#he’d be a bard with no instrument

[catattack08]

Not art but the miitopia archives gang bc they’re really cute to me

[gamerhamlet]

my love for armani & jude flips wildly depending on which one I’ve played most recently + where I’m at in their playthroughs but I just KNOW I’m about to go stupid for my resist!durge

[avocado-writing]

I got a request for bg3, how about a tav who is a bard and the companions falling for them mid-performance, thank you and have a nice day!!!

Your hands are so clever, thinks Astarion. Just like his. They work the strings of your violin ever so gracefully, nary a finger out of place. It is a dance between you and your instrument, one which he has grown appreciative of; no, more than that, fallen in love with. Your eyes, so far closed in concentration to block out the world save for you and the music, peep open - when you spot him looking directly at you, you wink. And oh, he is done for.

Gale watches the way you write music. Scribbled little bars in fine ink, or soft pencil, or charcoal if there’s nothing better. He observes the charming way you chew on your lip as you hum a melody over and over to yourself, desperate to seek perfection before you note it down. If you see him watching you, you give him such a radiant smile that he finds his cheeks heating from the sight of it.

The feel of your drumbeat matches the rage inside her. Karlach roars as her muscles tighten and her grip nearly shatters the haft of her axe, she begins to maul with expert precision as you slam out war song just for her. The blood in her ears provides a harmony to it. She realises, behind her bloodlust, that the two of you are perfect two halves of a whole. She’d never part from you.

Shadowheart watches you pluck the strings of your lute and fantasises about what your fingers could do. Where they’d explore on her body. How deft they’d be if they walked along her sternum until they could undo the laces of her bodice, free the plains of her skin to you. When you notice her red cheeks you tease her, and she snaps something back… but doesn’t look away.

He could listen to you play the lyre for hours. The way you keep it snug against your body is near-envy inducing, but Wyll won’t let himself be jealous of an instrument. Instead he sings along with you, happy to provide a counter-melody, made weak for the way you light up when you find there’s another performer at your side. He realises then he’d do anything to keep you smiling.

Lae’zel has never been a lover of music before she met you. It was pointless, to her ears, just another waste of time. But then she noticed the way you always sang when you were happy. It was easy to tell from then on when things had you feeling sombre. And, when you stopped singing as you saw someone suffering, her hand went to her sword as she decided to rectify the issue and earn your praise in one fell swoop.

[grimm-writings]

HIIII i LOVE your blog!! could i request a bard reader performing a song in front of the party, and it slowly dawns upon chilchuck that the song is about loving him? 🥺

a way with words

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, reader is a bit of a poetic shit <3, reader plays a string instrument (envisioned a lute or mandolin but i don’t specify!)

…wc! 1092

…notes! OH MY GODDDD this is so cute. what the hell. we need more bard representation in this got damn dungeon. (i know thistle could technically be one but one in a party i beg)

To me, some parties employ a bard if they plan on going on ‘legendary’ outings into dungeons.

Somebody needs to be there to document their exploits through the written word – how else are legends made?!

You probably stumbled on the party with the intent to write a song of legend.  Eating the dragon that ate one of you sounds pretty legendary after all, right?

Safe to say if you’re not exactly humble about your profession you get on the nerves of a certain union man.

Even if your reason for joining the party was… less than virtuous, you did bring a certain joy to the party that they all appreciate.

If journeying is getting tiring, all you need to do is pluck a few strings of your instrument and hum a travelling song.

Sometimes you’d make a little ‘game’ out of it.  You know using the drunken sailor melody to make your own songs?  Well…

“What shall we do with a big red dragon, earl-ye in the morning!”  Your voice rings out, bouncing off the walls of the dungeon around you.  You eye the party around you before your gaze lands on the half-foot seeming disinterested in your performance. Well, that simply won’t do! You lunge, dragging him back by the shoulders, eyeing him expectantly.  He only gives you a wide-eyed look of surprise for a second before realising everyone is watching.  He’d hate to interrupt the song, so… “Tie it down and eat it for dinner?” he suggests, only guessing the rhythm vaguely.  To his surprise, you seem to really like it.  You laugh and pick up the music once more to sing his lyric once again. He has to admit, at least you’re having fun.  He doesn’t realise until you reach a stop that he’s been singing along at the end.

I imagine half-foots have a cultural appreciation for music.  It’s a big scene!  They have drinking songs, travelling songs, work songs…  I wouldn’t be surprised if most bards are half-foots!

And Chilchuck is no exception.  Have you seen his little jig?  Of course he likes music!

He has great hearing so he’ll also pick up on little accents in your music and singing others wouldn’t really get.

If you’re performing a campfire song, Chilchuck will likely join in (especially if he had a bit of drink).

It’s nice.  He seemed to be relaxing around you, and you seem to be becoming more of a friend to the party rather than a glorified biographer.

You have to admit that the half-foot has been growing you a considerable amount.  What a complex individual.  So much to read into and inspire… 

It would be one night when you’re on night watch that Chilchuck’s sensitive ears end up waking him up. ..

The half-foot was going to hiss and complain about you being too loud at this time in the night, when he realises you’re playing a melody and mumbling words to yourself. …Huh.  Are you writing a song?  Chilchuck tries to remain still with his eyes closed and listens closely.  It’s handy having such keen senses sometimes. He could only pick up a few words; brown, warmth… something about a kind soul? Chilchuck figures you might be setting up for the party’s “legendary” song.  Maybe you’re focusing on Falin.  Her hair is a very pale brown, and she’s a kind soul if a bit of a people pleaser. He rests easy, listening to your gentle plucking of your strings.  It’s a different melody from usual… he likes your softer side he can identify through your music.

He never tells you he listened to your little jam sesh.  If you knew he’s using your music as a way to fall asleep easier…  He can see your smug smile now, and it makes him endlessly frustrated (or flustered rather).

Chilchuck’s feelings are something he never really… knew.  They just sort of existed, and he let them.  It’s not like anything will happen.

Sure, he gets more red in the face around you… and MAYBE he gets a softer look in his eyes as he looks at you… and perhaps he thinks your singing voice is one of the prettiest sounds he has ever heard…

So what?

It’s a colder night when you take out your instrument and announce you finished writing a song.  It took you a long time to complete it, you admit, but you put a lot of heart into it.

A unique starter, the party might think.  Usually you write for fun.  Specifying putting heart into your music is something that rings an alarm in their heads.

You start playing a melody.  It’s a type of sombre, deep sound.  It resonates a less folksy mood and something more… personal. With eyes closed, you don’t notice Chilchuck perking up in familiarity.  That’s the tune he heard you playing weeks ago.  You only just refined it?  At least he can actually hear what the words are. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you sing about a character that has a kind soul, with deep brown eyes.  His warmth is something that you find yourself wanting to bathe in once a journey ends.  Chilchuck listens with a small smile. It’s only when you start mentioning things like silver strands of hair you wish to weave through your fingers, things start to fall into place.  Wringing his hands too often for a well-prepared man is a lyric that is too specific to merely be about some fictional character. He doesn’t say anything even as he joins in the applause at your finished peace, pretending the heat in his cheeks is from the frosty temperature.

That night, he catches you alone refilling your waterskin.  The atmosphere is thick with a kind of calmness.

Where Chilchuck is usually so stubborn, he finds the words escaping his lips in a soft voice.

“Are you in love with me?”  You don’t respond instantly.  He expected as such.  He follows your form with his eyes as you widen your eyes and glance away with a small laugh. “Wow.  Wasn’t as subtle as I thought,” you dryly tack onto your chuckle. He laughs along, approaching you.  He doesn’t do anything drastic, instead offering his own to you. “It’s okay,” he tells you, surprised at his own lack of embarrassment despite the situation.  “The fact you notice all that about me is… flattering.  You really have a way with words.” You return the grin he gives you and take his hand, squeezing it. “How could I not notice, when you are my intimate muse?”

[ipostdumbthings]

Romantic Headcanons for Bard Reader with BG3 Companions

Astarion

Well, won’t you be the easy target? What could be easier to seduce than a bard? Honestly, he probably could just wait for you to try to seduce him first. Too easy. At least that’s how he thinks about it at first.

It’s not hard to choose you to seduce, of course, not only are you capable and competent, you also provide a little taste of civilization and creature comforts in the way of making camping more pleasant. Your music and aesthetic skills are the sort of luxuries Astarion loves to indulge in whenever he can.

In some ways he’s a little more guarded with his feelings around you, at least to start with. Bards have a reputation, and he finds your company just so pleasurable, that he realizes how easy it may be for him to slip. So until he is forced to confide in you, you’ll find he defaults to flowery praise of your talents as a tactic to avoid having any meaningful discussions.

When he does have to actually let you in, the thing he feared, being connected meaningfully with you proves to be almost immediate. After all, he just enjoys you so much. You’re fun. When you accept him for all the struggles, he finds himself vulnerable in a way that he may actually enjoy. He quickly becomes more willing to have these conversations with you.

While playing your music in camp, you’ll often spot him just watching you with the most lovely smile on his face.

Shadowheart

Shadowheart distrusts you, well, she trusts you initially because she has no choice, but she’s aware you have expert skills in deception. Something she herself trades heavily in, and that being the case, she knows she has to be careful taking you at your word. She does respect you for it though, she respects a well executed lie more than anyone.

Actions help her trust you, but honestly what really does it is being on the same side of the deceptions. She often finds herself fancying you as a partner in crime of sorts, you two having the same interests and needs has made you someone she can count on.

She doesn’t seem interested in your music at first, in fact, she’s often hanging in her tent while you are playing for everyone else. She can hear it from there, and does very much enjoy it. Just privately.

Once you two are on the path to romance together, though, you’ll find she’s the first to ask you to start playing. It’s one of the rare things that gets her happily interacting with the rest of the team.

She’ll tease you for it, but she does genuinely love the songs you write for her. Especially if they’re dark and mysterious sounding, it makes her feel understood and flattered. But to reiterate, she won’t actually tell you that. You’ll just have to realize it from the look on her face as you perform for her.

Gale

Gale finds himself smitten by you quite quickly, as a matter of fact. He’s a verbose man, and there’s few skills outside of magic that he respects as much as verbal cleverness.

So he quickly seeks you out during the evenings at camp for stimulating dialogue. You’ll likely have to endure quite a bit of him prattling endlessly about his passions, but if you engage with him on those subjects enthusiastically, he falls hard.

He may come off condescending about your magic at first, he kind of is, but the more he hears of your experiences the more impressed he is with what it is to you. For you magic is your art, it’s an expression of passion, skill, and freedom. He finds that so very charming.

He’s a bit shy at first sharing his poetry with you, more so than he’d be with others. Afterall, you’re sort of an expert on such matters. In the same breath, your approval of his work carries so much more weight. You’ll never see his chest puff out with so much pride as you do when you tell him you like one of his poems.

The next several he writes are all about you.

Lae’zel

Lae’zel finds you frivolous at first, and why would she not? She’s carving through the enemy with blades while you play an instrument.

It doesn’t take her long to figure out just how talented and useful in fights you are though. Be you casting a quick spell to patch up an ally, or rendering your opponents weak with a well delivered insult.

In fact your devastating burns are the thing she may find most appealing about you. You can do with a few well chosen words what others have to do with weapons. That’s a skill she doesn’t take lightly.

It’s this that causes her to reassess all your talents she’d deemed worthless to begin with. The way your fingers pluck at a lute speak to a dexterity and an expert level of skill. While she may not appreciate music the way others do, she often finds herself watching you play with admiration for your well honed craft.

She’ll tell you as much when she’s trying to entice you into sex, she’s always quick to highlight your talents as proof of your worthiness.

Wyll

Before there’s even the hint of feelings caught on either side, Wyll makes it known he’s very much a fan of your work. And that means the music, the magic, the skills, all of it. You’re a person that has a solution to almost every problem, and that’s something truly special about you. You’ll get no bard jokes from him.

He finds himself quickly picturing adventures with you. Imagine the tales of a bard and the Blade of the Frontiers! It’s just so easy to see a future with you where the two of you ride off into the sunset, righting wrongs and saving the day.

He actually finds himself nervous of your response when Mizora turns him, wondering if that could jeopardize that wonderful future with you. Your acceptance of his new form means more than anyone else’s. 

In fact he feels similarly about the dancing, a bard's disapproval of his skills would cut so much deeper than anyone else’s. You are worth the risk though.

