I love your kili fics! I feel like there are hardly any out there anymore 🥲
Could you write kili x non dwarf! reader where reader grets stressed/breaks down over her duties in erebor post BOTFA, followed by lots of comforting words & cuddles and hair braiding from kili?
Beneath the Mountain, Beside His Heart
Kili x reader
cw: break down/panic attacks/generally just stressing out too much
AN: tbh I feel like we all need some cuddles from Kili and out hair braided. It'd solve a lot of my problems at least 🫠 Thank you nonnie for requesting this wonderful idea I had to forcefully stop myself from writing more
The mountain was alive again—but it was not the same kind of life it had once held in the songs.
Where once there had been music, now there was rebuilding. Where once there had been pride untouched by loss, now there was determination forged through it. Erebor breathed in steady, heavy rhythms: hammer on anvil, boots on stone, low voices discussing trade, recovery, survival. It should have felt triumphant. It should have felt like hope.
Instead, to you, it felt like standing in the middle of a storm no one else seemed to notice.
You had thought—naively, perhaps—that after the battle, after the grief, things would slow. That there would be time to heal. Time to simply exist beside him, to cherish the miracle that he had lived when so many had not.
But being the one who stood beside the prince of the mountain meant there was no stillness waiting for you. Only expectation.
Your days no longer belonged to you.
They belonged to councils that stretched for hours, where voices overlapped in thick accents and stronger opinions, and you had to listen, understand, decide. They belonged to ledgers and scrolls stacked higher each morning—trade negotiations with Dale, rebuilding agreements with the Men of the Lake, disputes between craftsmen whose pride had survived the dragon even if their homes had not. They belonged to ceremonies, to appearing composed and gracious before dwarves who looked to you now not as a guest, but as something far more permanent.
As something important.
As someone who must not fail.
You had not expected how much of it would rest in your hands.
Grain distribution for winter. You had never thought about grain before. Now you lay awake thinking of shortages, of caravans delayed by early snow, of families who would suffer if numbers were miscounted. You were expected to oversee communication between Erebor and Dale—your words shaping trust between kingdoms still healing from suspicion and loss. You were asked to mediate disputes that had existed long before you ever set foot near the mountain, yet somehow now fell to you to resolve.
And every decision felt heavy.
Every choice felt like it could ripple outward into something terrible if you were wrong.
It built quietly, that pressure.
At first, you told yourself it was simply adjustment. Anyone would struggle stepping into such a role. You smiled through it, listened carefully, worked longer hours. You wanted to be worthy—not just of the title, but of him.
Of Kili.
Because when he looked at you, there was never doubt in his eyes. Only warmth. Only certainty, as if the world had rearranged itself into something right the moment you stepped into it.
You wanted to be as sure as he was.
But certainty did not come easily when the mountain seemed to press in around you.
The halls of Erebor were vast, magnificent, carved with histories that stretched back centuries. Gold veined the walls, intricate designs telling stories you were still learning to understand. It should have been awe-inspiring.
Instead, some days, it felt suffocating.
Too large. Too full. Too loud. Too much.
It was late when the tremor in your hands finally became something you could not ignore.
You were seated at your desk, long after the last council had ended, long after most of the torches in the lower halls had dimmed. The mountain had quieted, but your thoughts had not. Scrolls were scattered around you, half-read, half-signed, ink drying in uneven strokes across parchment where your focus had faltered.
You stared at the words before you, but they refused to settle into meaning.
Trade routes. Supplies. Numbers.
They blurred together until they were nothing but shapes.
Your grip tightened around the quill in your hand, and only then did you notice it—how unsteady your fingers had become. A faint tremble, subtle at first, but growing the longer you tried to hold still.
You set the quill down carefully.
Or tried to.
It slipped slightly, leaving a dark streak of ink across the page.
Your breath caught. It was such a small thing. So insignificant.
And yet it felt like something inside you cracked at the sight of it.
“I’m fine,” you murmured, though there was no one there to hear you.
The words sounded hollow in the quiet room.
You pressed your hands flat against the desk, willing them to still. They did not. The tremor climbed, creeping up your arms, settling somewhere deep in your chest where your heart had begun to beat too fast.
Too hard.
You inhaled sharply.
The air felt thin.
That didn’t make sense. There was nothing wrong. Nothing had happened. This was just another evening, another set of tasks, another responsibility to fulfill.
So why did it feel like everything was slipping just slightly out of reach?
You pushed back from the desk abruptly, the chair scraping softly against stone. The sound echoed more than it should have, bouncing off the high ceiling and coming back to you distorted.
Too loud.
Everything was too loud.
You crossed the room quickly, your steps uneven, drawn toward the open balcony doors as though the night air might fix whatever had gone wrong inside you.
The cold hit your face the moment you stepped outside.
Sharp. Immediate. Real.
You gripped the stone railing, leaning forward slightly as you dragged in a breath. Then another. And another.
The sky stretched endlessly above the mountain, scattered with stars that shimmered like distant fire. Far below, the lights of Dale flickered faintly, a reminder of the world beyond these walls.
It should have calmed you.
It didn’t.
Your thoughts refused to slow. They spun, faster and faster, each one colliding into the next.
What if you made the wrong decision? What if the grain didn’t last? What if trade failed? What if the dwarves began to doubt you? What if you disappointed Thorin’s memory, Fili’s expectations, the entire mountain that had trusted you to stand beside its prince?
