Kiss headcanons for each of the BG3 love interests?
Astarion kisses like you’re a discovery. You’re something new, something novel—because this time, it’s his choice. He brushes his lips against the back of your knuckles, grazes his mouth over your temple, and kisses your hair before you fall asleep. Small affections, but they’re unfamiliar and wonderful for him.
Gale kisses like he’s afraid you’ll vanish at any moment. His fingers are buried in your shirt, his mouth achingly sweet against yours. It takes a few kisses for you to realize that he is always scared that this kiss might be his last.
Halsin kisses like he’s starving for you. It’s restrained hunger... at first. Once he’s sure that you want him as much as he wants you, all of the boundaries fall away. It is overwhelming—the size of him, the fervor of his mouth against yours, the press of tree back against your back, the moans he doesn’t even try to hide.
Karlach kisses with eagerness and joy. Her lips are upturned at the corners, and when your fingers brush over her skin, she’ll laugh. She never takes such touches for granted; she leans into every one, thrilling in the moment. Her mouth is hot against yours, but the heat has nothing to do with her infernal engine.
Wyll kisses like it’s a dance. He’s careful at first, gauging your every response. When you find a rhythm, it’s effortless—one moment sweet and tender and the next dipping into more passion. It’s easy to lose yourself in his touch, even if he makes an effort to keep those touches chaste.
Lae’zel kisses like it’s a conquest. There’s a violent edge to it, at first—nips of sharp teeth and hisses when your fingers graze her back—but then she seems to settle into it. Once you’ve kissed her countless times, she becomes far more casual with the affection.
Shadowheart kisses like you’re forbidden. She is confident in her affections: her fingers tight at your shirt collar, pulling you closer, her mouth eager and seeking. She steals moments of pleasure the way others steal trinkets: with equal parts greed and wariness of being caught.
Tav/Durge twists their leg and can't walk. What do the companions do?
(karlach or halsin please)
Karlach
Karlach is used to battlefield injuries. She has little skill with healing, but she can put together a splint with only some rope and wood. Her forehead crinkles as she works, a tiny adorable line between her brows.
“It’s fine,” you say. “It’s just a twisted ankle—I’ll be all right in the morning.”
Karlach snorts. “Soldier, with our luck, we’ll be attacked by kobolds at midnight.”
You open your mouth to protest… then shut it again. Because that is exactly what would happen to all of you.
And you understand that the splint is her way of taking care of you. She’ll ensure you can’t injure yourself further and she’ll sleep nearby.
The heat coming off her infernal engine soothes the ache in your leg and helps lull you to sleep. She’ll guard you when you can’t guard yourself, no matter how much you protest. “Spent ten years all by myself,” she says, “and I’m not going to lose you.”
Halsin
Halsin has dealt with his fair share of injuries. He has treated countless sprains and broken bones. He kneels beside you after the battle, his brows drawn low as he gently pulls your boot free. You try not to wince, but a hiss of pain escapes you. “Apologies,” he says, and you can tell he means it.
“Not your fault,” you say, your voice a little tight. “I’m all right.”
Once he can get a good look at your swollen ankle, he nods to himself. “Not too bad.”
“So I’ll keep the foot?” you say, smiling.
He gives you a tolerant smile. By now, he’s grown used to your quips and jokes. It’s your way of dealing with all of the chaos you’ve been thrown into.
He places his large hand over your injury and closes his eyes. His lips move, forming the shape of a healing spell. Cold spreads out from his fingertips, sinking into bone and sinew. For a moment, the cold-burn of it makes you grimace. But then the magic knits the injury back together, and the pain recedes. “You should rest it until the morning,” says Halsin. He begins unpacking your bedroll. “Magic can only do so much.”
You catch his hand and squeeze. “Thank you,” you say.
His green eyes meet yours. There’s a warmth in his face, a fierce protectiveness. “Of course.”
Halsin x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2.4k
When Orin takes Halsin, you are determined to get him back - no matter the cost.
Warnings: blood, injuries
The temple of Bhaal smells of damp stone and blood.
It’s oppressive—the weigh of stone all around, the scent of old and new blood, the whispers, and the sense of being watched. After the nautiloid, the shadow curse, and the assault on Moonrise, you thought no place could truly rattle you.
