, you met his eyes and nodded your assent, gripping his thighs tighter as if to say go on then, love. 

And he did. He spilled himself down your throat in delicious pulses. You swallowed every bit, relishing his release as if it were your own. 

With a soft pop of your lips, you released him. Licked him clean, before stretching out to lie on the bed beside him.

His chest was heaving as he recovered. You delicately traced the muscles of his abdomen as he came to. After a few moments, he lifted a hand to clasp your fingers. Stilled them with his own as they interlaced on his chest. 

“Did you find your way back?” you whispered. 

He turned his head to look at you. His lips upturned in a quiet, muted sort of smile. 

“Thanks to you,” he returned quietly. “I’m here again. Here with you.”

[nrvcntr]

My Lover is Like

hey remember how i said i'd write that fic about tav coming from a noble background and having a riddle that someone has to answer to date her and no one ever gets it right and then years later she tells gale and he knows immediately? anyway here it is

There are certain scents that bring back memories - warm grass on a summer’s day, fresh linens placed on a bed, and of course, the sickly sticky burn of a bottle of plum fizz, shared among friends. Astarion recoiled after he sniffed the open bottle, his nose scrunched in horror.

“You can’t be serious,” He said.

“You’re being dramatic. It isn’t that bad,” You replied.

You had found a crate full of bottles on your last trek and dragged it back to the campsite, anticipating a heroic welcome at your generous haul. It was nearing sunset and it seemed as good of a time as any to see what the contents of the crate were. Upon cracking the crate open, your eyes lit up at the sight of bottles on bottles of plum fizz. This had been the drink that defined your adolescence as a noble in Baldur’s Gate. It immediately brought back memories of revelry, singing songs next to bonfires, and a young Wyll Ravengard throwing up in the street. You pulled out a bottle and handed it to Astarion, who had reacted like a man who never knew the joys of noble debauchery.

“It smells like it could raise something from the dead and then kill it again,” He said, handing the bottle back to you.

“Look, we used to drink this all the time when we were kids. It’s like a rite of passage among children of nobility in Baldur’s Gate.”

Wyll, overhearing the conversation, came over to see what you were so impassioned about. At the sight of the bottle in your hand, he recoiled like someone had just smacked him upside the head.

“No. Get that thing away!” He shouted, shaking his hands.

“Oh, stop it. I remember you used to beg to play fizzy hands when we were younger,” You said.

“Fizzy hands.” Astarion said flatly, “What sort of braindead activity is fizzy hands?”

You raised your brow to Wyll, who explained that “fizzy hands” was the beloved drinking game of your youth, where a small magical seal was applied to two bottles of plum fizz, which an individual would hold. The seal wouldn’t break until both bottles were consumed.

“Fizzy hands leads to fizzy guts, which leads to…a fizzy mess, in the street. You couldn’t pay me to take a sip of that now.” Wyll said.

You looked around the campsite and gestured to Gale, who had been beginning the preparations for dinner so intently that he hadn’t noticed the failing case you were trying to make in favor of plum fizz.

“It’s nice to know that your taste in wine is nearly as bad as your taste in men,” Astarion mused, causing you to shoot him a farcefully menacing look. Your affections for Gale were no secret, and the two of you had shared an intimate moment in the Weave, but you were unsure of your current status, or even whether he really returned your feelings. You had begun to write it off as a passing fancy, something to daydream about during long days of traveling. Though, there was no hiding how much you enjoyed being around the man, your conversations often dragging well into the night after everyone else had fallen asleep. You had never met anyone else who seemed to understand you the way that Gale did, or whose company you enjoyed nearly half as much.

“You’re a man of taste, and you’re knowledgeable about wine. Can you settle a debate for us?” You asked Gale when he walked over.

“A glass of wine sounds delightful this evening. What’s the topic of debate?” He asked.

“Astarion and Wyll may not be as cultured as you and I. Just tell them about the fine properties of this blend,” You said, trying to communicate ‘please, say this tastes good’ in your expression as you poured a glass and handed it over.

Gale swirled the glass and his eyes widened at the scent. To his credit, he took an honest sip and racked his brain for something kind to say about it. “It has notes of…berry. And cinnamon. And…” He couldn’t do it. “Acid. It tastes like it would eat a hole through a table if you spilled some on it. Do the youth of Baldur’s Gate really ingest this willingly?” He asked.

You threw your hands up.

“Poor taste, the lot of you. It cannot be helped.”

After dinner, Astarion sauntered over to you, two glasses of plum fizz in hand.

“A drink together. Sort of a truce,” He said.

You were suspicious, but took the glass in hand. The spicy, bitter, sweet, and confusing concoction ran down your throat and made your stomach feel hot. Astarion’s glass was already empty, and he poured you both another. By the time you realized that Astarion had been pouring his drinks out to get you to continue drinking, you were drunk enough to begin telling stories of your youth in Baldur’s Gate.

“So, after Wyll threw up in the street -”

“Can you please stop talking about that. I have plenty of embarrassing stories I could tell at your expense, you know. Lock.” Wyll said pointedly.

“Lock?” Shadowheart asked.

You covered your face, feeling a burning sensation creep up your cheeks.

“What none of you realize is that our beloved companion here was once the most eligible bachelorette in Baldur’s Gate nobility. Her family was wealthy and she was beautiful, intelligent, and charming…”

“Whatever happened?” You asked, making yourself laugh.

“However, she never took a partner. Singles of all creeds, genders, and races tried, but no one could get through to her. So, she began to be known as ‘the lock of Baldur’s Gate’. And, what opens a lock but a key? And the key to her heart was to answer a riddle,” Wyll explained with a dramatic flourish.

“A riddle? How droll. That’s a little…presumptuous, don’t you think?” Astarion asked. You shrugged.

“Why a riddle?” Karlach asked.

“I didn’t want to end up with someone who was a complete dunce,” You joked. It was a half-truth, since the whole truth would have disrupted the mood of revelry among your companions.

“Well, do we get to hear it?” Shadowheart asked.

You leaned back and looked at the faces of your companions. Wyll shook his head, having heard this question lamented among the singles of Baldur’s Gate throughout his youth.

“What is loving Taglath like?” You asked, the question rolling off of your tongue like a well-rehearsed line.

“What a stupid question!” Astarion huffed, rolling his eyes. He had no idea what the answer could be.

“Oh, do you know the answer, then? Since it’s so stupid,” You said, unable to wipe the smirk off of your face. It always delighted you to stump someone with the riddle, and it delighted you even more to watch them struggle with it.

“What is loving like?” You repeated, prodding Astarion for the answer.

“Darling, loving you is like poison seeping through my veins,” Astarion said, pretending to be a romantic poet, his hand gripping his chest, “- and it kills me to be parted from you,” He added, taking your hand in his icy cold grasp.

“Very sweet, but no,” You responded.

Everyone laughed, getting a little chuckle out of Astarion’s foolishness.

“Oh come on, it’s not like any of you geniuses know the answer,” Astarion said, raising a brow to the group. He looked around at their curious faces and wonders aloud, “Do you?”

“Uh, I don’t remember my childhood. Much less silly poems,” Shadowheart said, but thought about it for a moment. “Is it like a rose? Something beautiful out of the dirt?”

You shook your head.

“Chk. This is a waste of time,” Lae’zel said..

“C’mon, Lae’zel, what do you think loving is like?” Wyll probed, the githyanki rolling her eyes at him.

Lae’zel replied, “Like a well-won battle, your enemies dead at your feet.” There is a pause before she asked, “Did I answer correctly?”

“No,” You replied.

Karlach wiped her hands on her pants, not waiting to be asked. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you ask me, solider,” She said, “But I’ll give it a try. Is it like a cool drink of water on a hot night?”

“That’s sweet, Karlach. It’s own little poem, even. But no,” You said.

“Well what’s the answer?” Astarion huffed, getting frustrated at this little display of ignorance.

“Salamander!” Wyll interjected, snapping his fingers like he cracked the code. This made everyone crack up, to his dismay. “No, because - I mean, uh - well, it’s better than corpses!” He insisted. This only made everyone laugh more.

In this revelry, no one even thought to glance at Gale, who had been watching the scene with a bemused little smile on his face.

There was a lull when the laughter died down, the silence of everyone taking a breath after a hearty laugh.

