whiskeyskin

[whiskeyskin]

All of my BG3 landscapes on one post :) prints ✦ patreon (full speedpaints are available there + wallpapers)

[whiskeyskin]

[whiskeyskin]

hey so it’s march now aka the beginning of endometriosis awareness month and i feel obligated to remind you that debilitatingly painful periods are not normal. if you or someone you know is ending up sick or bedridden every month, you are not crazy and deserve medical attention from someone who will take you seriously

[whiskeyskin]

So Innocent

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G'morning 3 a.m. club! I've been struggling with my long fic lately, so I had to remind myself I can still write good.  I don't know if I've done that, but I liked it so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Please enjoy some simple, fluffy, uncomplicated smut. How's that for a nice change?

Summary: After a drunken rejection at the tiefling party, you and Astarion finally have a little fun while searching for supplies.

Astarion/f!reader, fluffy smut, little plot, somewhere between Acts I & II, Never fear - no spoilers here!

Word Count: 3.5k

Spice: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️Picante

Ao3

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say, swaying lightly on your feet. “I like you. I would climb you like a fukkin’ tree if I thought for one second that you actually wanted that.” You lean sideways toward the obviously confused vampire, your wine goblet testing the laws of gravity as you gesticulate with it. “But I don’t think you do,” you finish sagely. You bring the oversized goblet to your lips to hide the way your lower lip quivers, the way your throat works on the drunken lump that formed there when you admitted the fact, more to yourself than to him.

For his part, Astarion blinks at you. He’s been accused of lying many times, about many things. But never about his authenticity when he’s made advances toward someone. And here, amid this horde of reveling tieflings and your fellow traveling companions, he’s stunned by how close to the mark you came in your tipsy musing. He mutters some tired (for him) banter about how you’re missing out, littered with “my dears,” and “darlings” and he can’t quite figure out why, as he watches you wander off to talk to the Arch Druid, but he feels lighter, somehow. Like a weight he didn’t know he was carrying has been lifted. The plan will go forward, but not tonight. Not when you’re so drunk and observant.

If he could let go of the thought that you had seen right through his mask, he’d be happy to pursue you. But each time you smiled genuinely up at him from your perch on a log beside the campfire, or gave him your playful “hey you,” as he came up beside you somewhere, some disquieted beast in his guts wiggled and squirmed. When he taunted you and you threw his jests back at him, though your remarks were never as sharp as his, he got more confused. When in battle, and some goblin or gnoll or other disgusting creature closed in on you, that creature within him, tormenting his peace, would lurch and scream in his head to go to you, protect you, save you! He, Astarion, the vampire, should be the one carrying the princess to safety? It was absurd. All of it was absurd, but this, this feeling he didn’t want to name and thus give power to, it was the most absurd of all.

And yet, when he was in it, when you were joking with him, it was fine. Better than fine. When you favored him with the wicked, toothy little grin you had, the one where you bit your lower lip and looked up at him from beneath the dark fringe of your eyelashes with eyes full of mischief and a glint in them that gave an enthusiastic yes to whatever trouble he wants to get up to, it’s fine. It feels, dare he admit it, good to have someone to indulge him, even if you stubbornly won’t join him in his bed.

“Oh, yes, this one,” you say. The two of you were looting. There was no other word for it. You’d been wandering through the already ransacked houses of a small village that had fled before the Army of the Absolute, looking for anything that might be worth something. Not much was left, but you’d struck gold when you stumbled on a wooden chest full of fine lady’s clothes and accessories. Astarion turns from the chest of drawers he was lazily opening and shutting to see you bent over at the waist, your back to him, digging in the chest. He swears that for a second, watching your ass wiggle as you pawed through the gloves and gowns, that all noise faded away and all he could hear was the low hum of bees, busily working away in their hive to make honey for their queen.

You straighten at last, settling on your head a straw hat with a wide brim, tall, conical crown, and a garish pink taffeta and lace bow, the tails of which you tied under your chin. “There! How do I look? Am I the perfect, innocent farmer’s daughter?” you ask, pinning one side of the brim to the side of your head with your hand as your feigned demure modesty fights with the puckish grin you can’t seem to keep off your face.