Karlach

Finally, someone to actually perform the music for her dances. She adores you the second you first catch her dancing and immediately pull out your instrument for her. It even encourages her to test out new dances to see what songs you supply in response to them.

You are her fun, you are the lightness and the joy that she so desperately thrives on while dealing with such horrific circumstances. In that way, you’re her safety from the misery. 

Whenever you two are connecting and discussing those horrific things, she always asks you to play a nice song when she’s ready to move on from the subject. When you do, the softness in her eyes make her affection for you all the more obvious.

She’s very defensive of your instruments, she won’t let anyone in camp touch them when you aren’t around. She’s sweet about it. But firm.

Her favorite moments in camp are when everyone’s around the campfire while you play your music and laughs are easy. Those will be the moments she turns to when she handles her most trying moments.

Halsin

Halsin makes it clear very quickly how highly he thinks of your musical abilities, especially since it’s something he lacks. He’s quick to thank you for songs you play, and he always stops what he’s doing to listen and enjoy your music.

In fact, he finds the most beautiful and romantic moments between the two of you to be when you take your instrument for nature walks. He loves to find a place to sit and enjoy nature, as well as your talents. He could honestly do that for hours, especially if you’re cuddled up beside him while playing.

He’s just as impressed by your charm and magical talents. He loves watching your games of verbal chess in situations, and is honestly just so impressed with how much you can accomplish with your wit alone.

He’s probably the one that first most respects and values what bards are truly capable of, and he considers you a fine tribute to the profession. He has fewer preconceived notions about bards and their antics, and as such you find it easy to simply be yourself around him.

[itsonlydana]

can we get some barduil x reader fluff?

(preferably in the same modern au typa thing you've been doing, but beggars can't be choosers)

Golden Memories | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader x Bard 👑 [king's special]

An invitation to a garden party leads to Bard and Thranduil introducing you to their group of friends and prove that they are the rock you can always hold onto.

warnings/tags: [modern!au], fluff, appearances of multiple hobbit characters, lots of pda (they can't keep their hands from each other), and the softest of softest barduil

word count: 4,4k

an: Thank you for this request! Summer is fading but their love is ever-warm and golden.

requests: please check pinned post

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

The house stands in front of you like something straight out of a movie. An exterior of white walls and huge windows adorned with cobalt blue wooden shutters and terracotta clay pots hanging next to them; pinkish and lilac flower buds breaking up the monochromic white. A balcony on the second floor nestled right under the sloping roof of dark blue shimmering shingles, curves around into the back and is lit up all the way by colorful lanterns placed on tables and chairs. Music plays in the garden on the other side, too far away to make out any words or instruments but the beat floats through the air like the soft breeze and twirls around your head dreamily and weightless. 

You can sense the sea that's just behind the house, the salt in wind and water on the tip of your tongue, the seagulls and waves in your ears, and the sand that lingers on shoes and naked feet as people walk up from the beach on the pathway, leaving golden memories.

“It’s a sight, isn’t it?” 

You flinch as a hand is placed on your hip and pulls you out of the admiration into the familiar side that smells like fresh laundry detergent and rich perfume. Bourbon-vanilla, honey, lavender – Thranduil. In the months you’ve known him, the note of vanilla became what you associated with him the most. That and the adoring look in his gray eyes, that rest on you now and are completely in ignorance of the house that captures your attention. 

“It’s –,” you dig in your frazzled mind for an appropriate word, “dreamy.” Not as eloquent as Thranduil could describe it if he went into it, but eh, considering the circumstances it should be enough.

Thranduil gently squeezes your hand, drawing you closer to press a quick kiss to your temple. 

“And, remember: it’s just a house. A few walls, windows, probably doors, and most definitely locks and keys.” There’s a playful yet meaningful wink that’s just for you and a soft crinkle in his eyes. 

“Wow,” another voice chimes in and Bard slides up to your other side, “You know the secret doors and windows? Should I be worried that you’re going to steal my job?” Under his arm is the sweater he’d run back to get from his truck. The one you said you wouldn’t need and which he brought nevertheless. The sweater you always borrow from him.

Thranduil rolls his eyes at you before arching his dark eyebrows at the brunette. “Considering you stole my girlfriend? I should go for more than just your job. Let me take over that whole construction firm and maybe then you have some reason to complain.”

Wearing the sweater on his arm and a smirk on his face, Bard leans into Thranduil for a kiss on his cheek. “She surrendered to my charme willingly,” he says first to him, then he turns to you: “There was no stealing whatsoever. Even if she’s some good treasure. “A wave of Bard’s tart aftershave – leather, musk, cedarwood – clouds you in much more happiness than the playful interaction that rings much more truth than the joking tone leads on.

You had met Thranduil before Bard. 

When it was just Thranduil, the writer who worked on his novel in a corner booth at the bar you worked in and who, one day, asked if he could throw a glass of red wine over the tablecloth. He wanted his novel to be authentic and whenever you brought him another drink, that was the only thing he could think about. It was such a strange request that you fulfilled it at the end of your shift, when the last patrons had found their way outside and you and Thranduil were the last once there; tipping one glass after the other of old wine and coloring throw-away tablecloths the same red that your cheeks blushed in. 

He told you that he was poly and in another relationship before he asked you out for the first date. Six dates later you asked if you could meet Bard, simply because you wanted to know more about Thranduil and what he liked and loved and if that was the other relationship, then so be it. You knew that there were no obligations for you and Bard, that much had been discussed and until you actually met Bard, you yourself hadn’t touched the thought of a polyamorous relationship. 

That went out of the window the second Bard arrived at the scheduled coffee date straight after work. His hands rough and large in yours, his cheeky grin silver like the few strands of hair, sawdust on his black boots, and that damn scent of musk and sweat clinging to his unbuttoned chest like he knew that would send your stomach into loopings and your brain into overdrive.

Ever since then, it had been Thranduil and Bard and you. 

For their friends, you had been a part of conversations and surely pictures but there hadn’t been a chance to meet them in person; thus the invitation to a relaxed – their words, most definitely not yours – summer evening barbeque at one of their houses. A chance to be introduced in the comfort of a home rather than a public space. 

The day has been a fixed spot in the shared Google calendar for a while now, a careful drop in conversations at the dinner table or a gentle reminder when you cuddled on the couch or ended a phone call. 

That doesn’t necessarily mean that you are ready though. 

“Come on,” Thranduil’s voice is even deeper and lower as a whisper in your ear and you catch his gaze, “You’ve nothing to worry about, mon amour. They’re excited to finally meet you.”

“Exactly,” Bard leans in to gently nudge his nose against your temple from the other side. “We’re there the whole time.”

“And if you should meet a minute, we can find a quiet spot,” Thranduil says.

A raspy chuckle bubbles up Bard’s throat and you can feel the vibrations of it fight against the wild flutter of your hummingbird heart, “I mean, we heard from the expert that this house has some doors and locks and keys,” – Thranduil huffs, loud and clearly after this quip – “Tell us when you want to disappear for a bit. It’s more than manageable.”

“Thank you, guys,” you sigh and lean slightly back to look up at both of them, “This already helped a lot – you already helped a lot.” And raising to your tiptoes, you express your love and gratitude with a kiss on their lips, sighing at the grounding smile that’s on Thranduil’s and the soft and playful bite of Bard’s teeth.

Despite their presence on your side, your hands shake around the basket you bring, a tight white-knuckle grip around the woven straw, the ends leaving imprints on your soft skin. Glued to Thranduil’s side and thankful for his hand loosening your grip to intertwine your fingers with his, you follow Bard not to the porch with the pretty stained window in the front door, but around the side through a wooden arch. 

Bard flips open the rusty lock with one smooth grab over the door, holding it open for you and Thranduil to pass him. 

The garden is just as pretty as the front of the house, a curving stone path on wild sprouting ankle-high grass, raised and signed flower and vegetable beds on one side, lilac wisteria climbing up the walls of the house on the other. When you round a corner, you nearly stop dead in your tracks. You don’t, Thranduil continues to pull you with him, but your jaw does fall open at the sight of the glittering ocean greeting you over a low hedge. It didn’t look that close from the front, the raised garden, however, makes it seem like it’s just a simple dive. 

A long table is set up in the middle of the lawn, already loaded up with plates, bowls full of salads, baskets with bread, and honestly, it seems like they made sure everyone will be accommodated and find something to eat.

“Thranduil! Hii– you’re here!” A woman springs up the second the three of you come into view of the small group of people sitting on the stairs to the veranda, long red hair flying past her as she dashes forward. 

Thranduil hugs her first with one arm, leaving the other hand to hold onto you, and then he nudges you. “May I introduce you to Tauriel, mon amour. She’s one of my oldest friends and this–” 

“Is the famous barkeeper,” Tauriel finishes and grins at you. Before you can actually respond, she pulls you into a short hug as well. “I’ve heard lots about you! We need to sit down later and have a proper chat where you can tell me the secret to Thranduil’s hair,” she shoots your partner a sharp look, though it turns into a smile again when her head turns back to you, “Now, I won’t hog you anymore. Bard, finally got out of work, I see?”

The second Tauriel pounces on Bard you take a deep breath, your eyes unconsciously flitting up to Thranduil to find his on you already. 

“Don’t worry,” he kisses your temple, and his nose brushes through fine hairs, “just tell her about Bard’s 3 in 1 and she’ll be off your back for a while.”

With that Thranduil leads you to the others who slowly got up as well, leaving wine glasses in different states of empty on the staircase and greeting you one after the other.

There are the twins, Fíli and Kíli, who you know from various disastrous tellings of nights out in Bard’s young adulthood spanning from climbing fences to public pools at night to losing a bearded dragon in their University and chasing it around for half the night only to find it cozied up under a heater. You always thought Bard exaggerates in those stories; you’re no longer sure after meeting the twins. Then Legolas comes forward, a young blonde in skinny jeans that he must be the only one to pull off like that, and of course, the owners of the house: Bilbo and Thorin – auburn and raven-black locks, a strand of the other braided behind each right ear. 

While the Bilbo gushes over the basket you hand over shyly – “Uhm, I brought a salad, some wine, and there also flower seeds in there and some sweets. Chocolate and gummies, I didn’t know what you liked exactly.” – Thorin smirks and shakes your hand in his much larger.

“Finally Bard introduces a partner that ain’t an asshole,” he says, ignorant of the puff of air that Thranduil exhales. 

“Oh,” you blush, unsure of what to say.

“Pleasure to see you as well, Oakenshield,” Thranduil cuts in for you, and his grin is sharp, “How’s the beer coming along?”

“Ale,” Thorin corrects, gritting his teeth. His broad arms are crossed in front of his chest, showing off an impressive swell of muscles; he looks like he could throw Thranduil over the fence into the ocean. “And if you hadn’t convinced Legolas to post your wine on his Instagram first, we could’ve had a fair competition.”

“Mhm, there’s fair competition and then there’s no competition; and well, only one of those brings in much more profit.” Thranduil shrugs his shoulders, hiding his joy as well as Thorin masks his annoyance tinted with the slightest respect of a businessman – not at all.

When you meet Bilbo’s eyes, he rolls them with a huff, muttering something along the lines of “Cocky bastards” while you bite down on laughter. 

 “Now,” Thranduil’s thumb draws a gentle circle over your hand, his smile soft again as he dedicates it to you, “shall we grab a bite and sit down?” 

You’re glad about the offer, without the basket in your hands you are left to fiddle on Thranduil’s hand or the seam of his sweater; both make fantastic distractions but your stomach swoops at the smell of all the food stacked high on the table.

The benches wobble slightly on the natural growing lawn as you sit down next to Thranduil, the sun-warmed wooden planks radiating through your pants. A sea breeze swirls through your lover's hair, blowing the strands forward so you gather the light blonde hair in between your fingers and loop the pink hair tie you always carry on your wrist around it, pulling it into a loose ponytail that falls over Thranduil’s chest. It’s a coordinated action, one born in your notorious habit of always having something to twirl and pull, and Bard's and Thranduil's tendency to forget that the wind was the biggest enemy to their longer hair. 

You catch Bard’s perfume before he steps up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and nuzzling a kiss into the delicate skin of your neck. “Hello darling,” he greets you as if you have been apart for hours, not minutes, and your heart flutters. His kisses wander to the spot behind your ear. “Hope the spot next to you is not taken yet.” 