Through the silence, two words cut through the air like a knife directly to your heart.

“The Sun.”

You gasped (a reaction that, in retrospect, embarrassed you with how dramatic it was). You stared at the speaker, Gale’s dark eyes glinting in the firelight. You felt you must have looked ridiculous, your jaw agape.

In all of the years of telling the riddle, no one had ever known the answer. The key to your heart, you joked. But it had been more serious than you ever let on. As each suitor fumbled through wrong answers, it had only solidified your belief that true love would never be yours. That you would eventually have to settle for someone who couldn’t really understand you.

It was like time stopped, the visions of your companions becoming a blur as Gale came into focus.

Gale, meanwhile, appeared to be blissfully unaware that he had just broken your brain (what was left of it, at least).

“That’s…right. How did you know?” You choked out, hardly above a whisper.

“It’s a very clever riddle. See, most would probably assume that the riddle is about the works of Taglath, whom is renowned as an iconic romantic poet. His works adorn his lover with brilliant metaphors that have captured readers since their inception,” Gale explained to the group, lecturing his never-be students.

“That’s probably why Gef Deldus spent one summer immersed in Taglath’s works,” Wyll recalled, chuckling, “He told everyone that he had solved the riddle. He was convinced you would be his bride by the end of the season. What was his answer?” He asked.

“Love is like a poem,” You replied, still dumbfounded by Gale’s answer.

“The education in Baldur’s Gate leaves much to be desired,” Gale snarked, then continued, “What most people don’t know is that Taglath’s most prominent muse was another poet named Alanis. Unfortunately, most of her work has been lost to history. Almost no complete works remain, and only fragments have been collected for publication. But in her most complete work, she compares her lover to the Sun. It’s a gorgeous poem about loving someone who burns brightly and the fears associated with taking a lover of prominence. Loving despite fear,” He said.

You wondered how it was possible that your body felt like it was on fire but also like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on you. Did none of your companions notice that you were going insane? The realization rocked you like an earthquake.

Gale Dekarios was not a passing fancy, someone to think about kissing when the option presented itself. He was neither a daydream nor a wet dream to pass the time at different hours. He was not the greatest friend you had ever had, the person who you most looked forward to speaking to each morning after you woke and each night before you went to bed. The person who you spoke about nothing and everything with, played games with, or just enjoyed a comfortable silence with. He was not your traveling companion, nor even an ally who had risked his life for you as you had done for him. It was impossible for Gale to be any one of those things because he was all of them all at once and so much more.

Oh, fuck, you realized, your knees ready to give way.

You were in love with him.

The sound of your companions laughing and chattering together mixed together and sounded like ocean waves. If anyone turned to ask you anything you probably would have just stared at them blankly. You attempted to take a step toward Gale and the drinks you had earlier in the night went to your head, sending you tumbling forward and onto the ground.

“Looks like the plum fizz kicked in. ‘Key’, maybe you should take the ‘lock’ to bed,” Shadowheart said to Gale.

You thought that if you closed your eyes, maybe the ground would swallow you up and you would never have to look at Gale again. Instead, you felt him help you to your feet, allowing you to lean against him as he walked you to your tent. You were desperate to know what was going through his mind - did he realize the gravity that he answer had?

“Easy now,” Gale said, helping you down onto your bedroll. He treated you gently, helping you to unlace your boots and get settled in under the blanket. You were sick to your stomach at being doted on by him and kept quiet, trying to focus on anything but the way he looked at you. He left for a moment and came back to bring you some water.

“Is there anything you need?” He asked.

You were quiet for a moment, then spoke.

“Gale?”

“Yes?”

“After we had that moment in the Weave…you mentioned that we shouldn’t talk about it then, with the orb being unstable and everything going on,” You said, then allowed yourself to lean into your own intoxication, asking what was truly on your mind. “Was that really the reason? Because if you don’t see me that way, you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings.” The words poured out of you too quickly for you to worry about sounding insecure. It was a lie, of course, that it wouldn’t hurt your feelings. Being rejected by Gale would be devastating.

Gale looked thoughtful, then recited the end of Alanis’s fragments of her poem about her lover.

“My lover is like the Sun, Brilliant and bright He eclipses me And yet I yearn

My lover is like the Sun Blinding and unyielding When he touches me I burn”

He placed his hand on your cheek, his gaze looking through you and into your soul. The two of you could say so much without a single word.

“Am I the Sun, or are you?” You asked.

Gale had loved the poem when he read it as a boy, and later thought of it often when he was with Mystra, trying to make sense of the reality of having a goddess for a lover. He had often wondered if he would ever have an identity outside of being Mystra’s chosen, or whether he would forever be tied to the Goddess. And if that was the case, why did the idea of it make him burn with jealousy?

However, the poem had taken on new meaning since he met you. He felt like the Sun, a ball of fire ready to explode in his chest at any moment. As badly as he wanted to hold you close, he knew that doing so would destroy you. Still, he wondered, might it be worth it to burn if he could have one moment of knowing what it was like to be yours entirely?

Or rather, were you the Sun? He was certainly transfixed by you, drawn to your brilliance. You, a mortal who dared to be more brilliant and enticing than his Goddess. Would following you lead him down the path to certain doom - or worse, would getting close to you lead you to your own demise? It was that thought that kept him up at night, wondering if he should escape in the night. To save you from himself, or at least get you as far away from the danger as possible.

Gale contemplated your question.

“I’m not sure,” He finally replied.

“I don’t know, either.”

You placed your hand on Gale’s, your gaze fixed on each other, searching for an answer in each other’s eyes. Neither of you could find it.

However, there was one thing that was clear to both of you: whether through flames of salvation or damnation, you would burn for each other.

[blackkatmagic]

Commander Fox! =D

“Please stop throwing yourself off buildings,” Thorn says, ragged in a way that makes Fox hide a smirk behind his pad. “We’re not all airbenders, and some of us have more self-preservation than a concussed tooka—”

“You mean you're cowards,” Fox says disdainfully, and scrawls his CC number on the bottom of the form, sends it, then closes the pad and clips it to his belt. The wind is strong here, Coruscant's wild weather pockets spitting out hurricane gales and stinging rain despite the fact that Fox knows the weather system is set for balmy sunshine. It’s making the rappel lines flap and swing alarmingly, not that Fox cares about that. Thorn seems like the type to, though.

“Affected by gravity, Fox, not cowards—”

Fox rolls his eyes, pulling his helmet on and checking the comm. They haven't gotten a go signal yet, and Stone’s generally good about not karking up, but Fox is feeling antsy. Their thief has been breaking into the Senate every single night, like a taunt, and only leaving signs on their way out, like they're daring the Guard to catch them.

Maybe it’s a personality flaw, but Fox has never met a dare he didn’t immediately latch onto with teeth, and he sees no reason why this should be any different.

And besides, this wind makes Fox want to throw himself right into the slipstream, see how far he can ride it before he has to start catching himself. If he aims right, he might be able to make it all the way down to the second level of the undercity; there’s a good access point near here, and the wind is temptingly strong.

“You're not even pretending to listen to me, are you?” Thorn asks on a sigh, martyred, like he’s the only reasonable one here.

“I only start pretending to listen when you stop bitching,” Fox says without sympathy, and checks the time again, shifting impatiently. It’s getting towards morning, and he’s run out of paperwork to kill time with. If the thief wants to move, they should do it now while Fox is in a relatively good mood, and not cranky from boredom.

He’s also curious. Whatever the hell kind of bender they are, no one’s been able to work it out.

“Fox—”

A shadow, quick, darting. Fox almost misses it, because it blends in with all the hundreds of other shadows shifting in the light from passing speeders. Something about this is different, though, more fluid, more noticeable. He jerks his head up, and in that same moment a speeder’s lights wash across a window at just the right angle, illuminating a figure in dark clothes, headed at a run down a corridor that should have been locked down when that wing of the Senate was evacuated.

There's no pausing, no moment to think. Fox is moving before he can even register the motion, and he twists, hands up, will behind the motion. Leaps—

The wind catches him like wings, like vast hands, and he hurtles down off the side of the building, arrowing straight for the line of windows across the way.