What if you weren’t enough for any of this?
Your grip tightened painfully against the railing.
“I can’t—” The words broke off as your breath hitched again.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force the feeling down, to bury it, to regain control the way you always had before. You were not weak. You had faced far worse than paperwork and expectations.
So why did this feel like something you could not fight?
Footsteps sounded faintly behind you.
You didn’t hear them at first.
Didn’t notice the way they slowed as they approached, quieter than most, as though whoever it was already sensed something was wrong.
“Fili is going to ask where you’ve disappeared to if I do not return with you,” a familiar voice began lightly—but it faltered.
The tone changed.
Shifted.
Because he saw you.
“...Amrâlim?”
You froze.
You hadn’t realized how rigid you’d become until that moment, how tightly you were holding yourself together, as if one wrong movement would shatter whatever fragile control you had left.
You didn’t turn around.
Not immediately.
You couldn’t.
Because if you did—if you met his eyes—you weren’t sure you would be able to keep pretending that everything was fine.
And somehow, that frightened you more than anything else.
Because Kili always saw too much.
And tonight, you were certain there was far too much to see.
You tried to steady your breathing before turning, but it was useless—Kili already knew. He always did. The moment your eyes met his, whatever fragile composure you had pieced together unraveled under the softness in his expression. He wasn’t smiling, not in the easy, carefree way he usually did; instead, there was quiet concern there, something gentle and attentive as he stepped closer, slow enough not to startle you, as if you were something delicate he refused to mishandle. “Hey… what’s this?” he murmured, voice low, warm, careful. You shook your head immediately, too quickly. “Nothing. I’m fine—it’s just been a long day.” Even to your own ears, it sounded thin. Unconvincing. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t call you out—not directly. That was Kili, too. He reached you, resting his hands lightly on your arms, grounding without gripping, his thumbs brushing small, absent circles against your sleeves. “You’re shaking,” he said softly.
That was all it took.
The words broke something open, and suddenly the tightness in your chest surged upward, your breath catching again as you looked away, blinking too fast. “I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. It came quieter than you expected, fragile, like if you spoke too loudly it might shatter completely. “All of it—it’s too much, Kili. Every decision feels wrong before I’ve even made it. They expect me to know things I’ve never even thought about before, and I keep thinking if I make one mistake, it will all fall apart.” Your hands curled slightly at your sides, trembling again despite yourself. “I can’t sleep properly. I keep going over everything in my head—what I said, what I signed, what I might have missed. I don’t think I’m—” Your voice faltered. “I don’t think I’m what they need me to be.”
Silence followed, but it wasn’t empty.
Kili didn’t interrupt you, didn’t rush to fill the space. He simply stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him cut through the chill of the night air, one hand lifting carefully to your cheek, guiding your gaze back to his. His expression had softened even more, if that were possible, something steady and unwavering settling into his features. “You think we expect perfection from you?” he asked quietly, almost incredulously, but not unkindly. You swallowed, uncertain. He huffed a faint breath—not quite a laugh, but close—and rested his forehead lightly against yours. “Amrâlim… we are dwarves. We rebuild mountains after dragons burn them. We argue over stone and gold and ale, and half the time we do not know what we are doing until it is already done.” His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, catching the faintest hint of moisture there. “You are learning. That is all anyone could ask.”
You shook your head again, though weaker this time. “But what if learning isn’t enough?”
“Then we learn again,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. His hands slid from your arms to your hands, carefully threading his fingers through yours despite the slight tremor still there. He didn’t try to still it. He just held on. “You are not meant to carry this alone. Not the mountain. Not the people. Not… this.” He lifted your joined hands slightly between you. “You have me. You have Fili. You have all of Erebor, whether they realize it or not. And they do not see you as failing—they see you trying. That matters more than you think.”
Something in your chest eased, just slightly.
Not gone—but softer.
Kili squeezed your hands once, then gently tugged you closer until you were fully within his arms, wrapped in a warmth that felt far more real than the cold stone beneath your feet. You hesitated only a moment before leaning into him, your forehead pressing against his shoulder as you exhaled shakily. His arms came around you without hesitation, firm and steady, one hand settling at your back, the other cradling the back of your head, holding you as though there was nowhere else he would rather be. “You do too much,” he murmured into your hair. “Even for a dwarf, that is impressive.”
A small, breathless sound escaped you—something between a laugh and a sigh.
“I mean it,” he continued softly. “I’ve seen your desk. It looks like it declared war on you and is winning.”
That earned a real, if quiet, laugh, muffled against him.
“There it is,” he said, a smile returning to his voice. “I was beginning to think I’d have to start telling truly terrible jokes.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still tired but lighter now. “You already do.”
“Ah, but I save the worst ones for emergencies.”
You huffed softly, shaking your head, and he took the opportunity to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His gaze softened again, something deeper settling beneath the lightness. “You don’t have to be unbreakable,” he said quietly. “Not with me. Not ever.”
Your throat tightened at that—not from panic this time, but from something warmer, something that settled gently in your chest instead of clawing at it. You nodded, just slightly, your hands tightening in his tunic. “I was trying not to worry you.”
Kili’s expression shifted, something almost fond crossing his face. “You disappearing into the night and looking like the mountain is about to collapse on you worries me far more,” he replied. “Let me be here, amrâlim. That is what I am meant to do.”