You were wrong. Because this temple is wrong. And you want nothing more than to leave it.
But can’t. Because Orin took the one thing she knows you can’t lose.
“Come on,” you whisper to the others. Shadowheart has a hand on her weapon; Gale looks thoroughly unsettled; even Lae’zel appears uneasy.
When you enter the temple, you see the altar. Orin is standing over it, her hand caressing the side of his broad face. Your heart lurches in your chest at the sight of him bound and unconscious.
“Halsin,” you breathe.
Orin lifts her gaze to yours and offers the kind of smile normally seen on skulls.
You have little memory of what follows after that. You snarl a challenge, bring up your weapon, and then all the hells seem to break loose. Gale is snarling spells, Shadowheart whirling as she parries blow after blow, and Lae’zel charges through the ranks of Bhaal’s faithful like a battering ram.
But your eyes are the on the altar.
You fight alongside your companions until you can reach him. Then you’re at his side, a knife in hand.
“Halsin,” you say urgently. You touch his cheek, trying to rouse him.
He must have been drugged. You can think of no other way that Orin could have taken and held him. At the urgent sound of your voice, his eyes flicker open. He seems to be making a great effort to drag himself to consciousness. His eyes are glazed, his lips soundlessly forming your name. You set your blade against the ropes and saw through the bindings around his wrists. “I’m here,” you say. “You’re all right.”
It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “You came.”
“Of course I did.” The ropes are infuriatingly thick and you drag your knife back and forth, fraying them. “You had any doubt?”
There is a moment’s hesitation, and it has little to do with his drugged state. He did doubt, you realize. He must have thought he would die down here, sacrificed like so many others. A fierce protectiveness wells up within you. When you’re both free of this place, you are going to tell him precisely how loved he truly is.
The ropes give way and you free his wrists, trying to rub blood and sensation back into his hands. He begins to sit up, but you press him down. “Rest a moment. Then we’ll—”
You feel the impact first. It’s like being hit with a rock—but then comes the chill and the utter wrongness of it.
Halsin’s eyes widen. All of the drugged lassitude falls away from him and he rolls over, his ankles catching on the bindings. His hands reach for you. No, not for you—you realize—but for the dagger protruding from your chest.
One of the cultists was invisible and he came up behind you. You turn, raising your weapon to try and defend you both, but the world tilts sideways.
You can’t collapse. You have to keep him safe. You have to free him.
You fall. There is the distant sound of an animal roar, the clashing of steel, and the smell of coppery blood.
Then, nothing.
*
Halsin has seen many beautiful things in his long life—the golden hue of dawn creeping across the old forest, the rarest of flowers blooming in moonlight, the sharp cut of lightning across a stormy sky.
But none of those sights compare to this. To her.
She kneels down beside him, as though the chaos all around them is nothing. A knife flickers between her fingers and she begins to free him.
She came for him.
Part of him had hoped—no, he had yearned—to see her again. But Halsin has long been a protector, not the protected. He learned to fend for himself at a young age. Her rescue of him from the goblins was a welcome surprise. After Aradin fled, Halsin thought no aid would be coming. But she did come for him—not just once, but twice.
He should have known better than to underestimate her, he thinks, as her hair falls around them both. She frees his arms, and then she is massaging circulation into his sore hands.
Gentle, always so gentle. So caring. He has never met anyone with such a gentle heart. It’s why he fell in love with her. And he does love her, even if he has not found the moment to tell her yet. There were always other priorities—the shadow curse, the tadpoles, the missions. There would always be time later, he told himself. But then he was kidnapped, and he realized belatedly how precious their little time together has been. He should have told her everything: how he treasures their conversations, how beautiful she is, how her kind heart is a rarity.
And now she is beside him, hope blossoming between them. Once they are free of this place, he will tell her everything.
But then a cultist appears and drives a knife through her back. She makes a small sound, as though the breath has been taken from her. She looks more confused than pained, and when she glances down, it is with a line between her delicate brows.
“No!” The word is yanked from his lips. It is a raw and agonized denial. A plea.