Like every time, bending is instinct and an adrenaline rush and a burst of vicious, knife’s-blade joy that ricochets through Fox’s whole body, rises to flood him entirely, and he twists, foot leading, and feels the whirl of air that cracks glass like it’s a piece of himself. There's shouting from behind him, troopers scrambling to follow, but Fox doesn’t care.

He’s a howling wind, he’s a hurricane, and when he explodes into the hallway, a gale rising to a scream around him, it feels like he’s the most powerful thing in the whole galaxy. Like he’s invincible, untouchable, free.

No one’s ever going to take that away from him. Fox won't let them.

[retrowitchy]

haymitch takes everlark & co. (meaning the geese) to visit lenore dove's grave

ever wondered what it might look like if the mockingjay epilogue was extended just a little bit to include a whole random bit where haymitch takes two kids and nine geese into the woods by the lake to show them a bunch of dead people's graves? well wonder no more!!!

*✴︎+ take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die on ao3

It’s been about a year since we all came back to 12. In that year, I feel like I have grown old so much faster than I ever have before. It’s easy to remember some parts of it all, and hard to recall others. Peeta’s doctor says that’s how trauma works. Sometimes you forget, because remembering is just too hard. And sometimes, I don’t want to remember any of it.

Time has passed, but the three of us, Haymitch, Peeta and I, have settled into a routine with each other unlike anything we ever had before the second Quarter Quell. Honestly, it’s more out of necessity than anything- the nightmares are too hard for any of us to bear in an empty house. We tried living separately for a while, but it felt stupid, each of us alone while we all lived next door to each other. I insisted on staying with Haymitch almost immediately after they came back. I might have been too stubborn to admit the comfort I found in his company before, but it would be ridiculous to deny that now. He and I mean a lot to other. I guess we always have, or we have since this all started.

It took a little while, and a lot of convincing, but after he felt like the risk of hurting me was gone, Peeta moved in too. He was terrified that he’d relapse, have some shutdown that resulted in him strangling me again, but I didn’t care. I missed him more than almost anything. All the time I had spent, hiding in vents and crying to Haymitch and Gale and my mother and Prim when he was being held hostage in the Capitol, it shouldn’t be for nothing, I had said. I needed him to come home. And he did, eventually.

It’s good for us all. Peeta and I stay upstairs, and Haymitch is down the hall. Most mornings we eat together, something Peeta made and I hunted, and then we spend our days doing whatever we feel like. A couple months ago, we got Haymitch some goose eggs, so now he has something to do with his time instead of sitting around in the house all day. They’re rebuilding the Hob, too. And the Meadow is starting to grow back.

One day, when spring has started to seep into the ground, and gets to the point where you can smell it in the breeze, Peeta comes into the fireside room, where Haymitch is asleep clutching a bottle of his white liquor and I am busy working on a letter to Annie.

I don’t look up from my writing. “What, Peeta?”

He chuckles, and then comes to sit down, on the couch next to me.

“What are you working on?”

I don’t like my scratchy penmanship, especially compared to Peeta’s neat cursive, but I hand over the letter.

“I’m trying to be better about writing people. Annie asked us to send more, and you’re always the one who does them, so…” I trail off, getting mumbly and feeling kind of dumb. He’s looking it over.

“This is sweet, Katniss,” he says, scanning it with a little smile at the corner of his mouth. I snatch it back.

“Okay, time’s up. I don’t want you to read the whole thing,” I say, feeling my cheeks going pink. He laughs.

“Okay, okay. I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

I fold the paper in half and tuck it aside. I’ll finish it later.

“What did you come in here to say?” I ask, as I put away my pens.

“Does there really have to be a reason?” he asks.

“Yes. You never stand in the doorway like that unless you have something you’re trying to pitch to us,” I say, glancing at Haymitch, who is snoring slightly across the room.

“Not a pitch,” he says, smiling. “Just wanted to see if you guys were up for a picnic.”

Haymitch opens one eye lazily. Guess he wasn’t as dead to the world as I thought.

“And why would we do that when we’re having a perfectly enjoyable time right now?” he asks, not moving from his armchair. I look to Peeta.

“Because it’s nice out,” Peeta says calmly.

“Nice inside too,” counters Haymitch.

“The geese could get some exercise?” Peeta offers. Haymitch closes his eyes and lets out a ridiculous long grumble.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m not contributing a damn thing. I’ll bring the kids and that’s it.”

“Katniss?” Peeta looks to me for confirmation I will go along with this plan.

“Sure,” I say. “Anything to get Haymitch out of that armchair.”

“You’re on thin ice, girl, you’d better watch out,” he says threateningly, as he stands up with a grunt and heads toward the kitchen with his bottle.

“Or what?” I call after him, getting no response, and rolling my eyes with a half smile. I kiss Peeta’s forehead quickly and stand up, clutching my letter. “I’ll get a basket.”

“Sounds good,” he says with a smile.

The basket is not for picnic food, which we both know. Whenever we take trips out to the Meadow, Peeta likes to collect some of the flowers and bring them back for the house. I like it too, because it means I can hunt for plant life that we might have missed for the nature book. It’s a rarer occurrence these days, since we’ve almost filled up the entire thing, but you never know.

I grab an empty basket from the top of the pantry, stopping only to pop a few tomatoes into my mouth, and then start digging around in the cabinets for the nature book. Usually, it stays upstairs with me and Peeta, because I like to look at it before going to sleep sometimes, but we were working on it in the kitchen yesterday and I am pretty sure it’s here.

“Hey, bring the memory book while you’re at it,” Haymitch says, making me jump. I turn around, getting hair stuck in my mouth, and spit it out.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because. Never know when you’ll come across a good piece of information for that thing,” he says, vaguely. He’s acting kind of weird and I’m trying to place why, but I’m coming up short. I don’t think I said anything to really set him off this morning. Whatever, I think.

“Okay.” I grab the journal from its place on the kitchen bookshelf, and the nature book is right next to it, so I grab that too, and stick them both in my basket.

After helping Peeta pack some food, we head out.

There’s a few spots we gravitate to in the Meadow, but Haymitch has the geese, so we let him take the lead. It’s amazing how attached he’s gotten to them in the last couple of months- and even more amazing how attached they’ve gotten to him. Once, when it was snowing, I caught him nursing one of them in his arms by the fire inside. He got pretty angry with me, growling curses and insults, but I could tell he was trying not to disturb the gosling because he kept his volume low. I know the geese are important to him not just because he secretly has a heart, but also because of his old girlfriend, somebody Snow killed after his Games.

When he told me and Peeta about Lenore Dove, it was a surprise. We hadn’t been working on the book at all. It was a late night in November, and we were all trying to figure out the central heating system in the house- something I maintain is a ridiculous luxury, although nice- and then when we had all found the switch that controls it, he said, “I never actually told you about her, did I?”.

“Who, Haymitch?” Peeta had asked, while fiddling with the switch.

“My girl.”

Haymitch had mentioned her to me once before, in 13, but Peeta had never even heard of her until then. He told us about her, how she belonged to a people called the Covey, who didn’t even exist in 12 by the time Peeta and I were kids. After he won his Games, defying the Capitol in every possible way he could while doing so, Snow had her and his family murdered. Apparently, she used to herd geese. That’s why we got him the eggs.

The goslings huddle and quack around Haymitch like he’s their mother or something. It always makes Peeta laugh, and he points at one of them that keeps falling behind and trying to catch up, and then hitting Haymitch’s boot when it does.

“Poor guy,” Peeta says, as the baby hits his foot again, and Haymitch shakes his leg slightly to ward him off.

“They need to learn to make friends with each other, not with him,” I say. The geese are desperate for Haymitch’s attention.

“Or we could set them up with Buttercup,” Peeta suggests jokingly.

“Yeah. And he’d eat them all,” I respond. I am not kidding. More than once, I have caught him trying to sneak inside their pen.

“He’s gotten more friendly with them, though, right?” Peeta protests, grinning at my stubborn refusal to say anything nice about that cat.

“Maybe. So he can trick them into trusting him,” I say. He laughs at me, and despite myself, I crack a smile, swinging the basket as we walk.

We reach the edge of our usual tree, but Haymitch isn’t stopping.

“Are we going to the lake?” I call to him.

“Something like that,” he replies, not bothering to turn around. I didn’t know he knew about the lake, but there’s a lot I’m finding out about Haymitch that I didn’t know.