The simplicity of it made your chest ache in an entirely different way.
You leaned into him again, this time without hesitation, letting yourself rest there as his arms tightened slightly around you, grounding, warm, steady. The mountain still loomed, the responsibilities still waited, nothing about your duties had changed—but somehow, in his arms, they felt… manageable.
Not because they were lighter.
But because you no longer felt like you were holding them alone.
Kili didn’t let go of you right away—and this time, you didn’t try to pull back. The tension that had been coiled so tightly inside you slowly unraveled the longer you stayed there, wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. It grounded you in a way nothing else had managed to that night. Eventually, he shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Come,” he murmured gently. “You’ve done enough ruling for one evening, my lady.” There was a teasing lilt at the end, but it was softened by warmth, not expectation. You huffed quietly, though there was no real protest left in you, and allowed him to guide you back inside.
Your chambers felt different now—less suffocating, less overwhelming. Or perhaps it was simply that you weren’t facing them alone anymore. Kili nudged the scattered scrolls aside without ceremony, ignoring them completely as he tugged you toward the bed. “Sit,” he insisted lightly, already moving to stoke the fire just a little higher, filling the room with a steady, comforting warmth. You sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion catching up to you all at once now that the storm inside you had eased. He returned a moment later, studying you with a softer expression, something fond and a little knowing. “You look like you haven’t rested properly in days.”
“I haven’t,” you admitted quietly.
“I thought as much.” He disappeared briefly again, returning with a brush and a small tie, holding them up with a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Then we start small.”
You blinked at him, confused at first—but the moment he stepped behind you, gently guiding you to turn so your back faced him, understanding settled in. Your shoulders relaxed almost immediately, anticipation mixing with a strange, quiet comfort. His fingers were careful as they slipped into your hair, easing out tangles with a patience you hadn’t realized you needed. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak much either. Just the occasional soft murmur when he found a knot, the light pull followed by the soothing pass of his fingers smoothing it away.
It was… peaceful.
More than peaceful.
Your eyes drifted closed as the repetitive motion lulled your thoughts into stillness, the earlier chaos fading further with every gentle stroke. You could feel the warmth of him behind you, close but not overwhelming, his focus entirely on something so simple, so grounding. “My mother used to do this,” he said quietly after a while, voice softer than before, touched with memory. “Said it helped settle the mind. Kept thoughts from wandering too far into trouble.” His fingers separated sections of your hair with surprising skill. “Fili was terrible at sitting still for it. I was the opposite.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips. “I can’t imagine you sitting still for anything.”
“Oh, I can be very well-behaved when I choose to be,” he replied, mock offense threading through his tone—but it softened quickly as his hands continued their work. “There. See? Evidence.”
You let out a quiet, sleepy laugh, the sound far lighter than anything you’d managed earlier. The braid slowly took shape beneath his fingers—neat, careful, each movement deliberate. It wasn’t elaborate, not like the intricate styles of the dwarves, but it was steady. Secure. His thumbs brushed lightly at the nape of your neck as he tied it off, lingering there for just a moment before his hands settled gently on your shoulders.
“All done,” he murmured.
You reached back slightly, fingers brushing over the braid, something warm blooming in your chest at the simple gesture. “Thank you,” you said softly.
Kili leaned forward then, resting his chin briefly on your shoulder. “Anytime,” he replied, just as quietly. Then, without giving you much time to think, he shifted beside you and tugged you gently down onto the bed with him.
You let out a small sound of surprise that quickly melted into a soft laugh as he pulled you close, one arm wrapping securely around you, the other adjusting the blankets over both of you. “Kili—”
“No arguments,” he interrupted lightly, though his hold tightened just slightly, not forceful but certain. “You are resting. That is an order from the prince under the mountain.”
You tilted your head just enough to look at him, amusement flickering in your tired eyes. “Oh? Is that how it is?”
“Absolutely,” he said, entirely serious for all of half a second before his expression softened again, something gentler taking over. “Stay,” he added more quietly.
There was no command in that word. Just a request.
You didn’t hesitate.
Settling closer, you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. His hand found yours beneath the blankets, fingers intertwining easily, while the other traced slow, absent patterns along your arm—back and forth, over and over, until your breathing began to match his.
The mountain didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
The expectations were still there. The responsibilities hadn’t vanished. Tomorrow would come with its duties and decisions and challenges you were still learning how to face.
But tonight…
Tonight, you were warm.
You were safe.
And you were not alone.
Kili pressed a final, soft kiss to your hair, right above the braid he had made, his voice barely more than a whisper against the quiet of the room. “We’ll face it together,” he promised.
This time, when your eyes closed, sleep came easily.
And for the first time in a long while, your mind was still.
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Omg okay… so I had this thought randomly and now I wanted to know if you were open to writing the scenario… The Hobbit/Lord of the rings… Thranduil, Legolas, Kili (and honestly anyone else you want who isn’t human if you’d like) and their reaction to their pregnant human s/o’s cravings. Like I don’t know if pregnant elves and dwarves had those cravings (they probably do??) but like their reactions to the really weird human cravings, because I bet there is definitely ones they aren’t used to due to cultural differences, right? So like those cravings that genuinely make them question and maybe cringe because it seems so gross to them?? Genuinely just those weird food combo cravings lmaoo.