“So innocent,” Astarion says, stepping closer. He’s chuckling at your antics, but in that moment, with that silly hat on your head, he’s driven by a feeling he almost doesn’t recognize. “So naïve in the ways of the world, little girl.” Before you’re aware that your game has turned serious, he’s slipped an arm around your waist and grabbed the stupid hat off your head and he’s leaning down to kiss you. “Let me teach you, love,” he whispers. His lips are cool and soft, and though there’s urgency in that kiss, it’s clear he’s in no hurry. The scent of his cologne, bright and citrusy backed by an earthy, woodsy campfire smoke and savory herbs smell, envelopes you as you settle into his arms, and he gently probes your lips with his tongue.

You part your lips for him, and any pretense at reservation on your part is found out and banished. You tense in his arms, pressing up on tiptoe to be closer to him, kissing him back with the force of weeks of pent-up desire. This game you’ve been playing with yourself, a game of outwardly not wanting and inwardly wanting so badly it burns you when you’re alone at night in your bedroll, is ending abruptly as the fire you’ve diligently kept banked to weak coals flares in your abdomen and you press tight against him.

Your leathers creak against each other as the two of you stumble backward, graceless and honest, and you fall onto the remains of a broken bed. He works his nimble fingers into the buckles and straps that hold your armor safely against the light cotton of your shirt, and in either seconds or hours, he’s breaking away from your kiss long enough to pull the plated leather tunic over your head. You can feel the cool of his fingers through the thin fabric of your shirt, surging up your stomach, up your ribs, and though the last thing you want is to stop him, you exert a monumental force of will to pull back from him and look into those shining red eyes.

“I’m not in the habit of begging, but you haven’t left me any choice,” Astarion says, breathless, and you catch yourself acknowledging that what he’s saying is true, maybe one of only a handful of completely true things he’s said to you.  The smile that finds its way to your lips is comfortable, genuine.

You hum, shaking your head. “No, I don’t think I like the idea of you begging,” you say, lacing your fingers into his mussed silver curls to stroke them back off his forehead. He catches your hand in his, licking up from the heel of your palm to the pad of your middle finger. Your breath hitches as he nips your fingertip with his blunted front teeth.

“How do you like me?” Astarion asks, suckling the small hurt with his eyes locked on yours. His free hand has been busy loosening his own armor, and it feels almost as good as skin on skin when the heavy leather finally falls to the floor with a jangling thunk.

He resettles himself, and with less between you now, your mind gets momentarily lost in the sensation of his rock-hard cock pressing into the seam where your hip and thigh meet. You wriggle your hips in a silent request for him to center himself, to lay with his weight on you, pressing the hardness of his sex against yours, pressing some of the delicious relief of friction into you, but he is who he is – stubborn to the last. Even with what he wants, he wants it on his terms. You’d be lying if you said the idea of yielding to “things on his terms” wasn’t exciting. As if he could hear your disjointed thoughts, he quirks an eyebrow at you, nipping your fingertip again, this time with one of those sharp, dainty fangs of his, and you have to hold back the groan in your throat as his tongue darts out to lap gently at the little bead of blood he’s drawn from your finger. “I asked you a question, pet,” he says, slowly blinking his red and mesmerizing eyes at you.

You chuckle softly. “I like you when you’re a little bratty,” you say. Astarion, refusing to take the bait, slowly starts kissing down your palm again, tracing the veins beneath your skin with his lips.

“Do go on, my sweet,” he murmurs. His fingers gripping your wrist, massaging the flesh slowly but firmly. Each chilled touch reaches much farther down your body than just the span of those digits.  

“I like to watch you fight, and I like watching you lounging with your books.” His lips skate over the crest of the heel of your palm to find the big vein in your wrist, and your gaze is transfixed as his lips hover over it, his full lower lip barely grazing your skin, feeling your pulse beating bare millimeters from his fangs. “I like watching you drink,” you whisper, the sudden dryness in your mouth and throat making your voice hoarse. He smirks up at you, catching your not-so-subtle hint, but he shakes his head as he teases one fang across the vein.