When she falls, it seems to take an eternity—as though time itself cannot bear to see her injured.
A fury such as he has never known howls through him.
The animal takes him and he welcomes the change. The ropes binding his legs snap, and Halsin lunges for the cultist. Bone and muscle give way between his jaws, and he tastes fresh blood. Another cultist lunges and Halsin kills him, too. Everything is a blur of adrenaline and fear and violence. He has rarely allowed the change to take him so thoroughly, but right now animal fury is the best weapon he possesses.
Once the cultists have been driven back, Halsin looks back at her.
She lays on her side, hair fallen across her face. She needs the man, not the beast. With a great effort, he changes back. It feels wrong; his instincts are screaming that he needs to be the bear to protect her.
“Stay with me, love,” he whispers, kneeling beside her. He turns her over, taking her gently in his arms.
His magic is sluggish; his body is still fighting to rid itself of the damn potions that kept him docile.
“Oak Father,” he murmurs, pressing his hand to her wound. “If you only ever answer one of my prayers, let it be this one. Please, give me the strength to save her.” His throat tightens painfully. “And if I cannot, keep her safe until we can meet again.”
He spell takes hold. Her flesh slowly knits back together, but he doesn’t release the spell. He needs to ensure that the internal injuries will heal, that she will not bleed from within.
He pours all of his magic into her, every last bit of strength he has. And when that runs out, he simply holds her.
All around him, the room has gone silent. Orin lays dead, a sword wound in her chest. Lae’zel flicks her blade free of blood with a contemptuous snarl. She snarls a curse in her tongue, and even if he cannot understand it, Halsin agrees completely.
“How is she?” Gale rushes over, kneeling by Halsin.
“I don’t know,” Halsin replies. “But we should get her someplace safe.”
*
They retreat to a place called the Elfsong Tavern. Gale explains that they took rooms here, and while it is no forest, it’s more comfortable and safe that sleeping on the city streets. Halsin eases her onto a bed, sitting back so that Shadowheart can work. Her spells reinforce his, and her brows draw tight as she murmurs a silent prayer. Halsin tries not to hover, but he will not leave. He cannot leave.
When Shadowheart finishes, she sits back. She is breathing a little unsteadily, having spent much of her own power.
“Well?” asks Astarion. He lingers in the doorway, looking a bit like a stray cat that cannot decide if he wants in or out. “Will she survive? Or do we need to resurrect Orin so Lae’zel can kill her again?”
“She needs time,” says Shadowheart. “For the spells to take, for her own body to take up some of the healing.” Her gaze meets Halsin’s. “She’s past the worst of it, I think. You managed to keep her from bleeding out back in the temple."
Halsin bits down on his lip. He should have been able to do more. If he had not been drugged, that wound would have been healed in a matter of moments.
She came to rescue him, and she nearly paid for his life with her own. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach. “I’ll stay with her,” says Halsin, settling at her bedside.
The night passes slowly.
The others come and go. Astarion stops by with more blankets while Wyll ducks out to buy more healing potions. Shadowheart urges Halsin to bathe, promising to watch over her in the meantime. He goes, if only to scrub away the blood and the smell of captivity. He changes into clean clothes and returns to his beloved’s bedside.
She sleeps fitfully. Sweat beads at her brow and her eyes roam beneath her lids. “My heart,” he murmurs, taking her hand in his. “Rest easy. You’re safe.”
Finally, near dawn, she wakes.
She tries to speak, but it comes out dry and raspy. “Just a moment,” says Halsin, reaching for a pitcher of water. He pours a small cup, holding it to her lips. She looks as though she wants to protest that she can sit up and drink on her own, but her arm shakes. Her fingers still curl around his, as though to maintain an illusion of control. But when she’s finished drinking, she looks exhausted.
Halsin lowers her back into the pillows, rearranging the blankets around her.
“What happened?” she asks. “Did everyone make it out all right? Are you hurt?”
Of course she is more concerned with the others than herself. “Everyone made it out,” he says.
She reaches for one of his wrists. There are still red marks where the ropes rubbed his skin raw. “You haven’t healed yourself.”