But we don’t stop at the lake- we follow him around it, to the bank across the way. I can tell Peeta needs a breather- his prosthetic leg doesn’t do great with long distances.

“Haymitch, we have to stop a minute,” I tell him, signaling to Peeta to stop.

“Almost there,” is all he says in response, and that gets an eye roll from me.

“I’m fine, Katniss, it’s okay,” says Peeta.

“No, you’re not, you have to rest,” I say, and it comes out slightly more forcefully than I meant it. I clear my throat. “Sorry. I just mean I don’t want your leg acting up. Haymitch, seriously-”

But Haymitch is already leading his gaggle of geese into the humid patch of mossy wood next to the bank.

“Fine,” I yell to him, since he’s a pretty good distance away already. “We’re staying here!”

“Fine!” he yells back, and disappears into the woods. Good riddance.

“Sit, Peeta,” I say, and crouch down along the muddy bank next to him. We rest, letting our boots squelch in the sticky mud around our feet and trailing our fingers through it absentmindedly. Peeta is proud when he finds some katniss root, and I rinse it off and put it in our collecting basket.

When I stand, there something white and flowering at the edge of the trees that catches my eye.

“Stay here a minute,” I tell Peeta. “I’m just collecting something for the book.”

“Okay,” he agrees, because he’s happy digging for katniss, and even though Peeta alone in the woods makes me anxious, I don’t feel too bad leaving him for a second here.

I stomp through the muddy grass to where the tree line starts and am disappointed to find that the white flower is just a clematis vine- something we definitely already have in the nature book. I squat down next to it to pick off some of the blossoms for Peeta, when I hear the honking of the geese not too far away.

“Haymitch?” I call, but there’s no response except the continued honking. I glance back at Peeta on the bank, but he’s okay, so I decide to find Haymitch.

Curious, I wander through the forest, following a trail that is marked out only by the muddy boot indents in the grass he made minutes ago, and otherwise untouched. It doesn’t take me very far to reach a clearing, surrounded by tall water birch trees and shaded so well I know they must have grown here hundreds of years ago. In the center of the clearing, there is a small graveyard.

Haymitch sits on a boulder a respectful distance away from the graves, surrounded by his geese, and just looks up mildly.

“Followed my footprints, did you?” he asks, but there’s not as much snark dripping from that sentence as there normally might be.

“What is this place?” I ask, trying to process how serene he looks with nine white birds nested and clucking around him peacefully.

“Covey graveyard,” is all he says.

Covey graveyard. This is something I did not expect. I look closer at the headstones and see that they are all engraved.

“Go ahead,” he says, gesturing, inviting me to investigate. Obediently, I go over to the different stones and start to read. As I take in each one, I am quickly picking up that they all reference a different song, and the rock is as close a color match as possible to the name of the Covey member buried there. Some seem like they were erected in the last 50 years, and others feel like they might have been here for centuries, so grown over with moss you can barely read them.

“You’re related to them, you know,” Haymitch comments from his boulder. I quickly turn to him.

“What?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Your dad. He was a distant relative, so you got Covey in your blood. Figures how you got those pipes.”

This is something I have never considered before in my life. My father, related to the Covey? Meaning that I too, am connected to this legacy. I stare at him, gaping.

“I always wondered how she could sing like that.”

Haymitch and I both start, and Peeta is standing at the opening of the clearing, looking a little apologetic.

“Sorry,” he says, both in reference to startling us and the fact that I told him to stay. “Haymitch, is Lenore Dove buried here?”

Why didn’t I think of this? I am an idiot. Of course this is why we are here. Haymitch just nods his head to a stone by my foot.

“Read that one,” he says. Peeta comes over to me and crouches down in front of the stone, examining it.

“’But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore?’ This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” Merely this and nothing more’,” he reads, solemnly and slowly and much better than I could have.

There’s a silence in the breeze, and for a moment, it feels like the forest has stopped moving, the world has stopped working, in respect for Lenore Dove and her lyrical epitaph. I look over and I see Haymitch, absentmindedly stroking the head of one of the geese with a faint smile on his face and watching Peeta with a vaguely misty expression.

“Is this why you wanted us to come here?” I ask. “To visit her grave?”

“I just thought you…might like to meet her. Or…see this place, I guess,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s sorta your birthright, in a way.”

“Katniss.” Peeta’s voice is soft and quiet at my feet. “The book.”

Realizing quickly what he’s saying, I push the basket towards him with my foot, and he pulls out our memory book, flipping to a blank page.

“Do you know anyone else buried here?” I ask Haymitch, wondering just how many of the Covey he could have hung around.

“Nah,” he says. “Well, technically, yes. Tam Amber, that yellowish stone in the back corner there, he was one of Lenore Dove’s uncles. Not by blood, but he raised her. Along with Clerk Carmine, who you saw playing at Finnick and Annie’s wedding.”

“Wait, there are Covey still alive?” This is shocking to me. And I know that fiddle player, even from before 13. I used to see him inside the Hob, playing while I traded my hunting loot on the weekends.

“Just him. He’s the last one,” Haymitch amends. I can hear the scratching of charcoal that I know to mean Peeta is marking out a sketch. I understand now why Haymitch asked me to bring the book. “He lives in the rebuilt part of town, now, actually. Him and I don’t exactly get along on the best of terms, but he is here.”

I do not know what to do with any of this information but let it settle in my brain and watch Peeta’s pencil move across the page. Suddenly, I have an idea.

I kneel down next to Peeta and the basket, and I pull out the clematis I picked earlier. Glancing at Haymitch to make sure I’m not crossing some kind of invisible boundary, I slowly set down the blossoms in front of Lenore Dove’s grave. Peeta, head down and focused on his sketch, nods his approval.

I look up to Haymitch, and he nods too, and I think there might be tears in his eyes, but I can’t completely tell.

“Is that okay?” I ask, worried for a split second.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “She would have liked that. She used to grow those flowers up the side of her window.”

I swallow.

“Good.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says.

[dekariosclan]

so bear with me for a second. gale with an elf. the elf is aware humans don't live too long, but isn't that great when it comes to understand the passing of time. one day gale find them crying, is all worried, just to hear that his lover is worried about his death being near. "aren't you fifty or something? humans don't live that much. how many months do you think you can take?" the deal is because gale is a wizard he got to somehow learn to live long enough (i'm looking at you elminster, gandalf, radagast). so he's like: "dear heart, we have been together for the last three centuries. are you aware of that? is very important for me that you are." in this essay i will-

LOL This made my day and gave me a laugh! I could absolutely see this happening.

First of all, I am fully confident Gale would find a way to extend his lifespan to match his love’s. No question. The man is capable of figuring out how to achieve godhood, so the small matter of finding out how to add centuries to his mortal life would be no problem at all.

Second, I think he would be amused at his love’s complete lack of awareness at how long they had been together. He’d enjoy teasing them at every opportunity: “It’s gratifying to know that even after 300 years you haven’t tired of my company yet, my love.” “Perhaps in another few centuries we will run out of things to say to one another? I shall start researching new topics of conversation immediately.”

I mean this is the man who tells a romanced Tav in the epilogue that he ‘could spend an eternity in your company.’ So the 750 years that elves live on average would be no problem at all; Gale would cherish every second with his love, and he would never grow restless or bored.

And hey, with seven centuries to live, he might actually be able to finish reading all those books in his tower, too!

[herdarkestnightelegance]

Nocturnal eyes

Pairing: Astarion/ g/n Tav

Tags: vulnerable Astarion, angst, friendship, a bit of fluff

Length: 2.4k words

Summary: Astarion notices something is off with his eyes …

A/N: @nyx-knox out here once again, being the ✨best✨ beta-reader I could hope for!

Also: ARE Y'ALL FOR REAL?! Over 750 reactions on my Bedhead fic?? Thank you so much 🥹!!!

Taglist: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate , @littlelovelore, @onlyancunin @chaoticbardlady99

::::::::::::::::::

Astarion sits in the soft green grass, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun.

Today had been exhausting. The party had finally left the wilderness behind and set up camp on the Mountain Pass. Tomorrow they will head to the Githyanki Crèche, but for now … he’s just relaxing, listening to the soft rustle of the trees above him with his eyes closed.