“No,” you giggle at the delicate scratch of his stubble and sigh when his hands leave your body.

The whole bench shakes when he falls down onto it, rattling enough for Thranduil to nearly drop the plate he holds. “Oops,” Bard says. “Awful construction.” 

“Or just not made for muscle-man to crash his arse through it,” Legolas comments and – gracefully – sits down next to Tauriel on the other side of the table. 

“Did you just call my ass massive enough to break a bench?” 

Thranduil and you lean both back at the same time to eye it in silent agreement. 

“As much as I love that you’re checking me out,” Bard says and takes a plate full of cut bread, “let’s do this after dinner. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Kíli wanders past you, sneaking a quick reach to the bottles of beer in front of you. “Thorin had us running down to the cellar to bring up more and more drinks –”

“And we couldn’t take one break,” his brother adds, coming up from your other side to grab a bottle as well. They take a seat on the other bench as well. 

“If you worked half as much as you complained you would’ve finished all this in no time.” Thorin’s voice shuts their rambling up immediately, though you guess it’s less for respect and rather because the twins took the chance that everyone finally sits down to start ravaging the table and piling up their plates.

Voices reach over voices to chat and talk as much as hands reach over hands in an effort to grab bowls and glasses and bottles, the ‘clinks’ and ‘clunks’ accompanying the “How’s life?”, “Is that co-worker still a pain?” and in the middle of all the conversations held over and around the table, Thranduil and Bard find corners and open spots to bring you or your work up. It’s adoring, how much they care that you’re never left out – even if that’s not possible with Legolas and Tauriel opposite of you, arguing over this, telling that, and asking you for your opinion – and you find the anxiety that left cold shivers down your spine a stranger you would recognize in passing, not a fourth person in your relationship to take you down whenever you felt unsure. 

You’re sipping on a glass filled with sparkly wine and pierce your fork through the pasta salad left on your plate when Bilbo forces Fíli to swatch places and gleams at you, his cheeks rosy in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. “Soo,” he points his glass into your – general – direction, “Tell me, how? This?”

Tauriel’s eyes have a hungry glitter in them and she raises her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m in dire need of your side of the story. These boys kept you their secret for so long and then never gave a proper explanation.”

Surprised you turn your head to Thranduil, whose arm is once again draped behind your back. “Seriously?” you ask.

“We wanted to wait until you’re comfortable enough to bring you up,” Bard’s hand takes its place on your thigh pressed against his. He’s close enough that you can rest your chin on his shoulder without slipping out of Thranduil’s open embrace. 

You nudge the warm curve of Bard’s throat with your nose, mouthing a kiss against his pulse, hidden behind the faint stubble of hair. “Thank you,” you mumble and feel his rumble of an answer against your lips and where your chest hugs his side. 

“Always, princess.”

A wistful sigh draws you away from Bard, your cheeks colored the same deep rosé as your wine at Bilbo’s wink. You quickly cough, hoping it will clear your voice from the sap and dripping love that tints the words and silent conversations you have with your partners. “So, the story is quite simple. Thranduil came into the bar one night to work on his novel, whyever he thinks that would be a better location than his office is wondrous, nevermind though. He came in, and I think I fell in love the same day.” 

“What?” Thranduil’s hand tightens in a loving squeeze, “You never told me that.”

“I’m sure I did.” You blush hot and take a sip of your wine – swallowing the lie with a rush of sweetened grapes. 

“No, I can’t remember such a chat. I do know that you fell for Bard like a puppet with its strings snapped –” he clicks his tongue and snaps his finger, “And there I was, sitting in that booth and coming home, complaining how you never flirted back.” Thranduil frowns, his grey eyes finding amusement in the color of your cheeks and the way you squirm between him and Bard. His teasing ends in a kiss to where the flames in your face feel the hottest, a calming balm for the rush of blood. 

You lick over your lips, drawing the bottom one between your teeth. “Anyway, yes, I took one glance at them and never looked back.” 

“Ain’t that the cutest,” Bilbo claps his hands together in delight. “I felt the same about Thorin! I know he doesn’t look it, but he sweetened me up with poetry and candlelight dinners and I knew he was the one.”

Next to you, Thranduil does a poor job hiding his snort behind a cough. 

Thorin does an even poorer one hiding the kick aimed at Thranduil’s chins which he misses and nearly tumbles over. 

You have just the slightest grasp on their feud, anger that’s long forgotten over something long clarified, the residues of what happened tightly knitted into their friendship and sticking out like pieces of threat coming loose. Frays, those tender, feathered edges where fabric has gently unraveled, revealing a soft halo of fibers, and for them it’s their history refurbished in jokes and hot-headed discussions, competitions about ale and wine, lovers and music, the passions of life that they share from different sides on the same coin.

The evening goes on after dinner when most of the bowls and platters are cleared up and snacks are brought out with more bottles of wine, and beer, and ale, and you offer your help, stacking up empty glasses to bring them into the house. You leave behind the loud yelling and screaming over a card game for the quiet kitchen overlooking the sea, silent except for the water rushing into the sink and Tauriel’s soft humming as her hands dip into the foam and bubbles to meticulously clean the dishes. 

Her red hair, half of it pinned up, glows in the sunset and her smile radiates the same warmth. “Place them right there,” she waves one soapy hand.

The glasses clatter and rattle against each other. You grab a red and white checkered towel and take a wet plate.

For a while you work in perfect harmony; Tauriel cleans up and you dry off what she hands you, listening to the men outside and their cheers. The lights in the house are turned down, bathing you in the rest of the light streaming in from the outside and its reflection on the glistening bubbles. 

Tauriel is the first to speak up, after a soft exhale that has the loose strands of hair fluttering. “Thranduil came to me and Legolas after you helped him with his writing project,” she starts and you pause, a warm plate in the wet towel, “He crashed at our apartment, drops of red wine on his favorite shirt and all he could talk about was the girl whose laughter got him drunker than anything you could have served him. The whole night he sat on our flour, candles lit – he refused to turn on our lamps, dear heaven – and wrote his book. On our floor. A man possessed by a muse.”

“He said I inspired him to write, I haven’t realized the depth of that statement.” You absentmindedly lean your back against the counter, the towel threated between your fingers.

Tauriel hums in agreement. She reaches elbow-deep into the sink and loosens the plug, letting the gurgling water slip down the drain. “Oh and Bard, that man lost all words when he saw a picture of you. You tipped their brains over.”

“They’re everything to me,” you say, slow, meaning every single syllable and word. 

“I see that,” Tauriel takes the towel from your hands and spreads it on the counter to dry. “And you mean the same for you. Otherwise, they wouldn't have brought you here to the coyotes and wolf.”

There’s more clattering as Thorin pushes the door open with his foot and steps into the dark kitchen. “Are you comparing me to a fucking wolf again, Tauriel? I told you, that costume was one Halloween and I only did it because Bilbo had that fucking red coat lying around.”

Behind him, you can make out a pair of howling and quick feet rushing up the stairs, the twins, if you had to guess. 

Chaos erupts in seconds, Bilbo and Tauriel fight over who gets to clean the new dirty dishes and Thorin tries to get a word in, apologizing that he truly loved the costume and would rather be called a wolf by Bilbo than Tauriel – neither of the two listen to him, much to engrossed in the wish to be the one washing up – and you offer a condescending shrug before ducking out.

The floorboards groan under your steps, in tune with the crickets sitting in the bushes and the sound of waves lapping up the shore underneath the hill. You jump the last step, landing in the gravel and grass and listen to the crunch as you skip to the Hollywood swing where you can make out two silhouettes against the backdrop of a red sun. 

“Hello, mon amour,” Thranduil lifts his head from Bard’s chest, sitting back up. They look peaceful, their faces relaxed even though their lips are plush enough that you can conclude to have missed nothing but making out like wild teenagers; hidden in the bushes or rather, the trees that line the back of the swing. You stop in front of them, taking in their content postures, their long legs pushing the swing slowly back and forth.

“‘Hope it was fine with you to be alone in there for a minute. Thranduil would’ve headed into another wild discussion that surely led to Thorin throwing us out.” Bard’s laughter is husky, tinted with red wine and a full stomach. 

Thranduil rolls his eyes and swats his hand against Bard’s hip. “Stop it. You were the one to bring up the Christmas party and I –” 

“I did no such thing!” Bard laughs, winking in your direction and mouthing “I did.” You stifle a giggle.

Thranduil scoffs, drilling his pointer finger into the strong muscle of Bard’s biceps. “You are a menace, Bard Bowman. Thorin may be thick-headed and bites into every opportunity but you’re throwing them at him like you’re feeding wild cats at the zoo.” After a theatrical sigh at Bard’s and your snickering, he shakes his head knowing there’s no way this will end in his favor, and makes room on the swing. “C’mon, love, hop on.” 

There is no need for him to tell you twice. While you are sitting down, a shiver slivers up your spine, the wind coming from the sea bringing forth the specific rush of coldness from the dark waters glistening in the last rays of the sun and the rough edges of the sand it washes over. You roll your shoulders back and bring up a hand to smooth down the fine hairs standing up on your arms. 

Bard’s eyes soften, crowfeet appearing in the corner of them. “Arms up,” he instructs you and the world goes dark and warm. 

Your nose brushes the fabric of his sweater and the pine and cedarwood are a perfect duo of scents for you to concentrate on, as you lie down, head down in Thranduil’s lap and your feet across Bard’s thighs. Intertwining your hands with the rougher and larger one of Bard, your fingers disappear in his palms. He holds onto you, while Thranduil cups your cheek, following the tired smile on your face with his slender writer-fingers, tracing the lines from the curve of your nose to the bow of your lips; collecting the bits and pieces that made you smile, reading your face like on of his stories. 

Thranduil’s finger repeats the same motion, the tip of his pointer stroking down your nose and up again where he smoothes his finger down, loosening the slightest of frowns on your forehead. 

You take a deep breath full of Bourbon-vanilla, honey, and lavender, catching the faint scent of his rose hand cream. You can feel the muscles in Bard’s legs working underneath your thighs, the flex and push as he brings the swing in motion again. A gentle rocking, the wood creaking softly and when you open your eyes again, Thranduil’s head leans against Bard’s; the golden sunset catching in their hair and the lush leaves of the trees above you all. 

Their love seeps through your body like the sun stretches over the sea, endlessly going into the horizon. 

Bard spreads your hands underneath his, his fingers covering yours easily on top of your stomach fluttering happily. 

From the house comes the yells of the twins, followed by Legolas loud laughter. Bottles clink and sizzle, the caps flying into the air to land on the tables or the grass. Bilbo calls over, asking if you want to join them for a game of Uno. 

“In a minute!” Thranduil answers without turning away from Bard. 

“Or two,” you mumble into the seam of the sweater, perfectly content where you are right now.

[leighsartworks216]

request if you feel like it:

i've been thinking a lot about astarion coming up with some unique pet name(unique as in not on his usual list of what he calls everyone) for tav and their brain just short-circuiting a little when they first hear it

“another (again no pressure): tav writing a song about astarion? or them absent-mindedly playing something that was inspired by him? and his reaction to that”

I assume these were both by you, anon lol I combined them because I felt like they worked really well off each other

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Warnings: references to sex, anxiety

Word Count: 989

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

As a bard, you were no stranger to performing for audiences and putting on a good show. Smiling and going on with the show in spite of the stage fright. You’d rubbed elbows with nobles and sung ballads to their wives - you shouldn’t be as anxious as you are.

And yet, as you sit Astarion down on a pillow within your tent and pick up your lute, your fingers shake and you feel short of breath. Even when you sit down across from him, you cannot seem to settle down. You performed this a hundred times by now to make sure it was absolutely perfect, but it felt like your fingers had never held an instrument before, and like your voice was entirely gone.

Cold fingers brush your knee. He looks worried. “Are you alright, darling?”

You nod despite the forced smile you put on. “Yup! Never better! I just, uhm,” you reach over for your journal and hurriedly flip through the pages, “need to make sure I’ve got this right.”

Your eyes read the notes and lyrics over and over and over, but process none of it. You try to jumpstart your brain by placing your fingers over the frets, but your nail catches a string and makes a rather terrible noise. You both wince. Astarion leans forward and takes your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Darling, breathe. Imagine I’m just another drunk tavern patron.”