He turns his wrist so that he can take her hand. Hers are so much smaller. “You needed the magic more.” She frowns at him, as though she wants to protest. Halsin smooths her hair back with his free hand. “Sleep. You should rest.”
She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. “What about you?”
“I’ll meditate in a little while,” he says.
Her frown deepens. Then she shifts in her bed, making as though to sit up. He places a hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Moving over,” she says. “Or, trying to.” She pats the place beside her. “Please. The bed is more than big enough for both of us. That chair looks terribly uncomfortable.”
It’s true. This is one of those large, goose feather and linen affairs.
He bites back his protests—that he doesn’t wish to harm her by accident, that he doesn’t need sleep. Instead, he carefully lays down beside her. She lets out a small sigh, and curls into him.
She feels so small beside him. So fragile.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispers. “When Orin came to me and said you’d been taken.”
Halsin wraps an arm around her. He had wished to save this for a time when she is well, but he has wasted far too much time already. “I feared the same.” He takes a breath. His heart pounds with uncertainty, but he needs to say it. “When you were injured... I realized how much time I have wasted. There are things I want to tell you."
She lifts her gaze to his. “You can tell me anything.”
His hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking back and forth. "I love you.” He feels her go still but he forces himself to continue. “I should have said so before, when the nights were calmer. When we might have stolen away for a few hours to ourselves. When we weren’t in a city on the brink of war. But even if the words have come too late, I have to tell you that I love you. You are a wonder and even if you don’t feel the same, I want you to know.”
He half expects her to pull away. But instead, she snuggles closer. “You should have said something earlier, it’s true,” she murmurs. “Or I should have been brave enough to say it first. One of us should have spoken up sooner.” She kisses his hand, and the touch burns through him. “I love you, too.”
Joy fills him. It has been years since he felt such unbridled happiness—there are no demands on him, no responsibilities other than this. He will keep her safe, ensure that she comes through the coming battles alive. “We will live through this,” he murmurs, pulling her close. “I promise you that. And once you are well…”
He hears the smile in her voice. “What are we going to do?”
He kisses her hair. “Many things, my heart. Many, many things.”
*
When you wake, you’re still in Halsin’s arms.
It is like sleeping near a fire, but not unpleasantly so. You’re cozy beneath the blankets, his arms around you and your face turned into the pillow. You feel a little dizzy, a little giddy. You can’t quite believe that Halsin is beside you, that he loves you as much as you love him. You can’t help yourself; you snuggle closer.
The moment you stir, he rouses. “You’re awake.”
“I am,” you say. Your voice sounds a little rusty from sleep. “How long have I been out?”
“That does not matter. You need the rest,” he says so firmly that you cannot protest. He smooths a hand over your forehead. “No fever, that’s a good sign. How’s the pain?”
You gingerly touch the bandages around your chest. There’s a deep ache, but you know it’ll fade with time. “Not so bad.”
“You’re staying in bed for a few more hours,” he says. “The others are out shopping and collecting information on something to do with rescuing Wyll’s father.”
Your heart lurches. You try to sit up. “I need to help—”
“You will,” he says, gently pressing you back down into the mattress. “But you must recover first. I’ll speak with the others, and don’t fear, my heart, when we go out to rescue Duke Ravengard, you’ll be there.”
That mollifies you a little. You know he wouldn’t lie to you, even for the sake of keeping you safe. “All right.” Your stomach gurgles loudly and you flush.
“And I’ll see about breakfast,” Halsin says, smiling.
He begins to rise from the bed, but you catch his hand. “Hey.”
Halsin looks back at you, a question in his eyes.
“Thank you,” you say. “For taking care of me.”
His face softens. He kneels beside the bed. “Thank you. For always rescuing me.”
You kiss him—and it doesn’t feel like the first time. It feels natural, like slipping into a comfortable shirt. You both fit together perfectly. “We rescue each other,” you whisper.
There's a bit of story behind this piece and I wanted to share it because I hope to help other artists if they are in the same situation.
I had a severe art block in the past weeks, mostly because of my health problems and because I've lost my main job. I was already at the point where I wasn't enjoying my art at all and it all makes worse.