Because they are hurting again - his damned eyes - causing his head to ache in that awful stinging way. This has been happening semi-regularly since they crashed on that beach. By the end of every day, his eyes feel exhausted. Sometimes he even welcomed the night, the dark bringing relief to his vision, much as he hated to admit that he found any solace in the darkness after having been trapped in it for so long.

It’s not that he wants to be in the dark again - on the contrary! Oh, words could never express how much he enjoys the feeling of the warmth on his skin, the smell of sun-baked earth beneath him, filling him with life, making his undead heart swell with secret joy. It’s just …

“Truly, a sight to behold,” Gale had said, when they first stepped through the gate onto the Pass and were greeted by a magnificent view of the surrounding valley … Or at least Astarion assumed that’s what it was.

Because he can’t tell. Not really. In fact, all he sees are blurry, rugged shapes and a haze of earthy colors far off in the distance.

When Astarion had first opened his eyes after the crash, all he could do was gasp audibly. The sun seared his eyes, the light brighter than anything he had seen in centuries. Immediately, he had shielded his face from the merciless rays, curled into a ball, panic taking over. “No!” he yelped. It’s daytime! I can’t be out! Oh Gods, do I smell smoke? Am I burning up?? Am I disintegrating???

But a few heartbeats passed and to his surprise - and great relief - it was not a burning pain he started to feel. Rather, it was a sensation he thought he had forgotten but that he immediately recalled, having felt it lifetimes ago: The warmth of the midday sun.

Cautiously, he had uncoiled himself and tried opening his eyes again. Gods! It hurts. Of course, Vampire eyes are sensitive to the light, in order to see better at night. An essential trait for nocturnal creatures, predators, such as himself. His eyes hadn’t had to process so much brightness in … forever. So, being blasted with daylight for the first time in roughly 200 years - it hurt like all Hells! 

It took a few moments, but eventually Astarion managed to pry open his crimson eyes. And he began to see. To look. And he saw colors he hadn’t seen in too long. He saw the bright blue sky, the deep purples of the Nautiloid shipwreck, the turquoise water covered with the most beautiful shimmering reflections. Everything was bright. Everything was so vibrant! Everything was so … full of life. He looked up, squinting at the trees and their slightly blurred leaves. Those luscious, green leaves. Gods … I had forgotten how beautiful that particular color is … 

But there had been no time for him to enjoy all those new sights for long. He heard them before he saw them. The others. Friends? Enemies? He couldn’t tell. They were just indiscernible shapes in the distance - but as soon as he had lured one of them close enough to put a knife to their throat, he was back in survival mode, forgetting about the colors he had just reveled in.

That’s what he knew how to do, after all. Hitting his close target. And really, that’s all he should care about, that’s really all he actually needs to see. He’s a master at close-up melee combat, a rogue who sneaks up to his victims, dangerous with his blade. He’s skilled at picking locks and picking pockets. And he’s an amazing lover, always able to read every detail of his victims' expressions to make sure he hits that target just as well. All he needs to see clearly is what’s right in front of him, isn’t it?

But if he was being really honest … it’s not like his usual tricks have actually worked out for him so far, now have they? His first melee attack had earned him a headbutt to the face. He had woken his first victim while sneaking up on them. And he felt his nice little seduction plan for Tav slowly and steadily backfiring on him - but that was a problem for another time. So why not top it all off with embarrassingly inadequate vampiric eyesight to really emphasize it all, he figured?

Astarion opens his eyes again and looks at the hazy, blurred valley below, the wind tousling his white locks, and he scoffs. Ironic, isn’t it? Here he is, finally free from his captor. But of course, even out in the open, he’s not able to look beyond the confines of his own metaphorical cell. As if his eyes are still keeping him prisoner.

A sound behind him snaps him out of his thoughts. Again, he hears them before he sees them coming. Only this time he knows it is a friend. “Astarion?” Tav, he thinks with a knowing smile. He knows their voice anywhere.

“Yes, Darling?” he asks as their leader emerges from the shade of the trees.

Astarion grew to enjoy Tav‘s company quite a bit, if he was being honest. Not only during their passionate encounters, but also just sitting with them, talking about their journey, about the others in their party, sometimes even about his past, which he never thought possible when he had been pressing his knife to their throat just a short time ago.

“Enjoying the view?” they ask as they sit down next to him in the soft grass.

“Oh of course,” Astarion answers as he leans back onto his elbows.

“Especially the Crèche,” Tav continues, pointing into the valley, making casual conversation.

“Why, I agree. Who would have thought the Gith were such marvelous architects,” the pale Elf replies without missing a beat. 

It’s now that Tav turns to look at him. “... Except the Crèche is in the opposite direction?” they say cautiously. 

Shit. Astarion tenses.

He hates this. They know. Immediately he is prepared to snap, to throw a sarcastic comment back at them, telling them to mind their own damn business. Feeling exposed, he keeps his gaze fixed forward, part of him expecting to see mockery, or malice even, should he meet Tav’s eyes. But when he eventually looks up … all he sees is a knowing smile. Their face is so very clear next to him, and so is the genuine fondness that greets him in their expression. The same fondness he is secretly happy to see on Tav’s face every time they look at him.

Astarion takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want his walls to go up. Not for Tav. He resists it, that stupid defensive mechanism and to his surprise, he actually relaxes a bit. “You noticed,” he says quietly.

Tav nods. “On our first day, actually.” His eyebrows go up in surprise. 

“Did you now?” the vampire asks.

“We climbed that platform next to the crash site, remember? You were first up. And you said there’s nothing to see.” Their tone is neither condescending nor reproachful. “But there was... A lot, actually. You know, like, the village? Or the goblin camp. Or, well, this mountain pass. So yeah, I noticed.”

Astarion scoffs. They were right, of course. And back then, he didn’t even realize there was something wrong with his vision. He had still been so overwhelmed with all the light and color, all this blue and green…

For a moment, both sit in silence before Astarion speaks up. “It’s all rather blurry, you know?” he finally admits aloud. “I never noticed it back in Baldur’s Gate.”

Tav listens and nods. “I thought vampirism cures all mortal ailments, even eye problems.”

“Well, maybe there are exceptions? Or maybe I’m just a sorry excuse for a vampire spawn. Honestly, I don’t know. It’s not like any vampire is able to look at vast illuminated landscapes during the day to notice if something is off.” he says in a slightly frustrated, even embarrassed tone, gesturing towards the sunset.

“Your eyes have been adjusted to the night for 200 years. So … maybe they just need a bit to adjust to the daylight now? Give it some time.” The optimism and sweetness in Tav’s voice makes the corner of Astarion’s mouth twitch up into a half-smile.

“Wouldn’t that be something,” he says. Maybe they are right. Maybe. 

This is when Tav clears their throat. “But uhm, until then …” Astarion’s pointy ears twitch slightly as he hears Tav rummaging in their pocket. When they procure something wrapped in a folded leather cloth, he sits up.

“What’s this?” he asked, and they hand him the flat parcel. Curiously, Astarion opens the wrapping. 

In his hand lies the most hideous pair of mismatched spectacles he has ever seen. 

Before he can say anything, Tav begins to talk. “I came across this half broken pair of looking glasses while looting some time ago, and I thought, well, while there is no way we would ever find the perfect pair, we might just try making a custom one, right? I mean, it’s obvious you’re straining your eyes. You might not say anything to us about it, and you don’t have to, but I can tell that you often have a headache by the end of the day, and I, well, wanted to help.” Astarion still says nothing, inspecting the wonky looking thing in his hands.

Quickly, Tav continues, compelled to explain. “But you have no idea how hard it is to find undamaged spectacles! I mean, it makes sense, right? Who would leave their eyes behind? So anyway, I started collecting all the glasses I could find, hoping for an intact pair, but well … eventually I ended up with … this.”

The pair of spectacles in Astarion’s hand was clearly made of two halves from different glasses, held together in the middle by a thin leather cord, wrapped around it several times and in several other places. “Both glasses seemed to be made for looking at things further away. Of course, I can’t say for certain. They are not for me, I mean, if anything, I should be looking into finding a pair for me, so I can finally read that book Gale won’t shut up about. But … anyway, I thought maybe they might be of use to you.”