You huff a nervous laugh. “It’s hard when all I see is the man I love.”

He smirks, but the softness of his eyes ruin the illusion. He pulls you forward and meets you halfway to place a kiss on your forehead. “Breathe. I won’t laugh if you mess up.”

“Liar.”

“I won’t laugh excessively if you mess up.”

He pulls away, stroking your cheek with his thumb before he pulls away and leans back on his arms. He’s so open and inviting like this. You want to toss your lute aside and crawl into his lap, bombarding him with hugs. But, you need to share this with him first.

You close your eyes. You imagine you’re just in some dingy inn, playing for scraps and discounted rooms. This song is just like any other you’ve written. The notes are at your fingertips, ready to be released. You breathe in, imagine the song in your mind, and breathe out. You’ve got this.

You avoid looking at him as you close your journal and set it aside - you fear doing so would ruin the illusion you’ve painted for yourself. Your fingers glide smoothly along the strings, as familiar as a lover’s caress, and settle on the first chord. The words climb up your throat, lining up, ready to leap out. You try not to choke on them. You close your eyes again and start to play.

You spent countless nights composing it. Ever since you chanced upon him looking in the mirror and he’d called your descriptions of him “poetry”. To you, poetry was one in the same with the flattery he so desired. Maybe he understood that now, now that you were together. And that is exactly what this song was for.

You sang about his eyes, his hair, his smile, his hands - preening him and his apparent beauty. But you sang about his heart, too. The tenderness he shared in quiet moments, the way he sought your hand out by hesitantly brushing his pinky against yours, the delicate way he peppered your neck with kisses before he bit down as gently as possible. You poured your heart into every note, into every word. You meant every single one.

The last note fluttered into the air, and in the void it left behind came your anxiety. You were scared to open your eyes. To lose this moment would destroy you. If he hated it… Gods, you didn’t know what you’d do.

Cold hands hold your face again, but before you can open your eyes, his lips are on yours. He kisses you with a burning passion. Gratitude and love and a million more emotions, all vying to be expressed in this one act, like he can’t leave them to fester in his chest any longer. When the kiss slows, when he can bear the weight of the remaining feelings, he pulls away so gently. You pant to catch your breath, and you can feel it fanning against his skin and back at you from his proximity.

“My wonderful little song bird,” he hums. Your eyes shoot open to stare at him. He can feel your pulse as your heart skips a beat, soaring with the new pet name. He pecks your lips again briefly. “Only you would take my words and turn them against me in song.”

You chuckle breathlessly. Your mind is still trying to catch up. “You wanted flattery, and I excel in poetry - it only made sense to combine them for my favorite muse.”

He smiles wide, fangs peeking out beneath his lips. “I think I can make an exception,” he teases. “As long as you only sing about my good features.”

You cup his cheek and guide him down until you can kiss his forehead. “All of your features are good features, my star.” You lift his head again to press your forehead to his. “I can’t admire a bow and ignore its arrows - you’re not you without all of your qualities, good and bad and middling.”

“Fine,” he sighs, “but I’m to be your first audience with each one.”

“And if I write something truly scandalous?”

He smirks devilishly. “Then I’m to be your only audience, and,” he leans forward to whisper in your ear, “I intend to act out each phrase.”

You hum. “I should get to writing, then.”

Fangs tease at your lobe. “Allow me to provide you some inspiration, my precious song bird. It’s only fair, as your favorite muse.”

---

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[artiststarme]

A Sleepwalking Surprise

I have no idea what this is. I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments.

~*~*~*~

“You walk into the dark cavern to reveal the fire-breathing dragon that’s been charring the King’s soldiers and burning them to crisps. The mighty beast is towering and its scales are seemingly impenetrable. The dragon notices your entrance and spews a fiery and gruesome spray of fire at the Party before any of you have a chance to react. Roll for damage.”

The entire Party grumbled and rolled their dice. They thought they were going to find treasure, not a dragon trying to burn them all to death. Gareth’s half orc ranger and Dustin’s own half elf bard suffered the most damage at the surprise attack. Gareth muttered something about Eddie always targeting his characters and grunted in anger. 

Eddie chuckled mockingly at them from behind his DM screen, ��Gwaine and Lorcan suffer fire damage and drop their weapons when the flames lick at their hands. Lorcan, what’s your action?”

Dustin huffed with stress and ran a hand through his exposed curls. “I roll for initiative.”

“Go ‘head and roll,” Eddie told him, taking a sip of his Mountain Dew from his chalice. The bastard looked devious as he eyed him over the lip of the prop. 

Dustin blew on his dice to wish them luck. This roll could make or break the rest of the game for him. “14. Lorcan picks up his lute and attempts to entrance the dragon with music.”

“Alright, Lorcan is able to retrieve his instrument from the ground where it sustained some minor charring but remains playable. The dragon is distracted and does not notice the first few notes of tune…”

Dustin was on the edge of his seat. Was it going to work? Would his move save the Party?

“The dragon released one more bellowing breath of fire at the Party before his eyes glaze- Stevie?”

Dustin’s eyes whipped open. Steve? What the hell was he doing in this story? He followed Eddie’s gaze to see Steve, his best friend and babysitter, standing in the entrance of the trailer’s kitchen. He was standing tensely with his eyes roughly unfocused on Eddie. 

“What the hell is Steve doing here?” Dustin asked his dungeon master. 

“Is he okay?” Lucas asked him in concern. 

But Eddie just waved them off, “he’s fine. He sleepwalks sometimes,” then he turned to Steve. “C’mon Big Boy, let’s get you back to bed.”

He rested a gentle hand on his back and one on his arm then guided Steve back to the bedroom. Meanwhile, the kids were dumbfounded. Why was their babysitter, the one that said he had plans today and couldn’t join the session, in Eddie Munson’s trailer? They didn’t even know they were still friends after the Upside Down!

Jeff, Gareth, and Grant didn’t even blink at Steve’s presence. To be fair though, they’d known Eddie a lot longer than the other boys and he’d done a lot weirder things than mother-henning the reformed King of Hawkins High. 

A few minutes later, Eddie returned to the living room and picked up right where he left off. “The dragon’s eyes glaze over and he becomes transfixed by the music! He can’t focus on anyone other than Lorcan’s pudgy fingers delivering the sweet, sweet tunes. Droggom, what’s your move?”

“Okay, wait a goddamn minute. Are we not going to talk about how you have Steve sleeping in your bed right now?” Mike sputtered. 

Eddie in his part just looked confused. “Where else would he sleep? He’s tired and you’re all sitting on the couch.”

Mike gestured with his hands in frustration and shot a look at Dustin. It was in his hands now to get answers. “Why can’t he sleep at his own house? And since when are you guys friends? We need answers!”

“Oh, we’re friends alright. We’re great friends. Now, focus on the game or I’ll maim you. Where were we?”

~*~*~*~

The game continued for the next several hours without interruption. However, just as they were wrapping up for the session and settling at a tavern, Steve came walking back down the hallway. He was yawning and fiddling with a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on his nose. Dustin couldn’t help but feel even more confused. Since when did Steve wear glasses?

Eddie perked up in his seat immediately upon visage of Steve. His deceitful smirk turned into a genuine smile and he hopped up to meet Steve as soon as he crossed into the living room. 

“Stevie! Are you awake this time?” Eddie wrapped his arms around him in an engulfing embrace. 

“Mhmm, still tired though,” he muttered. Then he took everyone by surprise. Steve pulled away from the hug only to plant a kiss directly on Eddie’s lips before walking into the kitchen. 

Everyone’s jaws dropped. Dustin didn’t know whether to voice his support or yell at them for not telling him anything and the rest of the group seemed to be in the same boat as they stared unmovingly at Eddie. And Eddie just stood still as if he couldn’t believe that had just happened. 

Suddenly, there was a crash in the kitchen and a shouted, “shit!”

Steve rushed back out, now wide awake, and looked at Eddie in horror. “Oh god, fuck, shit! Fuck Eddie, do you think they noticed?”

“Yeah we noticed!” Lucas yelled.

“How the hell do you think we could’ve missed that?!” Dustin cried. Jesus Christ, seeing your two older male friends macking on each other left an impression.

“Why the fuck are you smooching on Eddie?! First my sister and now Eddie too?!” Mike screamed at him in offended outrage.

The poor Corroded Coffin guys just looked so tired. They knew already and Dustin would never forgive them for keeping it a secret from him. 

Eddie looked at Steve, “yeah, I think they noticed.”

Steve just sighed and grabbed his keys. “I have to leave now or I’ll be late for work. See you guys later!”

“And leave me here with these assholes? I think fucking not. I’m coming with you, let’s go,” he told him. Eddie grabbed his wallet and boots as he walked to the door. He shouted to the group over his shoulder, “lock up when you leave!”

The Hellfire club heard the Beemer’s engine rev and then they were alone. Dustin just looked at the other boys in confusion before screaming a loud, “what the fuck?!”

Just a few hours later, Dustin, Lucas, and Mike would corner Steve and Eddie in Family Video. They’d find out that Steve regularly sleeps over at the Munson trailer and that they’d been dating for three months. Dustin would give them his support before immediately slugging Eddie for ‘defiling his older brother’ and getting a wedgie in return. Sigh, good times, good times indeed. 

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[bingeate-r]

Greatings from afar my queen I have a request for ya

So actually I am deeply sorry for disturbing your peace my great queen ' but you humble servant here ask for general dating headcanons or anything you brilliance has cooked inside her great mind with zenji from Tokyo debunker, I am desperately in need for some context of this man because he is the sweetest thing ever , Hope the inspiration light guide you and you never get a writing block ever my dear

farewell my Majesty

THIS HAS ME SCREAMING. WHOEVER WROTE THIS YOU HAVE ME GIGGLING AND SHOWING MY HUSBAND THIS MESSAGE.

I would be absolutely delighted to share my take on Zenji, and what dating that funky lil ghost bard would be like! My deepest apologies if it is a little short, but regardless I had fun writing for Zenji and hope to get more requests from you in the future! Hope you like it!

Zenji Kotodama/Taro Kirisak

Zenji, a man driven by the desire to create, finding beauty in every detail around him, would have been a fool not to fall for you. One look at your sweet face and his brain was overcome with melodies, stories, and any beautiful word he had in his arsenal that he could attribute to you. Each day spent with you was a whirlwind of ideas, inspiration hitting him harder than the clash did.

You’d leave for the day, and Zenji would pine as if he lost his lover for eternity. Hands furious and frenzied as he scrambled to get his thoughts down before they were replaced with new ones, dozens of books now filled with lyrical nonsense on your beauty, and the way he longs for you.

He’d follow Haku all day, lingering over his shoulder, singing lines he wrote about his ethereal goddess/god of a muse, looking for pointers on how to make them better than the last.

“When your gaze falls upon me, my dear, I feel as if my soul has once again touched the earth, breath filling my lungs for the first time in years.” He spoke, reciting the seventieth line Haku had heard that day. Haku nodded along, his brain elsewhere. The poor boy could only listen to so many love declarations a day.

Zenji is the type to leave love letters, detailing the way he wishes he could feel your soft skin underneath his fingertips; how even just a day spent away from you is enough to shatter his aching heart, the pieces unable to reform until he was in your presence again. He’d of course make you read most of the letters in his presence, a prideful bubble in his chest as he took in your reaction.

“I apologize, my dear, I often find it hard to find the right words to describe just how deeply my soul aches for yours.” He’d breathe, mind already swirling with thoughts of how to make the next letter even more romantic.

If you play musical instruments, he’s begging constantly for duets. If you don’t, the begging is equally as furious, but this time he wants to teach you how to play the biwa, wanting nothing more than to share his greatest passion with his greatest inspiration. After all, every word he wrote was with you at the tip of his tongue.

“Just like that, darling.” His voice rang out softly as he watched you pluck a chord, fingers gliding to the next string to repeat the action. His encouragement and praise went hand in hand, eyes bright and intent as they stayed locked on you.

So long as it doesn’t phase you, being a spirit hardly phases Zenji. He pushes the limits constantly, testing just what he could and couldn’t do, the goal in the end always being the same: do whatever it takes to be with you.