“I’ve got better ideas for that, love,” he says. He slips his hands to the waistband of your leggings, cold delicate fingers easing them off your hips and down. Your eyelids flutter and you moan appreciatively at the feel of him sliding off those pants that felt so tight in all the wrong places and ways. He takes the lacing of your loose shirt between his front teeth and yanks the little bow holding the laces closed apart, giggling softly with you under his breath as the fabric releases, exposing a wide swath of cleavage. “I like you just like this,” he says, running his fingers over your sternum, letting them bounce over the laces before pushing into the neck of your shirt. His head finds the crook of your neck and he starts kissing slowly along the tendon that runs from your collar bone up toward your ear. “I like you panting under my touch like this.” His strong fingers curve around the contour of your breast, kneading the soft flesh, working a moan out of your throat.

“I like how pliant you are. My fierce leader, arching her back into my touch.” He pulls on your nipple, lifting your breast with it, making your back arch to follow that tug, as if he needed to prove his point. He lets the weight of your breast pull your nipple free from his pinching grip, sending a delicious zing of pain and pleasure to arc through your nerve endings and settle into the folds of your sex.

“I like knowing that while we are out there you tell us all what to do, but here, in here I can make you moan and cry and whimper for me.” His palm runs down the rumpled mass of your shirt, across the bare plane of your stomach, pausing just over the soft, sparse curls on your mound. He looks up from his assault on your neck to watch your expression when his fingers glide so, so lightly over the lips of your cunt. And you do moan and whimper for him as those skilled digits stroke and tease with a touch so light and delicate that you think you’ll burst into flame if he doesn’t press harder, higher, and faster right where you need him to. He smirks, one fang peeking out from beneath his full upper lip, as you writhe and spread your legs wider for him. Your hips buck up toward his hand, and he shakes his head, making a soft “tsk” sound.

“Patience, darling,” he purrs. “You kept me waiting for so long. You can wait just a little while so I can enjoy teasing you like you teased me.” He rolls up onto his knees, hitching his shirt up over his head. You drop your head back onto the musty sheets with a frustrated cry.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, taking in the flush of your chest peeking out from beneath the gaping neckline of the creamy white of your shirt and your bare hips and thighs, spread out before him.

“Please, Astarion…” you sigh, your need stitched into the crease of your brows and the tension in your jaw. His hand, still so cool and controlled, finds the heat of your wet folds again as he sinks to his knees between your legs, parting your lips ever so gently with his fingertips. At last he spreads your folds open, dragging your slick from your entrance up to draw little circles over the hood of your clit with it. “Say it once more and I’ll give you what you need,” he purrs.

“Please, gods dammit!” you cry out, your fist twisting into the fabric of the bedclothes beneath you. A wicked grin spreads across his lips as he presses down hard against your clit, pulling a near growl of satisfaction from your throat. He works methodically, increasing and decreasing pressure on the sensitive little pearl at the apex of your thighs, reading your twitches and movements like an instruction manual to keep you poised at the edge of climax without letting you fall over.

He nuzzles his smooth cheek against your inner thigh. His breath against the heat of your sex is crisp and cold, like an early morning breeze in autumn. It makes your legs twitch with anticipation. His soft, dry lips brush along the artery beneath the tender skin of your inner thigh, tracing along it like he did the vein in your wrist. “May I?” he asks around the kisses he plants in a line along the vessel, each one inching closer to your twitching cunt. “Yes,” you pant, doing your best to keep your eyes locked on his until the very last second as he bends his head to your thigh and sinks his fangs into the tender flesh. It’s ice and heat and pressure and pleasure and a tug on your insides so strong that holding still to let him drink is a demand so cruel that you physically can’t obey it. He’s skilled for one so new to drinking from what he calls “thinking creatures,” and grips you tightly to keep your jerking thigh from breaking his nose.

Through it, you’re panting, chest heaving, hips rising and falling each time he backs the pressure off your clit and eases it back on. “Gods, Astarion,” you wail, “I need you, please.” He unlatches from your thigh, licking and kissing the little wounds closed.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he says, and you can hear the satisfied grin in his voice. His fingers withdraw with your whines and hips chasing after them. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re almost ashamed of how needy he’s made you, but you don’t have time to wallow in the feeling. He leans down and plants a soft, almost chaste kiss at the very top of your slit before he opens the laces of his pants to scoot them down his narrow hips. You suddenly want to feel every inch of his skin that you can against your own more than you want oxygen. Your shirt joins his in a heap on the floor as he crawls over your body to ravage your lips again.