It’s not often that Astarion is stunned into silence. Tav did this? For him? It takes him a moment to process this … act of kindness. But when he does, he leans over to Tav, turning their face to him with a finger beneath their chin, and softly kisses them. “They … are hideous, my dear,” he says against their lips, with a chuckle and a genuine, soft smile on his face.

“Yeah, I know,” Tav agrees, kissing him back, mirroring his smile, before pulling away. “Well go on then, put them on.”

And he does. Astarion puts on the mismatched, wonky pair of improvised spectacles, the right temple barely fitting over his ear.

“Well?”, Tav asks hopefully.

With the awkward thing perched in his elegant face, the vampire looks down into the valley and takes in an almost inaudible breath. It’s … much better than he could have hoped for. Yes, it’s far from perfect. The glasses are sitting on his aquiline nose lopsided and the left glass is not even close to what he probably needs, yet he feels that nagging strain on his eyes eases immediately.

But that’s not what stuns the pale Elf.

Just as the sun begins to disappear behind the mountains, casting long shadows and a warm orange glow on everything around them, Astarion sees. And all of it this time! For the first time in 200 years, he sees the crisp outline of the setting sun. He sees the mountain tops and ridges. He sees the glowing clouds. By the Gods…

“Astarion?” Tav asks timidly, but he does not react. They sit with him in silence then, watching him watch the sunset in wonder, those red ruby eyes they love so much squinting intently, unmoving, until the glowing disk disappears behind the horizon and the sky slowly begins to turn a lovely shade of purple.

It takes a moment for Astarion to stir again. Carefully, he takes the spectacles off his face as if it’s the most precious thing he has ever owned, before looking at Tav. A lot of things are going through his head at that moment, and - much to his ever-growing confusion - through his undead heart as well. This is not a thing you just do for a travel-companion. Why are you so nice to me? I do not deserve your kindness. “Thank you.”, he eventually settles on, and he knows to Tav those simple words convey everything. 

Tav smiles. “Don’t mention it,” obviously delighted their little gift has been accepted. Why in the hells his favorite travel companion, no, his lover, went out of their way to help him like this, he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Sure, they agreed to help him kill Cazador, but this is not the same! This is special. This is … caring. It is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him. And he is truly, deeply grateful.

This gift would do wonders for his vision, at least until his nocturnal eyes fully embrace looking into the far distance during the day. He knows he will look so foolish with this contraption on his nose and he would probably have to kill Gale should the wizard ever see him with them on, but somehow he didn’t mind wearing these, looking silly, unsightly even, in front of Tav. They wouldn’t judge him, they wouldn’t laugh at him. Because he feels that they care.

After a moment, Astarion puts the spectacles back on, turning his head up to the tree branches above them, that stunning green of the individual, defined leaves still visible in the dim dusk light.

“You know, Darling …”, he says, “I really do love that color.”

[avocado-writing]

Could I request headcanons for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor react to his gn crush who is so oblivious that they told him with confidence that no one would be interested in them romantically?

yes of course lovely, it’s always a pleasure writing your prompt lists 😊💕

Astarion

definitely thinks you’re joking at first.

laughs, then sees the defeated lag of your shoulders, the way you can’t tear your gaze from the ground.

wants to do his usual blasé retort, but is torn because well. he really cares for you.

I think, after a moment of silence, he reaches out and takes your hand. threads his fingers through yours.

“darling… there is so much of you to love, it’s mesmerising.”

he can’t look at you while he admits this of course, but he feels the way you squeeze his hand in yours and his dead heart skips a beat. 💕

Gale

utterly baffled.

of course someone would love you romantically?

from a practical point of view he just starts listing things off: you’re kind, a good leader, big-hearted, have a strong moral compass…

and then he just lapses into the things he likes about you.

that you’re so lovely. so good-looking. that your hair is nice and your eyes are spellbinding.

only realises he’s gone off on a tangent when he sees you grinning at him, then gets a little embarrassed…

gives you the confidence to press a kiss to his cheek though, and after that he’s beaming for the whole day 🥰

Wyll

shocked. shocked and appalled that you think that way about yourself.

takes you out for a stroll, just the two of you, and ends up waxing lyrical about all the things you have going for you.

he tries not to turn it into a confession but my man is a romantic, and soon he ends up spilling everything.

the way every time you smile at him his heart speeds up and his cheeks get hot. how you deserve someone who’ll be by your side through everything, and he’s not afraid to be that someone despite everything you’ve faced on the road.

he’d keep going if you didn’t muster up your courage and pull him into a long kiss 💕

Halsin

is old enough to understand self-doubt doesn’t just go away in one day. he’s admired you for a while so he tries to start actively courting you.

little gifts appear for you. carvings of your favourite animals, flowers you’ve mentioned liking the perfume of.

he finds a reason to be by your side every day. always tries to make you smile and laugh.

and eventually you realise… oh, what you believed before? about nobody ever feeling romantic love towards you? that was totally wrong. because there is your Druid and you’ve just realised his heart is totally devoted to you.

when you have this moment you immediately run to find him and throw yourself into his arms rom-com style lmfao ❤️

Dammon

“that’s… that’s not true! there would be plenty of people who’d love you.”

you look up into his eyes. they’re soft and sweet, and there’s a desperation behind them as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, too late to stop them.

“I’d love you. I do love you.”

a moment passes. he’s worried he’s messed up.

then you stride across the room to bring him into a kiss and his face gets hot enough to rival his forge… 🔥

Rolan

”don’t be so foolish.”

you’re utterly gobsmacked, because you were being so vulnerable, admitting your worry. “excuse me?!”

he tries to backtrack and make it look like he didn’t just insult you, lol

”there’s nothing wrong with you. you’re… wonderful. anyone would be lucky to have you.”

cheeks a bright crimson, and he’s so bad at hiding his emotions that you clock what this is instantly. it’s a confession.

“oh…” “don’t worry, forget it, I didn’t say anything—!” “rolan, would you like to get a drink tonight?”

he might combust. but he squeaks out a “yes.” because honestly? he was worried about the exact same thing you came to him to confide…

Zevlor

is firm in how silly you’re being, but kind.

holds your face in your hands to get you to look at him.

swears how lovely you are, his words like a pledge. like a prayer.

and when this paladin tells you all this? how could you believe him to be wrong.

maybe someone would love you romantically. gazing into his warm eyes, maybe someone does.

[moonselune]

An indulgent Minthara piece for my illness-riddled brain:

Minthara x Reader | Doghouse

It had started with nothing.

A poorly timed comment. A throwaway remark from Minthara that, on another day, might have been brushed off. But today you were tired. Worn down. Raw beneath your armor. And the words hit differently — sharper, deeper, landing in a part of you that had already been bleeding in silence.

“You’re reckless,” she had snapped, arms crossed, voice edged in that commanding tone that always sat between affection and disdain. “You throw yourself into danger as if your life has no weight.”

You’d turned, slowly. “What, and you prefer I wait for your command before I act?”

“I prefer not to watch you get killed doing something stupid.”

“Oh, forgive me, commander,” you spat, voice rising. “I didn’t realize my value was measured in how cleanly I followed your plans.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t twist my words—”

“I don’t have to,” you said, stepping back, tone brittle. “They’re already sharp enough.”

You stormed out before the rest of it could happen — before her voice could dip into cold dismissal, before yours could break with something far more painful. You left the firelight behind, stalked into the dusk, heart pounding and breath shallow. You didn’t want to cry, so you raged instead, kicking at stones, gripping your weapons too tightly, letting the heat simmer through your limbs instead of behind your eyes.

Behind you, camp fell silent.

Minthara didn’t follow.

Not immediately.

⸻

She hated the silence.

Worse than that — she hated how wrong the silence felt without you in it.

She brooded by the fire, jaw clenched, arms still crossed like armor. But her gaze was no longer distant or proud. It was restless. Distracted. Always darting toward the edge of camp where you’d vanished.

Karlach passed her with a smirk. “Oof. Someone’s in the doghouse.”

Minthara frowned. “I am not in a kennel.”

Lae’zel snorted from across the fire and with a smugness of someone who just recently understood the metaphor, clarified. “It means you’ve displeased your mate.”

“I am aware I’ve displeased them,” Minthara muttered. “I just… fail to see how this was entirely my error.”