[inkwingsinc]

Darkfluff Outtake #1: bit my gun with my black-gold gums

[ this is a drabble outtake from my ongoing darkfic, still might sneak it into the story somewhere ]

Fandom: Dune

Character Focus: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Female OC (established relationship)

Parent Fic Rating: Explicit (written by an adult, for adults)

Drabble tags: domestic "fluff", brief mention of past child abuse, humorous reference to dismemberment, unedited

Word Count: 592

To combat writer's block and darkfic fatigue I write little "fluffy" scenes using the same characters to freshen things up a bit. This is an unedited barebones sample, just for funsies.

Full Story w/ Context:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54217396/chapters/137290048

Scene: Feyd-Rautha has...an interesting taste in music.

The first time Laera saw him put on music had been the first time he’d engaged with anything cultural that could be considered art. He was fond of moving around; often, he’d pace around his quarters while he read the reports his advisors would bind for him, or he’d take to his pull-up bar, or roll easily to the floor to curl himself into endless, controlled sit-ups. He read voraciously, but the texts were always dry nonfiction. He sharpened his blades. He contorted himself into series of endless stretches, rotated through solo training exercises, and would mutter to himself endlessly. Always moving. Always noisy. Constantly following Laera from room to room, never content to allow her moments to herself.

One morning after breakfast he ordered his attendants to bring in a musician.

The House bard was a small, frightening woman who had entirely blackened eyes and wicked, mangled scars roping over the dome of her pale skull. Her fingers were strange, being completely without fingernails, and she carried an instrument that Laera didn’t have the learning to recognize.

The music of Geidi Prime, Laera soon found out, was horrible.

“What is that, exactly?” Laera asked her warden, cringing at the metallic, shuddering moans the bard coaxed from the strange instrument. The bard wore an odd attachment over one hand, fondled a trio of metal balls, and caressed her other hand overtop with precise, slow movements. Electricity was involved, but Laera was far too disturbed to ask how it worked.

“It’s a hand theremin. Electrical harp,” Feyd-Rautha murmured up at Laera from his post on the floor. He held himself in a horribly rigid plank position, every muscle from his neck to his toes flexed. Beads of sweat gathered in the deep furrows between his shoulder blades and just above the dimples on the small of his narrow back. “Isn’t it lovely?”

Laera struggled not to laugh. “It’s…it’s something, alright. I think the sound is what a spark plug would sound like if it had the ability to scream.”

The bard turned her face to look at Laera sharply for her comment. Laera gave an apologetic shrug.

Feyd-Rautha’s rasping bark of laughter felled him from his plank, and when he hit the floor, he lazily rolled to his back on the cool stones, hard body coiling like a languid snake. He caught one of Laera’s ankles in an idle hand and pulled his foot to his chest, cradling it there. “I was taught to play as a boy. Used to play for the Baron while he bathed.”

Laera pulled her foot back, uncomfortable at mention of the Na-Baron being anywhere near his naked uncle. “Were you any good?” she asked. Good was relative, she guessed. The music still sounded like eerie, haunted-house spookytunes to her unfamiliar ear.

“I was terrible.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Feyd-Rautha rolled to his feet and collapsed on the lounge chair beside Laera, who had abandoned her book to gape at the bard and her alien little instrument. "Sometimes this music is accompanied by singing. Don’t insult my harpist, pet, or I’ll treat you to battle hymns. If you think the melody is bad, just wait until I serenade you.”

Laera snorted, amused. “Battle hymns? I can imagine the lyrics now. I bet Harkonnen lullabies even include references to ritual dismemberment.”

“Only two of them do.”

“I see.”

Unfortunately for Laera, Feyd-Rautha found her distaste for the hand theremin to be amusing. She was treated to many, many renditions of “songs”, for many hours.

She even grew to like a few.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

14, geraskier please?

14. A firm handshake, professionally at first, but a second too long

“Well, that was exciting!” Jaskier claps his hands in delight and surveys the wreckage of what was once his estate’s portrait gallery.

Geralt looks in disbelief at the viscount, who is grinning and bouncing on his toes like a child awaiting his Midwinter gifts. Jaskier is worlds away from the hollow-eyed young man who hired Geralt a week ago to free him from the dark magic that had been plaguing his castle for days, the result of a cursed statue gifted to him by a vengeful former lover. Now the statue lies in pieces on the ground, the entity that lived inside it is dead, and the intended target seems to have forgotten the weeks of terror he suffered.

“Exciting,” Geralt deadpans.

“Well, I imagine you do this all the time.”

“No, a cursed statue trying to rip my head off is a new one.”

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier grimaces as his eyes fall to Geralt’s neck, which most likely sports the beginnings of finger-shaped bruises that will fade by morning. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at him. “But you could have been, since you didn’t stay downstairs like I told you to.”

Jaskier looks entirely unabashed. “I heard a lot of crashing. I had to come see if you were alright!”

Geralt sighs, knowing an argument he has no chance of winning when he sees it. “Just next time a woman you know loathes you sends you a mysterious gift, push it off a cliff into the sea.”

“In my defense, I thought the Countess’ style was more to tell everyone that I’m a dreadful lover, not to send me a murderous statue.” Jaskier pauses. “Her claims about my abilities in bed are pure spiteful fabrication, of course. I’ve gotten nothing but rave reviews from objective parties.”

“Glad to hear it,” Geralt says. He’ll have to go see this Countess, make sure she’s not going to send anyone else a cursed statue. Technically, his contract with Jaskier was over the moment the entity inside the statue died on his sword, but Geralt wants to make sure no more nasty surprises are coming the viscount’s way. It’s the least he can do.

“But thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier looks at Geralt with earnest blue eyes. “I owe you my life.”

“The five hundred crowns we agreed on is more than sufficient.” Geralt probably shouldn’t be surprised that Jaskier is still being so warm towards him, since that seems to be the viscount’s default. But part of him expected Jaskier to withdraw once he no longer needed Geralt to keep him safe.

“I don’t think any amount of coin is sufficient, but it’s a start.” Jaskier holds out his hand to Geralt. “Thank you, my friend.”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand in his and shakes. Jaskier’s palm is warm and callused, his fingers long and dexterous. Just the other night, Jaskier told him that he was studying to be a bard before his father died and he became the viscount at seventeen. It’s easy to imagine those long fingers dancing over the strings of an instrument. It’s easy to imagine those fingers in a number of places, a thought that Geralt tries carefully to avoid.

He looks up into Jaskier’s eyes and realizes that he’s been holding his hand for a moment too long. His thumb rests over Jaskier’s pulse point. Quickly, he releases Jaskier’s hand, letting his own drop to his side.

A smile plays over Jaskier’s lips. “You know, it’s late. There’s no need for you to head out tonight. Why don’t you stay one more night? You may actually be able to use the guest room I made up for you, now that you don’t have to stay up all night guarding me from malevolent forces.”

“Thank you.” Geralt doesn’t necessarily think he’d mind staying up all night with Jaskier under more pleasant circumstances, another thought he’s very carefully trying not to have.

“And it looks like rain out there, doesn’t it? Maybe you’ll have to stay for a few more days. As long as you need, of course. I’d hate for lovely Lady Roach to have to get her glorious mane wet. But we can figure that out tomorrow. I think a celebration is in order, don’t you? How do you feel about Everluce?”

“Tastes less cat-pissy than most wines.”

“Oh, good gods. You’ll need to stay at least another couple of days. If the best you can say about Everluce is ‘not cat-pissy,’ then you’ve clearly only been drinking overpriced swill passed off as fine wine by unscrupulous parties. Don’t you worry, my friend, we’ll set it right.”

Geralt lets himself be steered out of the portrait gallery as Jaskier talks his ear off about wine. He can still feel the warmth of Jaskier’s hand in his all the way down to the kitchens.

24 Touches Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[grapesplease]

white haired men and their homosexual tendencies

astarion x drow! bard! male! tav

an. a short fluff piece for my tav and astarion! mostly so i can write about altair in act one because that man was so not okay (alcohol withdrawal symptoms) ending is a bit rushed, but it's cute anyway

cw. mentions of blood (it's astarion, it comes with the vampire fic)

“I mean, we could’ve tried getting Gale to heal you. I don’t know if you want him of all people healing you, though.”

“Eugh, Gale? Healing? I’d rather you let me die.”

Altair rolls his eyes. “You're so dramatic."

“You love me for it.”

“Unfortunately.”

wc. 1.3k

Astarion smelled blood and thought of home. 

(If he could even count Cazador’s mansion as a “home.”)

It's a mix of his blood, some of the party’s, some of whoever they’d just killed. The scent is strong as it wafts towards him, unpleasantly combined with dirt and whatever poison he’d had on his blade. Its warmth creeps into his shirt as he bleeds out.

Strange how his blood is so warm while his body is ice cold.

His arms are as heavy as lead, his body is sore, he thinks he’s dying. Again. 

He’s dragging himself across the rough ground, blood seeping from his wounds and teeth grit. He can’t muster up the strength to push himself off the ground. 

Shadowheart is saying something unintelligible to him, and he’s vaguely aware that the fight is over. He's drifting in and out of consciousness. The last he sees is a pair of boots running towards him and his party’s concerned faces. 

-

He wakes up to the soft playing of a violin.

Altair.

“Can you stop playing? My head is killing me.”

Astarion groggily props himself up, feeling the stiffness of bandages wrapped around his arms and chest. Altair’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a few feet away from his bedroll. How long had he been out?

“It's only been a few hours, if you want to know.” 

“I didn't ask.”

“Figured you’d want to know.” He smiles, shrugging halfheartedly. Altair had a horrible knack for being able to read Astarion perfectly. 

His smile only worsens his discomfort, his eyes shifting away from Altair. Talking to him always felt less like talking to a person and more like a cheerful brick wall. A cheerful brick wall who knew exactly what was wrong with him and would try his hardest to fix it.

At first his overeager personality and unfaltering smile made Astarion think that Altair must’ve had some kind of hero complex- but he soon realized that he was just a doormat. Always wanting to please everyone in the party, going as far as it took to keep them around him. 

He’d completely change his personality without hesitating if it meant that they stuck around him.

It unnerves him.

“I sent Karlach and Gale for a supply run a while ago, we're gonna have dinner when they get back. Unless you want to feed now?”

“I can wait until they get back.” He prods at the bandages. “Why didn't you or Shadowheart heal me?”

“Out of magic.”

“You and Shadowheart?” He scoffs. “I thought your magic came from your instrument?”

“The magic comes from the violinist, not the violin.” He retorts. “I mean, we could’ve tried getting Gale to heal you. I don’t know if you want him of all people healing you, though.”

“Eugh, Gale? Healing? I’d rather you let me die.”

Altair rolls his eyes. “You're so dramatic.”

“You love me for it.” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Love” might’ve been a strong word to use for their relationship, if he could even call it that. They had sex a few times, shared flirty banter (much to the dismay of the rest of the party), and he’d opened up begrudgingly about his past to Altair. 

Regrettably, he thinks he’s falling in love with Altair. Despite his never-faltering smile and inconsistent personality, his actions were becoming a genuine source of comfort and security. 

“Knock knock, hope I’m not interrupting?” 

They both turn to Shadowheart, who's peeking through the flap on his tent. She takes Altair’s smile as an invitation, and sits on the floor next to his bedroll. 

“Hello, Shadowheart.” Astarion starts, “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Healing.” She curtly responds, sighing tiredly as she sits beside his bedroll. 

“Your little paramour has that sad look on his face, wouldn't leave your side ever since you got knocked out. You’re lucky that I like Altair- and that I have the energy to heal you.”

“I didn’t have a look on my face!” Altair retorts, crossing his arms. 

Astarion rolls his eyes, chuckling. Altair’s only- what, a couple decades younger than him? Certainly not young enough to act like a child! 

“You're a fully grown 200-something year old drow! Stop looking like a kicked puppy when someone gets hurt!” She starts shooing Altair away. “Gale and Karlach are back already, get some food. I’ll heal Astarion and then you can both have dinner together.”

“I’m 215, for your information!” He indignantly huffs. “Fine, I’ll go and walk my fully grown ass outside to get food. I’ll be back.”

They watch as Altair begrudgingly slips out of Astarion’s tent. What a silly man.

“He’s only like that with you, you know.” Shadowheart turns back to him, her hands hovering over his bandaged wound. 

“Whatever could you mean?”

“Clingy.”

“He’s not like that with everyone?” 