No pressure to write this btw! I don’t know if your request are even open?? If they aren’t then please ignore this- I’m so sorry 😭! Either way I love your writing/posts and have a great day🥺🥰.
Hi anon - and yes, I am willing to do so. I imagine elves and dwarves probably do have pregnancy cravings, although this was written more on the idea that they don't. Also, I have never been pregnant. I have incredibly limited experience when it comes to pregnancy, so I am so sorry if this is inaccurate. Hope people still enjoy!
(this fic is also centred a lot more around support and reactions than actual pregnancy)
✧ Probably the most concerned out of all of the elves.
✧ Thranduil has experienced a loved one having a pregnancy before, of course. But it’s still so… different.
✧ He still loves you, of course, but when he first encounters it there is heavy staring. A brief ask of if you are okay.
✧ When you explain it’s just a sign of human pregnancy then he nods, before realising no-one has told him this.
✧ You only seem him immediately leave (off to yell at the royal doctors for not informing him of this. And asking what other details they are holding back.)
✧ Comes back a little later with a checklist of different symptoms, and asking if they are happening or might happen.
✧ Does consistently get a curious face when he sees you do something.
✧ As you’re eating an odd craving you can tell if he’s there, because you suddenly feel watched. Thranduil doesn’t seem to entirely realise how off-putting this is.
✧ After hearing reports of you sneaking into the royal kitchens to grab a specific sauce (to put on your blackberries, of all things). He quietly pulls you aside and says that you don’t have to sneak around.
✧ All cooks and kitchen workers are under royal orders to make you whatever (there’s a slight haunted look as he says that word) you please.
✧ Will also certainly import a specific food if it cannot easily be found in Mirkwood.
𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐬
✧ Definitely depends on the time being post or pre-Fellowship.
✧ If it’s pre-Fellowship he’s a lot more perplexed by it. He won’t question you, but he’s politely curious about it.
✧ “You mean to say that these things… taste nice together? But, meleth nîn, how?”
✧ Goes to ask his father. Which is entirely unhelpful, as Thranduil has few answers either - at least on the odd cravings side of pregnancy.
✧ Comes back to you with a smile, and whatever food you’d recently been angling, before presenting it to you and giving you a small kiss.
✧ “I hope you enjoy it, my cestaedas.”
✧ Post-Fellowship he’s a lot more accepting and less immediately confused about it.
✧ You want a flavour combination that he would only eat a knife-point? You have most adventurous taste, and of course he’d be happy to get it for you.
✧ Will sometimes try a bit of your random concoctions if you allow him (he has a surprisingly good record, helped mainly by the use of puppy-dog eyes).
✧ It always makes you smile to see his face afterwards, either a polite attempt to hide disgust or genuine, obvious shock that it tastes nice.
✧ Has joked once or twice, while eating one of your cravings he enjoys, that you’re corrupting him.
𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐫
✧ Lindir really, truly loves you. Which is why he’s willing to put up with all of the combinations that you’re craving.
✧ As an elf, he has heightened senses. Heightened senses that do not particularly agree with some of the combinations you consume.
✧ He’s slightly more sensitive to the aromas (and imagined tastes) than some elves are, so it can occasionally be a struggle for him depending on what you’re eating.
✧ Still completely supports you, and reminds you everyday that just because his body reacts adversely to it doesn’t mean he loves you any less.
✧ (Also makes you promise to indulge your cravings if you want to; don’t make his slightly discomfort a priority in your pregnancy.)
✧ Privately, he asks Elrond if cravings are a sign of anything wrong. Feels better after being well-informed, that it’s natural. A sign that often comes up in a healthy pregnancy.
✧ Stands up against the watching eyes in Rivendell as well. None of the elves are judgemental - merely curious - but he knows how eyes on you can feel.
✧ Validates any worries or insecurities that it’s wrong or gross very well, with reassurances that all of this is natural, and that he loves you regardless.
𝐄𝐥𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐝
✧ Has witnessed enough pregnancies to know the body can be… unusual during the time period.
✧ Also researches a lot about human pregnancies to ensure that he can safely provide for you.
✧ So, when cravings come he’s prepared for it. And slightly… disturbed isn’t the right word.
✧ Because he knows it’s natural, but in all the pregnancies he’s assisted it hasn’t really happened. So he simply refers to it as ‘new’.
✧ There’s also a tiny bit of curiosity as a healer. Some questions are peppered in here and there, because you are his living, breathing loved one - not just some words on a page.
✧ If you mention you have a craving, it’s often him who will go and get something for you.
✧ Becomes a usual sight to see Lord Elrond in the kitchen, with ingredients that only look slightly insane, while muttering something and taking far too much care in their preparation.
✧ Sometimes, he’ll try and present this dish formally (he’s the kind of person to make a decorative fruit plate with apples carved into swans and so on).
✧ Is rewarded by your slight laugh, which in returns puts a large smile on his face.
𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧
✧ Is a lot less concerned that most of the elves are.
✧ That still doesn't mean that - the first time you tell him about a craving - he’s not slightly concerned.
✧ Of course he’ll help get it for you, but why. Why do you need this?
✧ As you dig into your food, you see him watching you out of the corner of his eye. A small smile on his face as he watches.
✧ When confronted he simply says he’s curious, and that you look so happy. Even when eating… that.
✧ Thorin does ask the royal physician afterwards, but he does so privately. Still makes quite a lot of notes on it.