Shadowheart arched a brow. “You called them reckless and stupid in front of the entire party.”

“I didn’t say—” Minthara cut herself off. “Fine. I implied it. Loudly.”

Astarion sipped his wine, lounging with all the smugness of a cat in the sun. “Well, dear, if it helps, you’re absolutely terrible at apologizing. You should try it sometime. With sincerity, not your usual… villainous purring.”

Minthara scowled. “I did apologize. Briefly.”

“‘Briefly’ is not how apologies work,” Gale offered. “Especially not when you hurt someone you care about.”

Minthara exhaled through her nose. She had tried. She’d approached you an hour later with a stiff, “Perhaps I was overly harsh.” You hadn’t even looked at her.

“That’s not an apology,” you’d said, voice flat. “That’s you trying to clear your conscience without actually admitting you were wrong.”

And she had stood there, silent, jaw clenched and pride choking her, until you turned and walked away again.

⸻

Now it was afternoon. The sun was high, and she was pacing.

She’d brought you food. Left it nearby, without words. You hadn’t touched it.

She’d offered to help with camp repairs. You nodded but didn’t speak. Not to her.

She’d even, in a moment of desperation, tried flattery. “You fought well this morning,” she said. “Your blade work was… efficient.”

You’d raised an eyebrow and replied coolly, “Thanks. For that completely neutral assessment.”

She hated this. Hated the wedge between you, hated the hollowness where your presence usually anchored her. She hated that you wouldn’t meet her eyes — that you didn’t smile, didn’t throw barbed wit back at her, didn’t touch her arm like you always did when you passed.

But most of all, she hated the guilt. It was new. Unfamiliar. Gnawed at her like hunger, but worse.

She’d hurt you.

And it mattered to her that she had.

⸻

When the sun began to sink, she found you again — this time near the edge of the treeline, where dusk painted your silhouette in fading gold and violet. You were sitting alone, sharpening your blade with methodical strokes, the rhythm deliberate. Controlled.

She approached slowly.

“Don’t,” you said before she could speak. “Not unless it’s real this time.”

She stood still, staring at your back. Then, quietly — quieter than you’d ever heard her speak — she said, “It is real. I… I was cruel. And careless. And worse than that — I knew I was hurting you, and I still chose pride over kindness.”

You paused, the whetstone still in your hand.

“I’ve never had to apologize for my words before,” she continued. “I led with strength. With command. But you are not one of my soldiers. You are my heart.”

That stopped you. Dead still.

“I miss you,” she said, voice cracking, just barely. “And I don’t know how to fix this, but I will, if you let me. Just… don’t walk away again. Please.”

You turned then.

And for the first time all day, your eyes met hers.

She looked wrecked. For Minthara, it was subtle — a tension in her shoulders, a tremble in her hands she’d never allow others to see. But to you, who knew her better than anyone, it was plain as day.

You set your blade down and stood.

Minthara held your gaze like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

And then — finally — you reached for her hand.

Her breath hitched when your fingers laced with hers.

“You hurt me,” you said, voice soft. “But I think it hurt you, too.”

She nodded, shame and relief mingling in her eyes. You stepped in, resting your forehead to hers.

“I forgive you,” you whispered. “But you’re terrible at apologies.”

“I know,” she murmured, a weak smile flickering across her lips. “Teach me?”

You kissed her — slow, deliberate, warm — and when you pulled back, her expression had shifted. Lighter. Whole again.

“I already am.”

——————

I’m doing this on my phone bcs if I open my laptop I may die from the blue light exposure. Hence why this is a bit rough and ready, reminiscent of my first fics on here aha. Enjoy! Seluney xox

[thecubspeaks]

This is Gale’s hour; Gale’s place, Gale’s people, Gale’s party. A welcome home to the prodigal son, who is worth something to them again. The thought sparks a pit of burning bile in Izar’s stomach, a fury she can no longer tell herself belongs to Bhaal.

For the first hour or so she clings to Gale’s arm, a perfect pair in their so carefully chosen complementing but not too-matched silks, and nodded along while the other masters of Blackstaff Academy and their partners took in the new curiosities, Gale the remade Chosen of Mystra and his wholly unWaterdhavian maybe-wife. She stoically bears their scrutiny, the sideways flick of their interlocutors’ eyes as Gale speaks.

But it’s Gale’s day, and he deserves undivided attention, so she excuses herself and takes up position by the wall, where the dancing lights that bathe the room in elegant, muted tones cast a bit more of a concealing shadow.

She holds a glass of wine she doesn’t drink and tries to imagine she’s back at camp, back in the taproom of the Elfsong, tucked away and watching and at ease in her place a step outside. None of the stabbing self-consciousness she feels now in this outfit she chose so carefully and now somehow feels utterly wrong. Not filling the hollow conversations she overhears with anger at these arrogant, useless people who left Gale to die alone in his tower, who trained him to think he’s worth only as much as his magic.

“Izar.”

Gale’s voice pulls her back to herself as it always does, and seeing his bright, contented expression, she has to wonder on whose behalf she’s actually so angry.

A little crease of concern appears between his brows. “Shall we go?”

“No,” Izar says immediately, and Gale can’t quite hide the flash of relief that passes over his face. “I’m fine. You enjoy yourself.”

His smile returns. “Shall we dance?”

An incredulous laugh escapes before Izar can stop it. “Sorry. I just—I have no idea how.”

“Not all the dances are complicated,” Gale says. “And you’re graceful, with a sharp eye. You’ll pick up what you need to.”

“I…” She takes a breath. Sees how badly he wants this. “Alright. But it has to be an easy one.”

Gale offers a playful bow of acknowledgement and Izar rolls her eyes as he bounds off to have a word with the band. She watches him get pulled into a longer conversation—pull himself, rather, seeming to ask some question or other of one of the musicians, which naturally gives rise to a follow-up, then another—

She’s feeling too fond to be irritated by the time he comes back, deliberately slowing his step so he can arrive and offer her his hand with a sweeping bow just as the music begins. Izar takes his hand. No one’s really looking, she realizes, as he leads her out to join the other couples on the dance floor. This is an ordinary thing to do; an ordinary couple.

“Step on the beat,” he says, “and follow my lead.”

“What does that mean,” she mutters, but they’re off, his hand at her waist guiding her which direction to go. She stumbles after him for a measure or two, but she’s sure-footed when her battered brain isn’t betraying her, and it feels—natural, to move to the sound of the music, to let Gale lead and guide her in his wake. She can feel how, with practice, it would not be such lead-and-follow; they would move as one, the pulse of the music the heartbeat of their joined body—step, turn, shift, with a single, unthinking mind.

And they can get there. They have time. They have their whole lives.

For now, she lets Gale hold her, show her. The press of his hand at the small of her back; the squeeze of his fingers, their palms cupped together. The smell of his perfume and of himself beneath that. His eyes, his smile. Happy to be here. Happy to be.

[brotherwtf]

John meeting Gale years after Gale rejected him. Just by chance. And like Hozier’s words, “crawling back to you” The pain from the rejection didn’t even register. John just immediately relapses like Gale is the hardest drug to heal from. Still beautiful, still handsome, still the brightest star Bucky’s ever had the pleasure of being in the presence of. They ended up going for coffee and John finding out he’s divorced and moved to New York (or wherever u imagine ig they’re just living in the same city now). John falls for Gale hard and fast once more. Every second spent with the other man just reminded him of all the things that made him fall in love. Except this time, his beautiful star falls for him as well.

SECOND CHANCE ROMANCEEE!!!