Your legs wrap easily around his hips as he teases gently, taking his own pleasure in running his cock along you, getting himself wet with your arousal before pressing the head against your entrance. He pushes forward slowly, so slowly, a breath hissing from between his teeth as he enters you a bare inch at a time. Your hips make sharp little thrusts, trying to coax him deeper, but again, he’ll take you on his terms, not yours. When his pelvis meets yours and he’s fully seated within you at last, he stays still, resting his forehead against yours, recycling your ragged breaths through his own lungs. You can feel your pussy fluttering around his length, but pushing him to move, to thrust before he’s ready isn’t something you want. You want to memorize this moment, when he was finally, finally buried fully in you. You want to tattoo the memory of that sensation on every inch of skin touching skin because you know it will be over all too soon. You can feel his smile spread against your lips as he leans in closer to kiss you slowly, letting his passion build again as he slowly starts to move with you and within you.

Soon enough you’re rocking together, luxuriating in the drag and pull of his cock filling and refilling you. His hands find yours and pull them up next to your head, fingers laced together. He kisses you over and over from different angles, like he’s trying to find the one he likes the best. He’s oddly quiet, for a man who adores the sound of his own voice, his grunts and groans of pleasure soft and earnest, somehow. Lacking the performative energy he puts into so much of his personality. You’re trying to listen for his queues as much as you can, but the pace he sets, pumping his hips hard and deep, makes it hard to focus on anything but the rising swell of pleasure, the tightening in your abdomen.

At last, he slips one arm under you at the base of your spine, shifting the angle of your hips so he can thrust deeper, harder into you. The crush of his pelvis against your sensitive clit each time he pounds into is enough and before you can even think to stop, to try to hold on and wait for him, you’re crashing over the edge into orgasm. Your legs grip tightly around his hips, as hard as your cunt spasming around his cock. It’s your turn to bury your neat teeth into the milky pale flesh of his shoulder, stifling a scream as you shake all over. He’s not far behind you and soon, he’s swearing and gasping, his legs and back going rigid as he locks himself deep inside you and fills you with his spend.

At last, he collapses onto you, his head finding the sweaty crook of your neck. Resting your cheek against his forehead, still so cool, even though he just fed from you, makes you wonder why you held out against this for so long.  Running your fingers through those tangled curls while your other hand massages the bite you left on his shoulder and him, all but purring under your touch feels so right it’s revelatory. 

You’re nearly asleep in his arms when he withdraws from you at last to lie beside you, head propped on one hand as he traces his fingertips over the lines of your neck and collar bone, down the slope of your breast and over your ribs. You crack one eye open to see him watching your chest rising and falling, hair all tumbled down over his brow, grinning like the dope he is under the suave swagger. “Hey you,” you mumble, reaching up to brush a curl off his forehead, only to have it stubbornly drop right back into his eyes.

Astarion play bites at your hand, catching it with his own and kissing the center of your palm before letting you go again. “Do you still think I don’t really want you?” he asks, restless eyes roaming over your face. You shake your head sleepily.

“Darling,” you say, trying, albeit not trying too hard, to mimic his endearment. “You’ve unequivocally, deliciously proven me wrong,” you finish, beaming at him. He strokes a stray strand of your hair back off your forehead.

“You’ll learn in time that I’m usually right,” he says, nuzzling back down onto your chest, shaking a little with you as you laugh. He sighs with a feeling so foreign in his chest that he’s almost afraid to name it, lest it vanish before he can enjoy it. The tadpoles, the mind flayers, his plan, Cazador’s wrath, if they make it Baldur’s Gate to face him, the danger lurking just ahead of them at every turn, his own complicated feelings about himself and this whatever-this-is with you that he can feel taking root within him - it all paws at the edges of his mind, threatening that fragile, foreign contentment. He reminds himself that it is all in an uncertain, unknowable future, and the present, here in this broken bed in an abandoned house with your warm, naked body beneath him, dare he admit it, feels good.

[whiskeyskin]

Shooting lessons with Shart. What could go wrong!