✧ Whenever you ask for something, he will always make sure that you can get it as fast as you can.
✧ Even if that means importing things - Erebor isn’t great for a lot of foods - because it’s worth it for his queen.
𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐢
✧ Only thing he’d be truly concerned about is if you started craving non-edible items.
✧ He reads up on a few journals, and discovers some accounts of pregnant women asking for clay or coal.
✧ Does take you by surprise when he asks, with complete sincerity, for you to not eat any minerals while you’re pregnant. Or to at least let a doctor examine them first.
✧ Kíli doesn’t get why you’re so confused when he says it, and he explains to you the journals he’s read.
✧ After preparing for you to eat rocks or dirt for a week or so, Kíli is fairly unfazed by most of your requests after that.
✧ Often he’ll be the person getting your new combos for you - it always makes him smile when you light up at the sight of whatever food he’s made you.
✧ Of everyone, he is also most likely to try and steal it.
✧ “Please, can I just have a little taste? If you and the baby like it so much I’m sure I will!”
A/N : Also - just a heads up, while writing this I've come to the realisation I don't particularly like writing pregnancy fics, and I won't be writing any more centred around pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I'm fine with kid fics, or fics asking what a certain character would be like as a parent - but I don't enjoy writing the pregnancy aspect. Thanks for understanding, and hopefully some people can still enjoy this.
Oh - I forgot to say this, but the term Legolas uses (cestaedas) is intended to mean curiosity, although technically it's a neologisms from various other reconstructions, so this is not official tolkien Sindarin. Still, it's a pretty interesting word.
Okok so yknow how when you first meet gale he goes on about how he likes wine and has a cat and all that?
I’d imagine after becoming professor he hits his class with that same dialogue but he adds in that he has an lovely amazing beautiful partner
And as the school year goes on and he keeps going on random tangents, he also keeps raving about his spouse and how perfect they are
It gets to the point where you become blackstaff academy legend
The other professors are sick of him
I’d also believe that after a while people genuinely start searching for you just to check whether or not you’re real
OMG. I love this. Just love-struck Gale who will go on multi-hour long tangents where he is just talking about your favorite color. Everyone deserves someone who looks at you like that.
Warnings:No pronouns or descriptions used for reader other than you like flowers cause I like flowers :3
It starts off with just an offhanded comment about you. A throw away sentence about how he is so lucky to have found a wonderful spouse like you before he forces himself to recalibrate back to his actual lesson plan.
But that isn't enough for his students. No. They didn't know their master wizard was married and now they want to know everything that they can about you.
First thing they find odd is that he doesn't wear a wedding ring — that is until he explains, with a little prodding from the students, that you became engaged on your adventures and it wasn't practical for you to worry about rings when the fate of the world was on your shoulders, now is it?
So they now knew that you both used to be adventurers together. Of course, their master wizard would not settle for someone who wasn't as obviously as interested in the world as he was! Of course!
But the students wanted more, so they gently pried and led conversations into places where it would feel just perfectly natural for their professor to talk about his significant other. One student mentioning how they didn't know what to get their boyfriend. Another lamenting how they never got to spend enough time with theirs. These always — without a doubt — led him down tangents about you. How he always knew what to get you cause your eyes lit up when you talked about your favorite flowers. How even five minutes before bed with you sitting beside him as he graded papers was more than enough time for him and yet would never enough.
It became his students' favorite new game. Who and for how long could they get him talking about you instead of what ever they were supposed to be studying that day. But there was also something overwhelmingly sweet about it. About the fact that the mere thought of you made him light up like the sun and speak as if you were the most important thing in the world. And perhaps, you were to him.
That is why it was a surprise to all of his students when one day a soft knock came upon the classroom door before it was pushed open just enough for you to poke your head into the class. The look on Professor Dekarios' face, it was a look of pure unfettered joy as he rushed to the door. He threw it open completely and pulled you into his arms as he peppered kisses across your nose and cheeks. Your laughter filled the room before you were finally able to push your husband back, placing a small box into his hand.
"You forgot lunch, my darling." He cradled it against his chest as if you had just handed him the most important thing in the city, smiling before turning to his students.
"Class! This is the most wonderful, patient, gentle being I have ever had the pleasure of meeting." He glanced back over to you, gently taking your hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
The battle had devolved into the kind of messy, sprawling chaos that made strategy feel like a distant memory. Mud clung to your boots, smoke stung your eyes, and the clash of weapons rang endlessly in your ears as you pushed forward through the press of enemies with stubborn determination. You were tired, bruised, and running purely on adrenaline, but the sight of the enemy captain retreating toward the far side of the field lit a spark of reckless resolve in your chest.
If you could just reach them—just land one decisive blow— oh, the rush to your ego was just too sweet, so you surged ahead. Blissfully unaware that, behind you, somewhere in the shifting haze of battle, Astarion had noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He had been watching you for the last several minutes with mounting irritation, tracking your movements with sharp, predatory focus as you edged farther and farther away from the relative safety of your formation. He knew that look on your face—the tight jaw, the narrowed eyes, the absolute refusal to back down even when the odds tilted dangerously out of your favor.
It was, in his professional opinion, one of your most infuriating traits and one of the most terrifyingly attractive.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, already moving. You didn’t hear him. You were too busy chasing the fleeing captain, weaving between clashing bodies, breath burning in your lungs as you closed the distance step by step. Victory felt tantalisingly close, just within reach.