THISSS omg I love this, them a little older, a little less young and stupid, but John still feels as lovesick as the day he first saw him

his heart ached when he saw Gale and Marge get married, Gale looked so happy with her, and when he had held John like that overseas, that quiet rejection still fresh in his mind when Gale had held John's hand one night and told him that he was still getting married to Marge, eyes cast down almost to avoid John's gaze, but he met his eyes just once to ask if John would still be his best man, and how could John ever refuse Gale anything?

after the wedding John moved to New York, couldn't handle the small town of Manitowoc Wisconsin and wanted to see the big city, halfway wanted to forget everything and everyone he ever met, fucked his way halfway through the queer population to try and forget, but one day he sits quietly in a diner, horrifically hungover and he sees him sitting alone in a booth hands slightly trembling as they thumb through a menu, and John feels his heart drop all the way to his feet all over again, and he works up the courage to go over and sit in the seat across from him, a soft "Buck" on his lips that alerts the other man of his presence

he's still as beautiful as he was in flight school, a little scarred and skinny but still those same icy blue eyes and petal pink lips that form a small 'o' but falls quickly back into that soft smile Gale always reserved just for John, and even though John tried desperately to forget, he finds himself falling hard and fast again

John finds out as they eat breakfast together that Gale divorced Marge and came up to New York to start a new life, didn't know he'd run into John all the way out here, and John of course desperately invites him back to his place when Gale mentions he doesn't quite have a place to stay, to which Gale calmly and casually agrees, agrees that it would be nice to catch up after everything

every minute of every day that they spend together, trying to find non-trivial jobs and just go about their days as two war veterans, but every minute that John spends with Gale reminds him how hard he fell and he realizes he's falling in love all over again because they so casually fall back into step with each other, they work so easily together and John can't help but steal those same glances as before, steal touches as he used to, and Gale accepts them all as if no time had passed

John only realized Gale might be falling in love with him as well when he notices that Gale welcomes the touches a little more than overseas, when Gale looks for him in a crowd, when Gale's eyes light up whenever John comes home, how sometimes when Gale has a nightmare John finds Gale in his bed and shushes him for comfort, holds an arm around him and tells him he's safe, and when John wakes up screaming Gale's always first to run into his room, sits on the edge of his bed and awkwardly leans over until John lets him in.... he realizes Gale's in love with him as well when exactly ten years after VE day Gale leans closer to John on their little balcony and tells him he wasn't sure how he would have survived without John, and John finally allows himself to express his feelings and leans forward to kiss Gale and sighs in relief when Gale kisses back

second chance romance where they get to live the rest of their life in New York happy and in love :))

[anjelicawrites]

It's not me if I am not writing a poly; with Gale and John being so joined at the hip, I couldn't help myself.

NSFW and 18+only please.

Warnings: kissing, oral (f receiving), biting, public sex (they are in a warehouse and someone pops in), a bit of overstimulation.

Join the war effort, they said. You’ll see the world and help our boys fight the Nazis! You had imagined yourself in many different situations, never huddled in one of the most hidden warehouses, your back to John’s front and Gale’s head hidden under your Army issued skirt.

John’s mustache tickles your neck when he sucks kisses and hickeys on the side of your neck, his left hand splayed between your breasts to keep you upright when your legs start quivering too much, the harsh sucking on your abused clit makes standing up all the more difficult.

You want to call their names, beg for mercy, for relief, for something you can’t even name, lost in the pleasure Gale’s soft mouth is giving you.

You should have known this was in the cards, those two are joined at the hip and look forlorn when separated, what did you think could happen?

Gale’s hands grab your hips to plaster his face tighter to your core, his tongue licks the rim of your hole teasingly, making you keen with the way he teases you.

“Shh.” John’s big hand flies to your mouth when he hears the door opening.

You’re too lost in pleasure to immediately realize and try to dislodge the roughened palm from your lips; when you hear the footsteps you panic, you three will be in huge troubles if someone finds you three in such a compromising position!

Gale’s ruffled head of hair pops out from under your skirt, in the dim light you can see the wetness on his beautiful lips; his blue eyes fixate on yours, now as big as saucers, and on his friend’s. A silent dialogue passes between the two of them and you tremble when you see the way Gale’s lips turn upwards.

“Keep quiet, sweetheart.” John’s voice is low in your ear.

You can see Gale brunch your skirt up your hips, his hands silently gliding up your legs to move your panties aside again; before you can say anything, John turns your head and kisses you, his hand cupping your nape to keep your lips on his, as Gale starts licking your cunt again with slow, precise swipes.

If you still had your marbles, you’d marvel at how unafraid the two of them are, even with people rummaging around, but you are busy kissing John, desperate to smother your moans when Gale’s tongue starts fucking you with intent. The hand you don’t have in John’s hair finds home on Gale’s head, his fingers like iron on your hips as he pushes his face impossibly close to your center, teasing your clenching muscles, his nose tight against your clit, the pleasure so overwhelming you can feel your body shake in their embrace.

An almost snarl dies between your lips and John’s, his tongue busy playing with yours, his hand a manacle that keeps your face plastered on his, and your body from falling on the floor.

You can feel tears falling down your cheeks when Gale’s lips find your clit again and he sucks, harsh, with intent, wanting you to come all over his face; you want to scream your pleasure, but John’s hand is unforgiving on your nape and all your can do is follow Gale’s face with your hips and kiss John savagely, almost biting his lower lip in your passion.

You’re deaf to the sounds around you, the pleasure robbing you of all the senses that are not focusing on their lips on yours. The waves of pleasure crest and crest with every suck and kiss on your body, both men forcing you to fly higher and higher, until you crash, with a desperate scream drowned by John’s lips.

Your body folds on the floor, Gale’s arms ready to welcome you in warm embrace and you kiss your own essence from his face; it takes you a moment to hear silence again: whomever was here has left, without hearing a single lewd sound.

You nuzzle Gale’s neck and he lets you with a soft smile on his lips; you squeak, surprised, when you feel John’s long fingers moving your panties aside, reaching your still clenching hole.

Before you can say a single world, you hear Gale’s deep voice in your ear.

“Are you ready for round two? Because we are.”

Yes, of all the situations you’ve imagined to be, being loved by those two courageous men has exceeded all your expectations.

[sky-scribbles]

Today I decided to take out the Bhaalist cultists on the top floor of Felogyr's Fireworks. I'd attempted this a couple of times only to be thwarted by game crashes, so I wasn't about to beat around the bush. I detach Astarion from the party and cast Greater Invisibility and Pass Without Trace on him. Then, like any responsible vampire spawn owner, I send him upstairs to his most enriching environment: a room full of oblivious cultists whom he can murderise with impunity.

As the bodies begin hitting the floor, the various guards and staff decide that the three adventurers loitering suspiciously on their landing are the source of the problem, and engage them in combat. As long as I remain focused on Astarion, however, who is upstairs gleefully stabbing cultists, the guards can do nothing but glower at my party, weapons drawn, in Faerun's most awkward staring contest.

At last, one of the cultists rolls high enough to see through Astarion's invisibility, and Astarion gets shunted into the initiative order with everyone else. At this point, Avery the fireworks boss comes running upstairs, sees his staff brawling with us, and decides the only way to save his business is Explosions.

He casts Fireball. Gale fails to Counterspell. My screen fills with fire and 'Object took 74 fire damage!' notifications. Grimly, I look to the party portraits to see who needs healing, and... no one has lost a single hit point. Bewildered, I swap to Astarion to see what's happening on the top floor, and everything begins to make sense.

BG3, I have noticed, gets a little confused if anyone casts an AOE spell in an area that has two overlapping elevations. Such as the landing and top floor of a fireworks shop. Sometimes, it will ignore the conveniently clustered trio of adventurers that were clearly Mr Fireworks' target and sail impossibly over their heads to strike the upper floor of his shop.

The only PC up there is Astarion. Astarion, the rogue with Evasion, who can negate all damage from explosions by succeeding a Dex save.

The upper floor is the fireworks laboratory.

As the camera focuses and the smoke clears from the chain reaction of detonating firework crates, Astarion stands untouched and triumphant amid a pile of smouldering corpses. The remaining cultists burn feebly at his feet. So do the few unlucky guards who had made it upstairs. Avery, understandably stricken at the realisation that he has murdered his own staff and is winning worst boss of the year, runs into the corner and stands facing the wall.

We take out the few remaining employees, and I instruct Astarion to begin looting bodies. Immediately, a Flaming Fist guard sprints through the door to the shop, dashes past the multiple lightning-struck, radiant-flame-scorched, elemental-fist-pulverised corpses now lining the stairs, past the blood-covered adventurers on the landing, and attempts to arrest Astarion for theft.

Astarion, with a dozen bodies crumbling to cinders behind him, insists that the vial of deadly poison he's clutching was his to begin with, and that he wouldn't have had to steal it back if the guard would just get better at her job. He rolls a natural 20 on deception. Chastened, the guard relents.

We exit the firework shop. Not a single hit point has been lost.