“No.” She scoffs, “I don’t know if it’s because he likes you or if it's something else. He's just much more clingy with you, constantly has that kicked puppy look whenever he’s separated from you. It’d be cuter if he wasn’t a fully grown man.”

“It's a little cute.” Don't think about this any harder, he’s not supposed to get close- he's not anything more than protection. Oh my gods- stop it. “He’s just a little romantic, isn’t he?”

“That's one way to put it, I suppose.”

Shadowheart wipes her hands, looking into Astarion’s eyes tentatively.

“I know we haven't known each other for long, but Altair is a good person. I hope you don't hurt him in the future, Astarion.”

“I’m not planning to kill him or anything!”

“You know what I meant.” She stands, “He’s a good person; better than both of us at least- you know that. Don't hurt him, alright?”

“Yes, yes” He flippantly waves his hand, “You can go now, if you're done prodding at my conscience.”

She leaves, and he sits in silence waiting for Altair to return. Great, she has him thinking about the scenario where Altair and him actually become something real. He has to make sure that it never happens. He doesn’t even know if he’s ready for something real.

He's not even sure if he can face the guilt of confessing this shit to Altair. If all goes as planned, then he won't ever have to- right?

-

It’s been a few decades since his plan miraculously failed and their relationship became something “real"

Astarion thinks it went pretty well, considering Altair didn't just ice him out on the spot when he confessed all those years ago. 

They got married about a decade after the reconstruction of Baldur’s Gate. He moved into Altair’s house (not like Astarion had a house of his own anyway), got “normal people” jobs, opened a business, and just settled down.

It was dreadfully domestic.

Not to say that he preferred his life before, living on the road was a dirty affair (not the fun kind, mind you), and he doesn't even want to mention Cazador. He just didn't expect his life to end up being so peaceful.

He sits on their couch, Altair is sprawled out next to him. It’s some time in the evening, he’s not sure. He's sad that he is once again restricted to the night, but Altair trying to match his sleep schedule had made it more than bearable. 

The fireplace crackles in front of them, and he decides that it’s about time for them to start their night. He softly bookmarks his page, shutting his book and setting it down on the coffee table. 

His hands gently shake Altair, who lets out a groan as he wakes up. He shifts as Altair sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“You couldn't let me sleep for a few minutes longer?”

“I was hungry.” He replies, shrugging playfully. “Besides, it's about time we got our night started anyway.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.. Have your breakfast first and then we can go and buy stuff.”

He grins as Altair moves his hair aside, exposing the tender skin on his neck. His fangs sink in, the taste and smell of Altair’s blood is intoxicating.

“Ah, this is the smell of home.”

[panur]

Radskier snippet

Snippet for a fic that’s so far into the future I may as well share as its own thing until I decide to use it (if it ever happens). dedicated to @flootzavut as most Jask tit-centric chats are.

-----

“I missed this.”

“My tits?”

Radovid makes a thoughtful noise, rubs his cheek against the other man’s chest like a contented cat. Blame it on being spread over a beautifully bare (and somewhat sticky) bard.

“If I say yes, would you kindly pretend I said something suave, mayhaps even romantic? I’m afraid you’ve left me too spent for much else.”

He can feel Jaskier chuckle under his ear, which is somehow just as lovely as the rest of him. “You’re in luck. As it happens, I've always considered compliments to my cleavage a pivotal part of the whole romancing process.”

“Is that why you wear your shirts open halfway to your navel?”

Radovid tries to lean away so less of his weight is on the other man, but his hair gets caught on one of Jaskier’s necklaces. The bards’ deft fingers untangle it before he can try to do so himself. He tucks the traitorous strand back in place.

“And why should I deprive the continent of one of my many charms?” His hand moves from Radovid’s hair and to his jaw, stroking gently

“Oh, trust me, I felt many things the first time I saw you,” Radovid pauses, for both effect and to steal a kiss “- ‘deprived’ was not one of them.”

It might as well have happened in another lifetime, but that did not mean the former prince could forget the first time he’d set eyes on a man he’d so deeply admired and hoped to meet– only to find him only half dressed and in the process of having most of his worldly possessions thrown at him out of an irate lover’s flat.

After so long, Philippa’s insidious presence is almost easy to drown out by other, far more pleasant parts of these memories. The shock of catching a flying instrument before it brained him. Realizing what he was holding and who it belonged to. The most outstanding eyes he’d ever seen, turning to look into his. 

And of course, the bard's barely-covered—how had he put it?— charms. 

Jaskier eyebrows waggle. He seems to have a sixth sense for the carnal musings of others, particularly the ones where he was the lead. “Hmm, should we try for ‘depraved’?”

“I think you should try ‘dreadful'.” Radovid sighs, moving to lay next to him “Considering that was quite so.”

The waggle intensifies, somehow.

“I can’t help but notice a suspicious lack of denials coming from your end, my dear,” the bard purrs, leaning to face him.

“Remind me why I find you charming?” Radovid asks, trying not to blush.

“The decolletage is very persuasive.” Jaskier points, traces an entrancing path down his clavicle to the center of his chest with a finger, then flicking at Radovid’s nose when his eyes predictably follow the path.

“Among other things, yes,” he agrees, meeting Jaskier halfway when he leans to kiss the smile on his lips.

[delusionbound]

“Amanita Szarr, and the two assholes who adopt her”

mild tw for brief mentions of possible sexual trauma and childhood abuse

summary: literally brainrotting over amanita, tav and astarion rn. this is all self indulgent. basically just my thoughts on how tav x astarion would work with amanita as their pseudo kid. found family ensues

you’re in act 1 after learning about astarion and his relation to cazador. a young girl shows up in the middle of the night, awkwardly trying to talk to you. if you pass an insight check, you see that she’s hiding something behind her, she’s nervous, it’s like she hasn’t talked to anyone in a while.

whether you fail the check or not, she fails her attempt. she fails to stake astarion in the chest regardless, and after a series of confusing attempts to talk you learn about who she is.

Her name is Amanita Szarr, and she’s on a mission to kill every vampire she finds despite being one. And she plans to kill a man named Cazador. She’s blunt, she’s honest, and she’s furious.

She’s wearing a crisp and wrinkly old dress, she has blood shot eyes and poorly chopped hair, she looks angry. not just angry, but vengeful.

over the course of a month you learn she’s cazadors fucking niece. although she would keep most of what she’s been through unknown. this would absolutely rock astarions perception of what was already an incredibly traumatic situation. how much was he hiding from him? How the fuck did he miss a kid being locked in an attic being turned into either a true vampire or dhampir due to a wonky transformation.

can you imagine the sheer abuse she went through? the severe isolation, and the possible sexual trauma (due to the type of ppl were dealing with here, although this is just speculation) and neglect for all of her adolescence.

astarion can understand it way more then he’d like to admit.

amanita and tav would start out with a general distrust for their respective reasons, but eventually grow a mentor and student relationship, after all she hasn’t been shown much basic affection. Although she’d be distrusting she’d be quick to latch onto someone…Astarion and her would be a very different story though.

amanita and astarion would hate each other initially. both terrified to confront the memories they want to block out, and both being complete opposites. she’s spent the entirety of her life locked in an attic, she’s shit with people.

she doesn’t know how to manipulate people and she doesn’t want to. Astarion has adopted it out of survival instincts. And needless to say he’s not fond of kids, even if they are over 100 years old. but slowly they both gain a begrudging sense of exasperation for eachother, but it’s fond.

it takes a long time no doubt, but they both share some things in common. They both want one particular asshole dead, and they’re both willing to hurt people to survive.

Id like to think that she’s a witch, a ranger, or a bard, she was incredibly academic due to how much time she had on her own. Maybe the only thing to occupy her time was an instrument and song writing. Maybe she just got really good with daggers and her only contact was with animals outside. But either way, she’s good at what she does and she’s willing to kill to survive.

It’d start with Astarion teaching her a few knife tricks. Slowly they’d start to talk about books. The turning point from a begrudging companionship to actual friendship would be when she shares one of her favorite books with him. he can see the doodles and annotations as he reads and slowly starts to see her as less of an annoying kid and more of an apprentice.

and as months passed, all three of you began to form this odd sort of trust. and that became something neither of you expected

a family. an unconventional and messy one full of people who were working through their problems, but a family nonetheless. after everything is said and done, the epilogue might consist of all three of you or just you and astarion, depending on how the story plays out and depending on whether or not she continues to hunt vampires (she’d also leave if he ascended in my opinion). and it’s the nicest thing she’s had in a long time

[karniss-bg3]

With all the talks about Kar'niss as a bard, I was wondering if you could write something with Tav and Kar'niss dancing together? (though I guess given how tall Kar'niss is, it might be difficult)

The air was thick with the aroma of burning wood from the nearby campfire. A blanket of stars spanned across the sky, twinkling from a far off distance. Tav had broken away from the group for some quiet time, wandering toward a nearby stream so they could bask in the crisp night air. Once they settled on the shore near the forest line they pulled out their violin from it’s case. They took time to tune the instrument, desiring a moment to play a pleasant tune for their pleasure. Tav sensed eyes on him from the nearby treeline, their head turning to see the familiar silhouette of a drider lingering between two trees.

“You’re welcome to join me if you’d like. I’m not opposed to the company,” Tav said.

Kar’niss froze once he realized he had been spotted, his hands clasped together to rub them in a nervous fashion. He emerged from the underbrush and wandered over to where Tav was seated, maintaining a small measure of distance.

“What are they doing?” Kar’niss asked, peering over their shoulder at the violin.

“Taking a moment while we have it. I haven’t had the chance to play for a bit, now seemed like a good time. Do you play any instruments?”

Kar’niss’ brows knit, mulling the question over. “We...used to. Don’t anymore.”

“Oh?” Tav perked up, interest piqued. “What instrument?”

“Violin, flute at times. Long time ago, doesn’t matter now.” Kar’niss waved a hand dismissively, turning his face away from Tav.

“Well, would you like to with me? A duet sounds fun. We have an extra violin in camp.”

Kar’niss scoffed and reared his head back as if insulted. “We cannot play anymore. We would ruin your music with our screeching.” Tav chuckled while pushing themselves up to stand. “I doubt that. Just give it a try. If you hate it then you aren’t obligated to continue. Please?” Tav leaned forward and boldly bat their eyelashes at the hesitant drider.

His cheeks puffed out with indignation. “Are they mocking us?”

“No, not at all. I’d just like to try something with you, that’s all.”

He growled under his breath, tapping a single leg against the ground while considering the proposal. “...Fine. One song only. If the instrument breaks it is not my problem.”

“Wonderful! I’d not worry much about the violin honestly. I think Astarion stole it from some merchant or another, won’t be much of a loss if it snaps. I’ll be back!”

Kar’niss watched Tav scurry back to camp to retrieve the item. He crossed his arms tight against his chest, his pedipalps trembled in place, betraying his anxiety for the performance soon to come. He’d not have to wait long. Tav had been swift in their retrieval of the instrument, they ran up to Kar’niss and held it up for him to take.

“Phew, there you go,” Tav panted, wiping a bit of sweat from their brow.

He lifted the violin and bowstring into his clawed hands, looking over each piece as if he’d been reunited with an old friend. It felt strange in his grasp and the jagged nature of his fingertips made either item a challenge to grip. Tav stood back and let him become adjusted to them, watching as he plucked a few strings to test their muted chords in succession. His nose wrinkled with some concern.

“What is it you wish to play?” Kar’niss asked.

“Have you heard of the waltz of the feywilds? It’s a bit complicated but it is one of my favorite songs.”

Kar’niss squinted and mulled over the request, his tongue darting out to swipe over his lips. “We are not certain. The title sounds familiar, it has been too long since I have played it.”

“Tell you what. I’ll start playing solo and if you catch the rhythm feel free to jump in as you wish. How does that sound?”

He hummed and nodded. “Very well.”

[Music]

Tav tucked the butt of the violin under their chin and rested the bow over the strings, straightening their posture. Kar’niss mirrored this, relearning the proper stance. It was a bit awkward as his chin now had an extra layer molded over top via the hardened chitin but he managed to adjust well enough. Tav positioned their fingers over the proper strings on the violin neck and began to play, a gentle melody rising from the instrument into the night air.