But I have to pay bills and school so I tried to go out of my comfort zone, even with panic attacks, and I did it. I considered that I had a clue of the art style I wanted - and it was Netflix's Castlevania style. I rewatched the show many times over the years, I consider it my comfort animation basically. I'm also studying VFX because of it.
Luckily, I have the official art book, I watched the documentaries on YouTube plus I follow so many Castlevania artists (I'd like to thank any of them XD), so I did my best to understand their fundamentals. Of course, I'm not even close to their perfection, but my love for the show helped me to reach a level that makes me say: "Mmmh, it's not that bad!". XD
The client asked for Halsin x Tav to do stuff against a wall or a tree, and of course, the amazing love scene from BG3 romance was my first choice. I loved that scene except for the light because I wanted Larian to focus better on Halsin's shape and muscles, using the light. They didn't so it was my chance to make justice. XD
Even with my severe depression, today I can say that I'm happy about what I drew. Probably the first time ever in my life. So thanks a lot for commissioning me, because... I feel... happy! *In Astarion's voice*
Note: I hate drawing body hair!! How do they work ffs??
I’m not promising anything, but if you have a prompt idea... send them over.
I’ll write about pretty much any of the BG3 crew. Fics, headcanons, etc. Again, not promising they’ll get written, but I am in the market for a little inspiration and small things to write during the month of December.
Halsin x f!Reader
A bit of fluff and yearning
Wordcount: 1.5k
You always looked over the abandoned wagons and backpacks.
It was an old habit, born of a time when coin was scarce. You’ve always had an eye for shiny things - the gleam of jewelry, the graceful curve of a gem, and the glitter of a bottle. You never knew when you might find a small treasure.
Some of the others mocked you for it. Astarion, in particular, seemed to enjoy the sight of you rummaging through crates. “Your pack is so full you’ll have to find a rothe to carry it,” he called, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
“I can carry my own pack,” you replied, with a dismissive wave. “And what do you care?”
“Merely concerned for your posture, darling. If you become a hunched over crone in your thirties, it would be a tragedy.”
You snorted. “That’s rich, coming from the one with the outdated vocabulary and the white hair.”
He placed a hand over his heart in mock indignation. “It’s not white, it’s silver.”
“Children,” called Gale. “You’re going to get left behind if you dawdle.”
The others had continued on. The path wound through the mountains, toward the Githyanki creche. Lae’zel was far ahead, her long strides carrying her forward with a grim determination. It was no wonder she was eager; the prospect of ridding yourself of the tadpole was an intriguing one. But even so, you felt the pull to pick through every crate.
Your diligence was rewarded when you found a gleam of gold tucked within a sack. You pulled it free. It was a jar.
“Come on!” called Astarion, and you hastily shoved the jar into your own pack. You would look at it more closely later.
*
It was hours after, once camp had been set up, that you investigated your finds. You picked through the small trinkets, sorting through which ones could be sold and which ones discarded. You were so single-minded that you didn’t notice the smells of food or call to dinner. It was only when someone stood over you that you looked up.
Halsin towered over you. The sunset gave his hair a golden cast, and he was smiling. “You’ve been busy,” he said mildly.
You sat back, only now feeling the ache in your lower back. “Oh. I was distracted.” You gestured at the piles of trinkets, feeling mildly embarrassed. Would he think it was silly? “Did I miss dinner?”
“I set some aside for you.” Halsin put the plate down on a fallen log. It looked like a surprisingly tasty stew. “It’s a little cold.”
“I don’t mind,” you said. “Thanks for bringing it.” It shouldn’t have surprised you that Halsin was the one to notice you weren’t eating; he was observant in camp, quiet and watchful. His tent was pitched along the outskirts. Part of you wondered if it was because he wished to remain near nature or to make himself the first line of defense should anyone attack camp. It was likely both.
He squatted down, eyeing your finds. “May I ask what it is you’re doing?” He reached out, gently sifting through the knotted chains and one half of an earring.
You flushed. “I just… you might have noticed I tend to pick things up.”
“I had noticed, yes,” he said, a touch of dry humor in his voice. But there was no mockery to it. “Do you sell them?”