Then the world shifted. A second enemy stepped into your path and another moved behind you. Before you could react, the careful rhythm of the fight collapsed into sudden danger, the space around you tightening like a trap snapping shut.
Astarion saw it all unfold in an instant and his stomach dropped.
“Oh, you absolute fool,” he hissed and instead of retreating back to safety, to make this someone else's problem, likely karlach's, he did something that surprised even himself, he ran towards the ugly fray.
Not with his usual lazy elegance, not with the theatrical grace he cultivated so carefully, but with raw, urgent speed that cut through the battlefield like a blade. He shoved past an opponent without breaking stride, ducked under a swinging mace, and closed the distance between you just as one of the enemies lunged. You barely had time to register the movement before something slammed into you from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as Astarion’s shoulder drove into your ribs, sending both of you stumbling sideways through the mud. The enemy’s strike whistled through empty air where your head had been a heartbeat earlier.
You gasped, disoriented. “What—”
His hand clamped around your arm like a vice. “-What,” he snapped, voice tight with fury, “do you think you are doing?”
You blinked up at him, still catching your breath. “I almost had them—”
“-You almost had a sword through your spine,” he shot back.
Before you could protest, he yanked you sharply backward, dragging you out of the fray with startling strength. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your sleeve as he hauled you step by step through the chaos. You resisted immediately, you were so close to winning.
“I can still fight—”
“No.”
“Astarion, let go—”
“Absolutely not!”
You twisted, trying to wrench free, but he anticipated the movement instantly. With a sharp, irritated sound, he shifted his hold—one arm sliding around your waist—and physically lifted you just enough to disrupt your footing. Your boots left the ground for a split second and you let out a startled noise. “Astarion!”
“You are coming with me,” he said through clenched teeth, dragging you behind the shattered remains of a stone barricade. You squirmed, like a child being dragged in for dinner, by their parent who had not had enough wine to deal with you.
“I was fine—”
“You were being spectacularly stupid. You reached new levels of stupidity that not even I was aware of. You-” You opened your mouth to interject in his ranting and twisted as you did. That was when it happened.
There was a tiny, horrifying sound. A faint, delicate crack. Everything stopped. Astarion froze mid-step and dropped you onto the ground with the ceremony of a sack of potatoes. Then slowly—very slowly—he looked down at his hand.
You followed his gaze from the floor, heart wrenching as the tragedy came into focuse.
One of his long, immaculately groomed nails had split clean across the tip, the smooth edge now jagged and uneven. For a moment, the battlefield noise seemed to fade into the background entirely. Astarion stared at the damage as if the world had personally betrayed him.
“…No,” he whispered.
You blinked.“…Is that—”
“-My nail,” he said faintly with the echoes of lament.
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. He turned his hand slightly, inspecting the break from every possible angle, his expression shifting from shock to genuine outrage.
“I just finished shaping these this morning,” he said, voice tight with disbelief. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain standards in the wilderness?”
A laugh bubbled up in your chest despite yourself. You tried to swallow it. Failed tremedously.
Astarion’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You think this is amusing?”
You bit your lip, shoulders shaking. “A little.”
His expression darkened instantly, indignation flaring like a spark catching dry tinder.
“Oh, splendid. I risk life, limb, and manicure to rescue you from your own suicidal impulses, and you find it entertaining.”
You wiped at your eyes, still trying not to grin. “You broke a nail saving me.”
“Yes,” he snapped.
You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s rather heroic. We should be sure to tell Volo when we return to camp.”
He scoffed sharply, turning away as if the word 'heroic' physically offended him.
“Hardly." Astarion scoffed, eyes narrowing at his brutalised nail. "It was an act of self-preservation. If you insist on throwing yourself into danger at every opportunity, someone has to intervene before you ruin everything."
You watched him closely, warmth stirring quietly in your chest despite the lingering adrenaline. You picked yourself up off the floor and smiled at him. “You came after me.”
“Of course I did,” he said immediately. The words slipped out before he could stop them. He froze.
You raised an eyebrow and his jaw tightened. Then, almost violently, he pivoted away from the moment, anger rushing in to fill the space where something softer had threatened to surface.
“This,” he said sharply, gesturing accusingly at you with his uninjured hand, “is precisely why I cannot allow you any independence whatsoever. You are reckless, impulsive, and clearly determined to die in the most inconvenient manner possible and bring my own innocent hands down with you.”
You crossed your arms. “I had it under control.”
“You had nothing under control.”
You took a step toward him and he stepped back immediately, still glaring, still clutching his injured nail with exaggerated offense as if shielding it from you, so not to allow further damage.
“And now look,” he continued, voice dripping with dramatic despair. “Permanent damage. A tragedy. A catastrophe. Truly, history will remember this day.”
You laughed softly and he scowled harder.
“Stop smiling,” he muttered, trying to ignore the way it made his dead heart flutter.
“You’re worried about me.”
“I am worried about my manicure.” He emphasised by showing off his broken nail and pointing at it with flair. You took another step closer.
He held his ground this time, but his expression flickered—annoyance warring with something far more vulnerable that he clearly had no intention of acknowledging.
You reached out gently and took his hand, the one with the broken nail and he stiffened immediately. Looking at you like he was trying to understand what audacity had overcome you.
“You risked yourself for me,” you said quietly.