Kar’niss closed his eyes as Tav began to play, opting to focus with his pointed ears rather than his sight. He listened to the first notes of the song and honed in on it, digging deep into the recesses of his memory in search of something he’s heard before. It took him a moment but he soon willed himself to play the first note, sliding into Tav’s solo to turn it into a duet. At first he struggled, his fingers larger than he was accustomed to which made hitting the right strings a struggle. He’d strike off key or hold a note for longer than it was meant to be but Tav didn’t seem to mind.

“You’re doing great, keep going,” Tav insisted.

He exhaled his nerves and stuck with it even if he felt the urge to drop the violin and walk away. Steadily, he became accustomed to the added bulk of his chin and fingers, shifting the instrument in such a way that it worked for him rather than against. Once he did so the notes flowed smoother, in line with Tav’s own contribution. This made Tav smile, their body bobbing up and down on their knees once the music started to hit their core.

Their playing continued, gradually picking up pace into an uplifting harmony. Even for as stiff as Kar’niss could be he felt the draw of the music seep into his skin, pulling him back to a different time in his life. As his comfort levels grew his confidence in manipulating the instrument to his will increased, playing with a bit more passion than at the start. Despite his best efforts he found himself swaying from side to side in time with the beat, his long legs curled while rocking his large body like a pendulum. Tav took notice, unable to wipe the growing grin from their face. They chose to join him by shuffling their feet on the grass below, stepping from side to side to match Kar’niss’ rhythm.

He tipped his head to the side slightly at the sight of the display, deciding to up the ante a notch. He lowered his front half toward the ground, extending his pedipalps to drum against the dirt when he felt added percussion was needed for the melody. Tav unleashed joyful laughter due to Kar’niss’ improvised antics, finding them clever. They stepped forward and began to dance around the drider while he tapped at the ground, spinning and skipping around his impressive abdomen, soon returning to his front. All the while the two continued to play, their song growing in intensity as they progressed.

Kar’niss had become lost in the duet, the faintest of smiles threatening to stretch his mouth. The ballad increased in pace and came to a high pitched mid point, the pair putting their all into assaulting the strings with determined ferocity. Kar’niss closed all of his eyes and tipped his head back, matching Tav tit for tat. Once the mid point had passed they would side step to and fro while facing one another, Tav spinning around in place and Kar’niss following suit. Albeit his turn was slower thanks to his extra girth, but he still managed to do so with grace. Tav stepped toward their partner and Kar’niss stepped in to meet them before both walked back to restore distance between them. His legs stamped at the ground in sync with the anthem, his torso bending into the violin as he leaned into the more fast paced tone. His rounded abdomen swayed and rocked concurrently with his legs, putting his entire body in motion.

Both continued to prance from one side to the next in unison with one another, turning around in place at proper intervals, lowering their bodies into a crouch then springing upright. The smile Kar’niss had fought came out victorious, fully visible on his expression. It was a toothy grin that was both endearing and haunting at the same time. Despite his impressive size Tav wasn’t intimidated with his dance partner, rather savoring his enjoyment knowing how rare such a treat was for him.

The pair were reaching the crescendo of their song, the very apex building in urgency between the pair of them. As the final elongated note was shared between them, Kar’niss lifted his body upward while he held the high pitched sound, pushing until he was balancing on his back four feet. The other four extended outward alongside his pedipalps, opening wide as if he were in a defensive stance and yet that was far from the case. He tipped his torso back until his hair fell from his shoulders and dangled freely in the air, Tav watching the display in awe of his beauty in that moment.

The lengthy note was dropped, the final chords played afterward in rapid succession to end off the song with a flourish. Both Tav and Kar’niss played the final refrain in a quick strike and once finished they dropped into a low bow in front of one another. Their arms extended outward, bow string and violin clutched in either hand jutting from their grasp. They held the lowered position for a moment to catch their breath, Tav the first to lift their head to find they were eye level with Kar’niss; A rare thing indeed. Their gazes met, the drider offering the smallest of smiles in Tav’s direction, his hair a mess across his face.

“You did it,” Tav whispered.

Before Kar’niss could respond the pair heard the sound of clapping nearby. Tav stood with a jolt, looking behind them to see others at camp had gathered around. Wyll in particular seemed enthused by the performance.

“Well done, well done!” Wyll called out.

“Got an encore in you??” Karlach shouted.

Tav smiled sheepishly at the pair and shook their head. “I doubt it, but glad you enjoyed it.”

Kar’niss made a face at the unexpected audience. He dropped the bow and violin, backing away as he felt a tingle in his cheeks.

“Kar’niss, are you alright?” Tav asked.

The drider growled ever so slightly and then turned, quickly scuttling away from Tav and the others. He fled back into the underbrush of the forest and disappeared from sight, having none of it.

“Ah shit, did we scare him off?” Karlach asked.

“We’re sorry Tav, we didn’t think it’d be a bother.” Wyll added.

Tav exhaled and wandered over to retrieve the discarded instrument, looking it over with some fondness.

“No, nothing to be sorry for. I think he is a bit more shy than he lets on. Give him time, he’ll return when he’s ready.”

Kar’niss wandered back into the forest and climbed into the tree he picked to call home for the night, complete with scattered webbing throughout the area. He’d settle on a thick branch, his arms crossed as he worked through his temporary embarrassment. Part of him was still in disbelief that he’d done that at all, that he still could. The feeling of an instrument in his hands felt better than he dared admit aloud. Once he started to calm down he turned his gaze to the stars, a sight he often favored while alone. The tips of his pedipalps began to gently tap at the branch below, one, two, one, two. He bobbed his head from side to side and before he knew it he was humming the song they had just played. He continued to do so while training his eyes on the sky, his wobbled smile making a return.

For now at least.

[grandmother-goblin]

Field Study - Chapter 14

Ao3 - Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Astarion comes face to face with Cas's older brother, a famous and brutal monster hunter, and fears for his life.

Relationships: Astarion x Female!Tav

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 4.1k

Chapter Tags: Meeting the family, sibling tomfoolery, relationship talk, kissing.

Every one of Astarion’s survival instincts had agreed on one course of action in that moment:

Run.

Run as fast and as hard as his legs would take him. Run until he found a place to hide deep within the depths of the woods. Or the dark bowels of a cave crawling with spiders. Hells, he’d even go back to that goblin-infested hellhole.

Then maybe, just maybe, he would buy himself a few more precious moments before the Huntsman of Neverwinter rammed a stake through his heart.

He swallowed as his eyes scoured over the Huntsman; the man was nearly as large as Halsin. Fitted leather armor emphasized his muscular build and sunlight glinted off the steel of the (menacing) sword strapped to his back and the daggers secured to his belt. And those were only the weapons Astarion could see — who knew how many other lethal instruments the Huntsman might have concealed on his person.

There was a sharpness to the Huntsman’s features that reminded him of Cas. But his face held none of her softness.

His dark eyes were alert and calculating, like a hawk perched high on a building as it tracked a mouse scurrying about an open street. Four prominent scars marred his neck — two pairs of separate, unmistakably vampiric bite marks — that tore down to his collarbone like he had ripped the vampire away with their fangs still embedded in his throat. The man moved with easy, confident grace like he knew damn well he was the most dangerous being for miles around.

A man who turned monsters and predators into mere prey.

Gods. Cazador would hate him.

The man exuded power in a way Cazador could only dream of. There was a natural, unspoken charisma to the Huntsman that his former master would never have been able to emulate even if he tried.

It was a presence that commanded respect; not because he expected it, but because one couldn’t help but give it freely.

Astarion was pulled from his musings when Cas’s fingers squeezed his gently. “Just be yourself,” she said, her voice echoing in his mind as the tadpole squirmed. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? Was she out of her mind?

As much as he wanted to believe her, experience and instinct told trust the truth of what was standing before him. And the truth was that he stood face-to-face with a large elf who was armed to the teeth and had a reputation for killing monsters. Efficiently.

Although Cas didn’t treat him like a monster, Astarion couldn’t be certain that her brother would extend him the same courtesy.

Yet if the stories were to be believed, the Huntsman would have long since sent him to Kelemvor already - had he been inclined to do so. Even the exaggerated tales told by bards made a point to emphasize how quick the Huntsman was. And how his prey never saw him coming.

But, Astarion was still in one piece. For now.

Even with that in mind, a lump remained firmly lodged in his throat as his feet stayed rooted to the spot. His fingers tightened around Cas’s hand, holding it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the Material Plane as he stared at the Huntsman.

Planning had never been Astarion’s strong suit. As much as he had wanted to have the Huntsman as an ally against Cazador, he never considered how an actual encounter with the man might go. And he most certainly never envisioned meeting the Huntsman…

Well…

He certainly never envisioned meeting him like this.

What in the hells was he supposed to say? ‘Hello Mr. Huntsman, Sir, you see, we were just coming back from a nice morning walk. The bite marks? Well that certainly wasn’t from last night when your little sister was on her hands and knees begging for my cock. Where did you get that idea?’

Yes, because that would certainly win him over.

As if hearing Astarion’s thoughts, the Huntsman’s eyes snapped onto him. He couldn’t help but shrink under the man’s gaze, subconsciously curling in on himself as he looked everywhere but at the threatening presence looming before him.

Was looking away the smartest decision? No. But maybe if he made himself seem pathetic enough, the man would take pity on him and let him live.

Honestly, that plan had a better chance of working than running away did.

What had he been thinking — seducing the Huntsman’s sister? Did he expect the man to immediately welcome him into the family or something? For the monster hunter not to question the motivations of a monster? For him to say ‘Thank you for sleeping with my sister. To show my appreciation, let me kill Cazador for you’?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Cas.” The Huntsman’s voice broke through Astarion’s thoughts. There was a soothing quality to it, a deep and rich timbre that could probably make the reading of bank records sound interesting.

Much to Astarion’s immediate relief, the Huntsman’s attention had returned to Cas, releasing him from the oppressive weight of the man’s gaze. Now that it wasn’t on him, Astarion almost felt like he could think straight again.

Cas had said that he had nothing to worry about, so perhaps he should just… trust her. She knew her brother better than he did, after all.

Despite how he tried to reassure himself, his nerves remained on edge. Centuries of conditioning told him that he was far from safe in the Huntsman’s presence, and no amount of positive thinking could change that.

When he felt Cas’s fingers detangle from his, a tendril of dread slithered through him. Immediately, Astarion wanted to take hold of her hand again. Though he would never admit it, holding her hand felt like the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

Or from running off into the woods like a coward, at the very least.

When her hand slipped fully out of his, he closed his fingers around the open air as if trying to grasp at an invisible tether between them.

Seemingly obvious to Astarion’s tumultuous inner thoughts, Cas started towards her brother.

“How long were you ominously posing there for?” she asked cheekily.

The Huntsman said nothing as he lifted her off her feet and pulled her into a hug so tight that Astarion swore he heard some of her bones pop.

A strangled sound came from Cas’s throat as she half-heartedly (and unsuccessfully) kicked at him. Her arms were pinned to her sides, rendering her practically helpless until the Huntsman decided to let her go. “You’re crushing me,” she groaned.

“I am so fucking pissed at you,” he said, his muscles bulging as he squeezed Cas even tighter. “I thought I lost your stupid ass.”

“Can’t breathe,” Cas squeaked with another pitiful kick of her legs. “Being squished.”

“Good,” he said before placing her firmly on the ground and releasing her from his embrace. The Huntsman settled his hands on Cas’s shoulders and bent down to eye level with her. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I couldn’t find you?”

Cas averted her eyes, and her brother repositioned himself to stay within her line of sight. With the new angle, Astarion could see the man’s expression. There was a slight furrow to his brow and his lips tugged almost imperceptibly downward.

“I tried to reach out as soon as I could,” she replied, still doing her best not to look at her brother, her voice sounding smaller than Astarion had ever heard it.

For some reason, Astarion wanted to reach out to Cas and make that distress in her eyes disappear. He yearned to pull her into his arms and… oh, he didn’t know. Provide some comfort, maybe?

Gods, when was the last time he had wanted to comfort someone? He wasn’t even sure he knew how.

The Huntsman dismissed Cas’s response with a shake of his head. “You never should have been in this position in the first place,” he said sternly, like a parent lecturing a child. “That nautiloid was going after me. Not you. If you hadn’t—”

“I couldn’t let it get you!” Cas snapped as she took a step back, breaking her brother’s grasp on her shoulders.

Her outburst didn’t appear to surprise the Huntsman one bit. He just continued to watch her with a slightly melancholy and expectant look in his eyes — as if he already knew what she was going to say and was just waiting for her to say it.