Don’t mind those two in the background, this isn’t about them-

[whiskeyskin]

The first time with Halsin is almost too much to bear.

Tags: end of act 2/beginning or act 3, Halsin is not in wildform it’s just a pun, oral, Halsin x fem!reader

: ・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・ :

When Halsin kneels in front you you to lick at your pussy for the first time, it’s because he is truly overtaken by the sight of you that he doesn’t feel steady of his feet. Your size and his are no comparison— Halsin towers over you with the stature of a god— but he’s lost all composure and falls to his knees to worship at the honeypot between your legs.

It’s been a long time coming, and the ache of seeing you each day but willing himself not to make a move until his work in the shadowlands is complete— the aching need for you has been almost too much to bare.

When he helps you out of your clothes and sees your naked form for the first time, he knows that every gnawing second apart from you was well worth it. He licks your pussy like a man with no table manners, like an animal with no training, like a bear who’s clawed down a beehive dripping with honey.

Halsin’s tongue is thick and sharp as a drawn blade. He nips at you with his teeth, growl reverberating from the hollow of his chest to rattle against your twitching clit. His hands hold your legs spread, thumbs on each side of your perfect hole to keep you open. It feels like Halsin is trying to crawl inside you tongue first, warm, dexterous muscle lashing at your sweetest, wettest parts. He doesn’t let up until you’ve cum against his mouth at least a few times, allowing himself a bit of selfishness.

The first one was for him, the second one was too— the third one was just to see how far he could push your body into the lapping flames of pleasure. He’s completely pussy-drunk by the time you’ve cum against his mouth again, barely registering the angry-red lines your nails have dug into his back or the begging pull against his hair. Halsin makes you cum so many times with his greedy tongue, he only comes up for air when he notices you’ve gone completely slack in his hands.

You beg him to fuck you, to give you a reprieve from his gilded tongue, and Halsin is more than willing to oblige. After he licks just one more orgasm into your shaking little body.

: ・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・ :

❥ ᴄʜɪᴡʜᴏʀᴇɪ.2023©️ ᴀʟʟ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ.

[whiskeyskin]

"I really have to get going"

"Make me stop, then", he suggests with his lips against the sensitive skin on the side of her waist, sending a tickling wave up and down. Hands like snakes, arms like vines, voice like honey (if honey could taunt). "Just say it, pet. Stop, my love, I have to go. I have better things to do."

With each word his hand draws a loose spiral over her stomach until he's lifting the border of the underwear and by then it is too late, it was always going to be too late, the moment he touched her, and he knows it. His fingers part her lips and find her already wet. If Awbonee was too proud maybe she'd take offence at the way he relishes it, because Astarion is a sore loser but can be an even worse winner.

"Go on then. Tell me to stop. Make me."

It was never going to happen, and at least he has the decency to hide his smile when she sinks back towards him.

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prompt 17 from the drabbles list, "make me". be patient with me I haven't written in English (or Spanish either) in ages 😔

[whiskeyskin]

I haven't purchased a HP item in close to a decade - I use the books I already had as doorstops or to prop a laptop up for meetings nowadays.

There is NO "death of the author" with JK Rowling - she controls and continues to profit from her IP, and uses that money to fund hate groups.

[whiskeyskin]

Hello my dearest!

Please can I have a public love confession from Gale? 🥰

Hi my love!! You absolutely can!

Post-battle adrenaline emotions, my beloved.

Warning: Canon-conforming violence

"You're not allowed to die!"

You heard Gale's voice as you went down with a cry. The shadow-cursed ghoul had managed to cross the threshold of your Spirit Guardians spell and slashed its claws through your torso. Your breaths came in strangled sounding gurgles as you lay on the ground beneath it, awaiting its final blow. But just as you closed your eyes and sent a prayer to Ilmater, the creature was engulfed in flames and succumbed.

You hoped to see a familiar purple robe next; if Gale's face was the last thing you ever saw on this plane, you could embrace the afterlife with peace. But it was not the wizard who reached you first. It was Shadowheart, kneeling over you, uncorked bottle in hand. "Drink, fast!" she said, and you had no mind to argue. The liquid was sour on your tongue - peach and lemon, battling for dominance; a potion of greater healing. So the cleric had kept one stashed away somewhere. You smiled, even as your nose scrunched up at the flavor.