You shrugged. “It helps. I can buy a little food, maybe weapons or medicine for camp. We can hunt, of course, but we still need things. And it’s not as though we have a noble patron.” You snorted. “Well, we do have Wyll, but I know he’d protest that title.”
“He would,” agreed Halsin. “He seems far more happy being the Blade of Frontiers rather than a duke’s son.” He tilted his head, gaze flicking over the assortment of trinkets. “Can I help?”
“I mean,” you said, “you don’t have to.”
“I want to.” His gaze met yours and you felt another flush rise to your cheeks. “It’s better to have something to do with one’s hands.”
You both began to work, untangling chains of necklaces and sorting through your findings. There were coins from several cities, jewelry that was junk and one piece that might sell, along with forgotten letters. You set those aside. “I’ll give them to a messenger or the like if we reach Baldur’s Gate,” you said, when you caught Halsin’s eye. “Maybe those letters will reach their destination.”
“That’s kind of you, to carry them without any hope of reward.”
You gave him a little shrug. “It’s not as though they weigh very much.”
“Still,” he said. “You have a good heart.”
Your cheeks burned even hotter. Halsin disarmed you in a way that none of the other companions could. There were no deceptions, no games to played, no secrets to ferret out. Halsin was simply… Halsin. He was undemanding and kind.
And all right. He was gorgeous—you’d admit that to yourself. You’d had a few fantasies of him picking you up and kissing you, but you tried to tamp them down. You didn’t want your desires to leak into your conversations and make him uncomfortable. You were friends and that was more than enough.
Finally, you pulled out the jar. You had almost forgotten about it. “What is that?” asked Halsin.
You held it up to the fading sunlight. “Preserves, I think. Whether or not they’re edible… well, I’m not sure how we find out.”
Halsin chuckled. “Opening it would be the first step.”
It took a knife and a fair bit of prying to get the jar open, but the moment you did, your mouth watered.
Raspberries floated in a thick, golden liquid. They had been preserved in honey. The sweet scent floated out of the jar and you swallowed.
“Well, well,” said Halsin. “A pleasing find, if my opinion matters.”
You remembered what he had said when you tried to get to know him better: that he enjoyed sweet things. “You can have it,” you said, holding out the jar.
He shook his head, a smile on his lips. “We’ll share it.”
You didn’t have a spoon, but Halsin had a few carved ones in his pack. He unearthed it and you gasped. It was intricate and beautiful—a woven pattern made up the handle. “It’s gorgeous.” You knew he whittled, but this was a work of art.
He looked pleased but embarrassed. “I’ve had much practice. It’s yours, if you like it.”
You dipped the spoon into the honeyed raspberries. Then you popped the spoon into your mouth. Tart sweetness spilled across your tongue. You closed your eyes and moaned softly. Perhaps you should have found a loaf of bread or something else to cut the cloying sweetness, but you did not care. It had been weeks since you enjoyed anything so luxurious.
“Oh, it’s amazing,” you said, holding out the jar to Halsin. “Try some.”
His gaze was not on the jar—but on you. “You have some,” he said quietly, holding out his hand. “May I?”
You didn’t know what you were agreeing to, but even so you nodded. You trusted him.
His thumb—warm and callused—slid across your chin. A small tendril of honey had stuck there. “Oh,” you said, laughing a little. “That’s embarrassing.”
“Not at all.” He licked the honey from his thumb—and you could have sworn his pupils dilated as he looked at you. “It tastes all the sweeter.”
Heat churned in your stomach. You knew you should break that gaze, look away before this became all too intimate, but you didn’t want to. Your breaths quickened, and you thought you saw his gaze fall to your mouth. Was he going to kiss you? At once, your lips ached for it. You needed his touch more than you needed air or warmth or even a cure.
His fingers brushed your cheek. But before he could utter a word, a voice rang out from across camp.
“I can see you eating something over there!” called Astarion. “If you get sick from fare you found along the road, I am not carrying your pack.”
The mood was broken in an instant. You looked down, half-wondering if you had imagined the moment.
“You won’t have to,” called Halsin sounding as good-natured as ever. “I’ll carry it for her.”
You swallowed. Perhaps you hadn’t imagined it, after all.
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