“I had the opportunity to save you for once, so I did,” Cas continued, her voice taking on a calmer tone once again. “The people of Faerun can’t afford to lose you.”

“And I can’t afford to lose you.” Though the Huntsman’s voice was level, Astarion could hear a tremor of fear behind it.

Her brother was furious, there was no doubt about that. Yet, that anger seemed to be born out of more than just fear of losing her. It seemed to be born out of love. Something Astarion wasn’t sure he had ever experienced, he realized.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, crossing her arms like she was trying to hold herself together..

“It’s okay.” The Huntsman straightened and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair as he exhaled deeply. “We can talk about this later. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Cas nodded and pursed her lips, like there were more words she wanted to say but she had stopped herself. “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

Throwing his arm around his sister’s shoulder, the Huntsman gave her a brief squeeze before stepping away.

Then the man’s eyes locked onto Astarion’s once again, and even though he was smiling, the intensity of his piercing gaze was unsettling. It was like the Huntsman’s eyes were dissecting him, peeling back all of his layers to the undead heart in his chest.

A chill went up Astarion’s spine and his insides twisted uncomfortably, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare back. He could only hope that the Huntsman couldn’t see the darkness that lurked within.

He swallowed, tilting his head up toward the Huntsman as the man stopped directly in front of him, blocking out the morning sun like an eclipse.

If he thought any of the gods might have listened, this was when Astarion would have prayed.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” the Huntsman said, his smile turning apologetic as he extended his hand cordially. “I’m Vesryn.”

Vesryn’s hand was heavily calloused and littered with scars — clear evidence of his decades of hunting and wielding weapons, although it looked like he at least tried to take care of them. Given all the politicians, patriars, and nobles he brushed elbows with when he made special appearances, he probably felt like he had to. Signing autographs, shaking hands, kissing babies; all the things a celebrity of his caliber did.

Carefully, Astarion grasped his hand and introduced himself in turn, his voice sounding high pitched to his own ears.

Gods, were his palms sweaty? He hoped he didn’t just shake the Huntsman’s hand with sweaty palms. How mortifying would that be?

“Astarion,” Vesryn repeated back to him, a flicker of recognition flashing across his eye. He released his grip and placed his hands on his hips, taking on a more relaxed posture. Or perhaps he was trying to subtly wipe the sweat off of his palms. “It’s good to meet you. Cas mentioned you in one of her sendings.”

Surprise mixed with a feeling of flattery at his words. More importantly, Astarion felt relieved. Tension eased from his shoulders and the lump in his throat diminished.

Maybe the Huntsman just didn’t know Astarion was one of the very monsters he was famous for hunting yet. Oh, who was he kidding? Of course the bloody Huntsman of Neverwinter knew he was a vampire. Even with his ability to walk around in the sun, there were a couple of things about him that were very hard to miss.

Not to mention, the bite mark on Cas’s neck.

Though if Vesryn took offense, he was doing a spectacular job of hiding it. In fact, Vesryn seemed sincerely happy to meet him. He didn’t seem like he wanted to attack, kill, or maim him at all.

And that felt… wrong.

Astarion cleared his throat, hoping his voice would go back to normal. “Did she now?” he asked, not knowing how else to respond. “All good things, I hope?”

If he were talking to anyone else, he might have come up with something witty. But he needed to play it safe. At least until he had a better idea of what kind of person Vesryn was.

Historically speaking, his smart mouth got him into trouble more often than anything else he did. Just because Cas found him funny didn’t mean her brother shared her humor.

“Twenty five words a spell and she used most of them telling me how handsome and wonderful you are. It was nauseating, really.”

“Vesryn,” Cas hissed and slapped her brother’s armored arm as an adorable redness tinged her cheeks.

A cheeky grin tugged at Vesryn’s lips. “She actually used two spells.”

“I did not,” Cas protested, her face flushing further even as she rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe a word he says. He’s just trying to embarrass me.”

“Trying? I’m succeeding,” Vesryn replied, standing straighter with an air of self-satisfaction. Then he playfully poked at Cas’s ribs, making her jump. “You don’t normally get this flustered in front of someone. You must really like him.”

“Ves!” Another smack landed against the Huntsman’s armor, followed by a bellow of laughter.

Vesryn rubbed over the spot Cas had hit with an exaggerated wince. “I can’t believe you’re being so mean to me in front of your friend.” He glanced at Astarion with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “Is she this mean to you?”

The smartass in him told him to say ‘yes’ but his survival instincts reined him in. “I’ve always found her to be delightful company.”

“Oh, lucky you,” he replied and cocked his chin toward the forest. “Take my advice and run while you can. She only gets worse.”

Cas groaned and dragged her palm down her face. “Remember when I said I was glad you were okay? I take that back.”

She placed both hands on Vesyrn’s chest before firmly and persistently pushing the wall of a man back toward the direction of camp. It wasn’t until she managed to make him budge a single step that they both started to lose their composure. “Get your ass out of here,” Cas said, her voice sounding like she was trying to hold back a laugh.

“See? So mean.”

“Yes, I’m a bully,” she agreed and pushed him another step. “Can you give Astarion and I a moment? We were talking about something.”

“‘Talking’, sure.” Vesryn made finger quotes in the air but then relented, letting Cas push him a few more steps toward camp. “Okay, okay, I‘ll give you a few minutes. No need to be so pushy.”

Cas made a shooing motion with her hands like the Huntsman of Neverwinter was nothing more than a wayward pigeon. “We’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

Vesryn threw a smile over his shoulder, the kind a storybook hero or a handsome prince might give their admirers. “It was nice meeting you, Astarion,” he said before starting back toward the campsite.

‘Nice’ wasn’t the word Astarion would have chosen. It was anxiety-inducing, terrifying, and worst of all… confusing? But it definitely wasn’t ‘nice’.

The Huntsman was nothing like Astarion had expected — the man hunted monsters such as vampires for a living. There were tales of him slaying all manner of creatures from devils to dragons. Not to mention how a mere decade ago, Vesryn had killed a vampire lord, the Collector. A vampire so ancient that he made Cazador seem like a child in comparison. And if the stories were to be believed, Vesryn had killed the Collector in the monster’s own lair amidst hundreds of spawn.

There was no doubt in Astarion’s mind that the Collector had done what any vampire lord would have done: using his spawn as fodder in an attempt to save his own skin, and most certainly, Vesryn had killed them all.

And yet, Vesryn was being downright friendly with a vampire spawn who quite obviously fed on his little sister.

Perhaps if Cas hadn’t been around, things might have been different. Perhaps the friendliness was just an act to throw Astarion off guard and make it easier to ram a stake through him when he least expected it. If that was the case, the Huntsman had certainly succeeded in throwing him off.

Still, there was something about Vesryn that seemed so genuine. His handshake was firm, but not dominating. His eagle-like eyes, keen and observant, were also warm and curious. Then there was the way Vesryn interacted with Cas with such open affection and camaraderie — it was disarming to say the least.

As the Huntsman’s form retreated, Astarion felt a weight lifting from his chest. Like the man’s presence was a heavy fog that emanated from his very being, enveloping those who didn’t know how to navigate it.

Though Astarion had never been in the presence of a god, he suspected it probably felt a little something like standing in front of the Huntsman of Neverwinter.

The nervous, prickling sensation on his skin eased as he felt himself begin to relax. He exhaled slowly, trying to breathe out the tension that coiled in his veins.

He hoped he hadn’t accidentally made a fool of himself in front of the Huntsman. Not that it really mattered, but he wanted Vesryn to have a good impression of him. It would probably please Cas if he and her brother were on good terms after all.

Instinctively, something old and ingrained tried to push back against the selfless thought despite the fact that he was becoming more and more comfortable with caring about someone other than himself.

A few weeks ago, Cas’s happiness wouldn’t have been the first thing that he would have thought of when it came to building a relationship with the Huntsman. Hells, even a few days ago his motives had been purely selfish. The only feelings that had mattered were his own, and Cas was nothing more than a tool he could use to get what he wanted.

How quickly things had changed.

A brush of her fingers against his palm drew him from his thoughts. “Are you alright?” Cas asked with gentle amusement. “That’s not how I pictured you meeting my brother.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Astarion intertwined his fingers with hers, the simple connection like a balm on his frayed nerves. “Did you really tell him about me?”

Cas shook her head. “He asked who I was with, and I gave him everyone’s name. Anything else he knows he either picked up from just now or from talking to everyone back at camp.”

He gave a mock pout, as if her not gossiping about him was a huge disappointment. When she gave him a smile in response, he stepped into her space and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her close enough that her chest brushed against his when she took a breath. That little touch was enough to send a thrill through him, and part of him was tempted to steal her away again.

For whatever reason, he felt like everything was about to change.

He wanted a few more moments with just the two of them. A few more moments where they could pretend their problems didn’t exist and they could just be together.

“Pity,” Astarion said, his thumbs brushing over the jut of her hip bone through the thin fabric of her shirt. “I would have loved to have heard how wonderful and beautiful I am.”

Cas blinked at him, looking completely unimpressed. “You’re wonderful and beautiful,” she said flatly.

A smile tugged at his lips as he pulled her flush against him, his hands sliding around to her backside. “For the love of the gods, would it kill you to put some enthusiasm into it?”

Cas slipped her arms over his shoulders. “I think you heard plenty of enthusiasm last night,” she replied in a low and husky voice that made his blood stir.

She tilted her face up toward his, her lips just a breath away from his own with a silent invitation. It was an invitation he was all too happy to accept. His mouth caught hers in a brief, sugary sweet kiss. Nothing but the gentle pressure of her lush lips against his, the subtle and intoxicating taste of her on his tongue. It would have been all too easy to lose himself in that moment.

Before he fell too deep into whatever spell she wove around him, he pulled away. Her brother was waiting only a few hundred feet away, and Astarion didn’t want to push his luck.

Cas tasted her lips as though she already missed his touch. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her head tilted thoughtfully as her fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Vesryn is going to ask about you and me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want to tell him anything you don’t want me to.”

Of course, the Huntsman was going to ask about their relationship. What kind of big brother would he be if he didn’t? Especially considering Astarion’s nature, it only made sense that the monster hunter would at least check in on her.

Yet, Astarion had never expected Cas to ask for his thoughts. Or his permission. He just figured that Cas would tell her brother whatever she felt like without any input from him.

“What were you thinking of telling him?” he asked, feeling a little off-guard and wanting to get some idea of Cas’s stance on the matter before he risked fouling things up.

Cas shrugged. “That we’re friends,” she said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to her, but to him? He wasn’t sure if anyone had considered him a friend before. At least, not enough of a friend to tell their family about him.

Yet, describing their relationship as something as simple as friendship didn’t sit quite right with him. After all they had been through together, after all the battles they fought, after all of their long conversations over a bottle of wine or the time spent with her skin against his…. It felt like what they had together was more than just friendship.

So much more.

Astarion tucked his finger under her chin, tilting her head up to better see her eyes. “Just friends?” he asked as he swiped his thumb across her lower lip — a reminder of all the times their lips had touched. “Is that all that we are?”

She wrapped her fingers around his hand and gently lifted it from her face. “What else would you have me say?”

That was the real question, wasn’t it?

What did he want her to say?

Cas wasn’t one of his victims or just another target. She wasn’t just a shield for him to hide behind, or a stranger with powerful connections. She wasn’t just another night he wished he could forget.

She was something.

They were something.

What that something was, he couldn’t put a name on it. But he knew what it wasn’t: just friendship.

Friendship may have laid the foundation, but they’d built something together that went far beyond that. Whatever that something was, it was messy, complicated, and probably not completely structurally sound — but it was theirs.

They could fill in the cracks as needed.

Cas gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, taking his silence as the answer he didn’t know how to articulate. “That’s what I thought,” she said lightly and laced her fingers with his. “We don’t have to figure it out now.”

An odd feeling of disappointment settled in his stomach. Part of him wanted her to change her answer. Or at the very least, agree that they were more than just friends.

Because people who were just friends didn’t do what he and Cas did.

He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of her fingers. “I suppose it’s kind of nice not to know exactly what we are, if I’m being completely honest,” he said as he gazed into her eyes. “But I am glad that ‘friends’, at the very least, is a certainty.”

Cas smiled at him. “Me too.”

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