'Th-tha-" You tried to whisper a thanks, but all that came out were gargles, and Shadowheart stopped you.

"Don't speak. Let the potion take effect properly or you won't make it through this." You nodded and fell silent, feeling your muscles twitch and ache as they stitched back together. The feeling was wildly uncomfortable, but welcome all the same. Moments later, you felt head against your cheek, and your eyes snapped open, locking with golden-brown ones - laced with concern. You attempted a small smile, wanting to show him you'd be alright, but his expression didn't change. He looked to Shadow.

"Did you reach her in time?"

Shadowheart nodded, and the wizard's shoulders slumped in relief. He looked back at you, a glimmer of something new in his eyes. This time, when you smiled at him, he returned it - if with more than a bit of worry still laced in it, and before you could process what was happening, he was leaning down close to you. You thought he wanted to say something to you alone, but when his soft lips met your own, your heart stopped in your chest. "I couldn't bear to lose you," he whispered against your mouth and you melted into him, a shaky hand rising to meet the back of his neck to hold him in place.

"Can you two save the heartfelt confessions until we're back at camp? And possibly alone?" Shadowheart interjected, and you stole a glance at her. She wore a soft smile on her face, and when she caught you looking, she chuckled. "It's about time," she added gently, helping you sit up properly. You felt your face flush and shared a flustered look with Gale, whose own cheeks were now dusted a light pink.

"We'll speak more about it tonight, yes?" he said quietly, and you nodded.

"Speaking may not be all we do," you replied cheekily and his face turned redder.

"Rhyester's eyes, you'll be the death of me," he muttered, running a hand over his face.

~

fin

Tagging, Darlings: @knightofmight01 @fanon-and-canon @just-a-refrigerator @micropoe10 @worfs-glorious-hair @serenaoffaerun @nerissa-dekarios @optimisticgrey

[whiskeyskin]

[whiskeyskin]

The beginning of the end

How I became a Rolan simp.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Me, during my first play through: "This Rolan guy is a self-serving, pompous, egotistical, pathetic, pig-headed, fool. He better chill the fuck out before he catches these hands."

Me, after finishing the Nightsong quest the first time: "Yeah Rolan, you're damn right you're going to do everything you can to help us after I saved your snarky ass, again."

Me: "Why the fuck do people simp over him?"

Me: **Reads @rolanpilled's Rolan character analysis [alt]**

Me: "Okay, I guess he's kind of cool…and sweet… But I still won't ever simp over him!"

Me, during my 2nd play though: **talks to Rolan after he initially thanks me in the Shadowlands, which I didn't do in my first play through**

Rolan: "I've thanked you once already, don't be greedy."

Me:

Me: "F-fuck."

Me: "W-whatever, asshole. That was kind of hot. NO! No. This is NOT going to awaking something in me!"

Me, a month later— still in denial: "It's not like I actually like him! I just want to put him in his place, sexually."

Me, not even a week later:

Me now:

[whiskeyskin]

Just third degree yearns for all my fictional husbands.

[whiskeyskin]

Endless Bells Hells

[whiskeyskin]

I can be a little freak too

[whiskeyskin]

[whiskeyskin]

my first mystery box commission

[whiskeyskin]

♡ Halsin Being Love Smitten by an Oblivious Tav ♡

Oh, this is a good one. Halsin — strong, confident, experienced — brought to his knees by one thing he never saw coming: your sheer, unrelenting obliviousness. It’s hard to make him baffled, but you did. You actually made him baffled. Incredible. 

He’s lived for over three centuries. Seen countless wonders, taken many lovers, and faced horrors that would break lesser souls. Nothing has caught him off guard for the longest time it would seem. And yet you have. Because somehow, despite his very clear interest, his smoothest moves, and his voice dropping into that deep purr — you simply don’t get it. Not one bit. 

And by Oak Father, it really do baffles him. 

You see, he feels it every time you walk by — a rush of warmth in his chest, the unshakable need to be near you. He listens to your every word, even your stillest ramblings, with rapt attention, laughing easily and freely in a way he hasn’t in years. It feels good to be close to you. It feels right. And he’s wise enough to know exactly what that means. He is, without doubt, utterly and completely love smitten with you… and Halsin is many things, but shy is not one of them. So naturally — he courts you. 