His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and guarded. He scoffed, pulling his hand back just enough to reestablish distance, retreating behind irritation like a shield.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said briskly. “I simply refuse to let you die before I’ve had the opportunity to use you for all your apparent worth.”
You smiled again and he rolled his eyes dramatically, already turning away.
“Now stay here,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Try not to endanger yourself—or my grooming routine—again.”
Gale:
The deeper chambers of the Sharran temple possessed the sort of oppressive quiet that made every sound feel intrusive, as though the place itself disapproved of living things disturbing its long-abandoned halls. The stone underfoot was cold and worn smooth by centuries of passing feet, the walls etched with the dark, elegant iconography of Shar—crescent moons, shadowed figures, and carvings that seemed to drink in the dim torchlight rather than reflect it. The air was cool and carried a faint scent of damp stone, dust, and something else beneath it all, something sweet in a way that felt distinctly out of place among the gloom.
Gale walked beside you, his hands clasped loosely behind his back in the posture he adopted when his mind was particularly occupied, his eyes flicking over the architecture with scholarly interest while he murmured half-formed observations under his breath about Sharran religious symbolism and the lingering magical residue saturating the temple. Every so often he would gesture vaguely at a carving or faded mural, clearly itching to launch into a proper lecture but restraining himself in favor of focusing on the task at hand, scouting out for Raphael's enemy.
You, meanwhile, were only half listening. Because you had spotted something far more interesting.
You stopped walking abruptly, crouching down near one of the pillars where the stone floor dipped slightly in a shallow depression.
“Gale,” you said thoughtfully.
“Hm?” he replied absently, still scanning a row of carvings along the wall.
“Look at this.”
He glanced over with mild curiosity, then saw what you were looking at. His entire expression shifted instantly from idle interest to deep, immediate concern.
Lying on the stone floor between the pillars was a spider. Not a small one either, but a thick-bodied creature the size of a boulder, its legs curled tightly inward in the unmistakable posture of death. Its glossy amber abdomen reflected the faint light of Gale’s staff. You leaned closer, resting your chin in your hand as you studied it with growing fascination.
Gale frowned.
“Why,” he asked slowly, “are you looking at it like that?”
You tilted your head. There was a scent drifting faintly from the thing—not the rot of decay, but something strangely sweet, almost honeyed, with an undercurrent that tickled the back of your mind in a way that was both intriguing and vaguely intoxicating.
“…Interesting,” you murmured.
Gale’s frown deepened. “Interesting how?”
You didn’t answer immediately; instead, you leaned forward slightly. And before Gale could process what you were about to do, you reached down and gave the spider a quick experimental lick.
There was a moment—long and terrible—of absolute silence.
Gale’s brain appeared to have completely stop functioning. Very slowly, as though afraid that moving too quickly might somehow make the moment more real, he turned his head to look at you.
“You,” he said faintly, “licked a dead spider.”
You blinked up at him.
“Yes.”
“Dead,” he repeated carefully. “Spider.”
“Correct.”
“You licked it.”
“That is also correct.”
Gale stared at you in the way one might stare at a catastrophic magical anomaly that had just appeared in the middle of the room.
“That,” he said after a long pause, “is something that happened.”
You shrugged lightly. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, exhaling in the deeply weary manner of someone whose day had just taken a deeply unexpected turn.
“I think,” he said carefully, “we need to get you some air… and perhaps have a long conversation about unresolved childhood issues.”
You snorted at that, clearly unrepentant. And then, because the thought had already taken root in your mind, you leaned forward again toward the spider.
Gale made a strangled sound. “Stop licking the damn thing!—”
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist just before your tongue could reach its intended target for a second time.
“What,” he demanded, his voice climbing an octave, “is wrong with you?”
You pouted immediately. “It tastes funny.”
“That is not a justification!”
You attempted to lean forward anyway. Gale tightened his grip instantly, hauling your arm back toward him.
“No!” Gale responded, his face twisted in absolute horror of your disposition.
“Just one more,” you insisted, pouting slightly
“For the love of Mystra, no.” Gale told you, his grip on you tightening.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I'm being dramatic?!" Gale's voice pitched up a few octaves at the accusation. "You licked a corpse!”
“It’s barely a corpse.”
“It is very much a corpse!” Gale stressed as he pulled you further away from it by your arm, and you couldn't help but giggle. And that was when Gale realized something else was wrong.
Your laughter was slightly too loose, your expression flushed in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment, and when you looked up at him your pupils were blown wide, swallowing nearly all the color of your irises.
Your breathing had quickened and there was a strange, restless energy humming through your movements that definitely had not been there moments earlier.
Gale’s stomach dropped.
“…Oh dear,” he murmured. You were still trying to lean toward the spider. He grabbed your shoulders this time and physically pulled you backwards. “No more licking mysterious temple wildlife!”
You laughed again, clearly delighted by his distress.
“Why not?”
“Because it is deeply disturbing behavior!”
But now that strange warmth was spreading through your limbs, a buzzing heat that made the air feel thick and your thoughts pleasantly fuzzy. Everything around you seemed sharper somehow—brighter, more vivid.
And Gale was holding you very tightly and standing very close.
Very close indeed.
You looked at him slowly, your gaze drifting over the lines of his face, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the soft curl of his hair falling slightly into his eyes. Gale shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.
“…Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked cautiously.