At first, subtly, slowly… intending to take full pleasure from getting to know you better in that kind of way. A lingering touch here, a playful tease there, a deep-chested chuckle whenever you say something endearing. Surely you’ll catch on. 

You do not. 

You smile at him. You laugh, you listen, you seem happy to be around him. But not once — not once! — you show any sign of realising that he likes you more than a friend. (oh, so much more)

Is he being too subtle? Surely not. Halsin is experienced. He’s seen things. He’s been with partners who could read his desires from a single glance, and here he is — flexing like a fool whenever you so much as glance in his direction, hoping you’ll notice. 

And Oak Father help him, he’s trying so hard. It’s like he isn’t himself anymore. He feels like a young pup wandering into unknown territory. 

So… he finds excuses to touch you. Offers a steadying hand when crossing a stream (as if you’re not perfectly capable), lets his large hands linger on your waist a fraction too long when lifting you over an obstacle. Getting all worked up from the mere brush of your knees. 

One day Halsin brings you fruit he’s foraged with a casual,

"If you desire more, I am always at your service.”

"You really do take good care of everyone," you say, eyes shining with pure, unshaken obliviousness. The words he wants to say—I would much rather focus my care on you specifically—catch in his throat, swallowed down by a sigh. Somehow, faced with your innocence, he just can’t bring himself to say it.

Has he lost his touch? Is he truly so out of practice? He has never worked this hard to make his feelings known. And worse—he’s starting to feel things he hasn’t in years. Frustration, longing, an almost feral urge to just grab you by the shoulders and tell you outright.

By the gods, he is horny and in distress. And he’s been horny many times, but in distress like this? No. However… Halsin is not a man who simply gives up. Not to doubt, not to hesitation—and certainly not when it comes to you. Not when he’s waited lifetimes to feel this way again. Not when he’s finally met someone who stirs the very roots of his being.

So, no more subtlety, no more lingering touches. No more charming lines that you so sweetly misunderstand. One evening, with all the weight of a man on the brink, he levels you with a look, strong arms crossed over his chest, and says in a tone that leaves no room for interpretation:

“Tav. We need to talk. And this time, I’ll make sure you understand exactly what I mean.”

Because by the Oak Father, if you don’t realise how desperately he wants you after this conversation—he might just lose his mind.

So he takes you away—away from the crackling campfire, from the idle chatter of your companions, from the weight of the world pressing down on both of you. He leads you to a quiet, secluded glade where the trees arch overhead like ancient sentinels. The stars shimmer above, casting silver light over everything, but Halsin?

Halsin is radiant.

He stands before you, broad and strong, his golden skin illuminated by moonlight. There’s something different in the way he looks at you now—an intensity, a quiet, unshaken resolve. And then, in a voice deep as the earth itself, he speaks:

"I want to lay with you under the stars and feel your skin against mine…”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes widen, because suddenly, everything clicks into place.

The lingering touches. The flirtation you had brushed off as simple kindness. The way his gaze always seemed to find you, the way his presence felt like a steady force in your current life, constant and unwavering. It was never just friendliness. It was never just admiration.

It was this.

It was him wanting you.

The weight of his words sinks into you, slow and heavy like honey pouring thick from a jar. He isn’t teasing. He isn’t jesting—Halsin is far too earnest for that. His kindness, his unwavering dedication, have only blurred the truth for you. But now, there is no mistaking it. There’s no lightheartedness in his tone—only intention. Only want.

The words roll off his tongue like a promise, rich with meaning, with want. His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it—an unmistakable need. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, as if he’s savouring every second before he touches you. And when he does—when his large, calloused palm finally cups your cheek—your breath catches.

His warmth is immediate, grounding, real. He’s so close now—too close, not close enough. His golden eyes search yours, darkened with something primal, something deep and unspoken. He’s looking for something—truth. An answer. A silent permission for this moment to become something more.

And gods, the air between you is alive with it. 

Will you give it to him?

That choice—that power—is yours.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

again, thanks for this lovely request

you can find more of my works about halsin ♡here♡ hihi