You leaned more into his touch, relaxing in his hold of you. He froze, as if suddenly realising he was manhandling you and an awkwardness settled in his chest as he suppressed his own feelings for you. Luckily, he did not have time to dwell on it as you spoke again.
“You’re very pretty,” you said sincerely.
His brain short-circuited.
“I—what?”
Then, without further warning, you leaned forward to kiss him. Gale reacted purely on instinct. He released you only for his hand to come up immediately, pressing gently but firmly against your face and pushing it to the side before your lips could reach him.
“No!”
You blinked in surprise. “…Rude.”
“You are not in your right mind,” he said softly but firmly, now holding you at arm’s length. Which did not stop you from trying again.
He caught both your shoulders.
“Stop that.”
You giggled again, clearly unbothered.
Gale’s concern was rapidly turning into full-blown alarm. The sweet scent from the spider drifted through the air once more and the pieces clicked together in his mind with horrifying clarity.
“…Succubus enchantment,” he muttered. You were still attempting to lean toward him.
“Just one kiss.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
You pouted dramatically and then abruptly attempted to dart past him—back toward the spider. Gale reacted immediately.
“Oh no you don’t.” He grabbed you around the waist and hauled you bodily away from it. You squirmed and protested loudly.
“Let me go!”
“You have already licked it twice!”
“It’s interesting!”
“It is cursed!”
You laughed helplessly, the entire situation clearly far more amusing to you than it was to him. Gale, meanwhile, was beginning to look like a man being slowly driven to madness.
“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is precisely the sort of situation wizard training does not prepare you for.”
You attempted to twist free again. So Gale did the only thing he could think of. He picked you up. Entirely.
You squeaked in shock as he hoisted you over his shoulder with surprising determination and strength.
“Gale!”
“You are coming with me.”
You kicked your legs indignantly.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
“This is kidnapping!”
“This is damage control!”
You wriggled and twisted the entire way out of the temple, attempting several times to lean down and kiss the back of his neck, which caused Gale to nearly trip more than once while he tried very hard not to think about the warmth of you against his shoulder. He had plans, a whole starry sky full of plans to woo you, you being horny from dead spider meat was not in those plans.
“Oh for the love of Mystra—stop that!”
You only laughed harder. By the time the distant glow of the campfire came into view through the trees, Gale looked like a man who had aged several years in the span of a single hour.
“You,” he declared breathlessly as he carried you toward camp, “are never allowed near enchanted wildlife again.”
You hummed happily, clearly unconvinced, and Gale sighed the long, exhausted sigh of someone who already knew, deep in his soul, that this was absolutely not the last time he would have to physically drag you away from something profoundly ill-advised.
Wyll:
The battle had turned into a storm of steel and shouting, the kind of chaos where dust hung thick in the air and every sound felt too loud, too close, too urgent.
You were in the middle of it—of course you were—boots sliding in the churned earth as you pressed forward with stubborn determination, blade flashing in the dim light. The enemy line wavered ahead of you, and you saw your chance, that tantalizing sliver of opportunity that whispered if you just pushed a little farther, just a little harder, you could turn the tide.
So you did. You pressed forward, heart pounding, ignoring the shouted warnings from behind you as adrenaline burned hot in your veins. The world narrowed to the swing of your weapon, the clash of metal, the rush of movement—
And then everything went wrong. A horn sounded somewhere to your left. Reinforcements.
More enemies poured into the fray, closing the gap around you with frightening speed, their weapons raised, their movements coordinated in a way that made your stomach drop as you realized—too late—that you had gone too far ahead.
You turned, searching for your allies but the distance between you and safety had grown. Fast.
Across the battlefield, Wyll Ravengard saw it happen in an instant.
He had been fighting with his usual flair—blade moving in clean, practiced arcs, posture straight even in the chaos—but the moment he spotted you surrounded, his focus snapped sharply into place. The easy confidence on his face hardened into something fierce and protective, his instincts screaming louder than reason.
You were in danger and that was all that mattered.
He moved, not cautiously, not hesitantly, but with the bold, sweeping urgency of a hero charging into the final act of a grand tale. He cut through the battlefield with powerful strides, parrying one blow, then another, his cloak snapping dramatically behind him as he forced his way toward you.
You didn’t see him coming. You were too busy fending off the attackers closing in around you, breath coming fast and uneven as you tried to hold your ground. Your muscles burned, your footing slipped, and for the first time, doubt flickered in the back of your mind.
Then suddenly— A strong arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
You barely had time to gasp before you were pulled sharply backward, lifted clean off your feet as the world spun in a blur of motion.
“What—!”
You collided against a solid chest, the scent of leather and smoke and something warm and familiar filling your senses as you were swept out of danger in one smooth, decisive movement.
“Easy,” Wyll’s voice said close to your ear, steady and reassuring even over the roar of battle.
You blinked, disoriented, as he carried you several long strides away from the press of enemies, his grip secure and unwavering. One arm held you firmly against him, the other wielded his blade with effortless precision, deflecting a strike that came too close for comfort.
Your heart hammered wildly in your chest.
“Wyll—!”
“I’ve got you,” he replied, calm but firm.
The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, warm and steadying in a way you hadn’t expected. He didn’t set you down immediately.
Instead, he continued moving, guiding you through the chaos with confident purpose, his hold protective without being rough, his posture straight and unyielding as he carried you toward safer ground. It felt—absurdly, impossibly—like something out of a storybook, like the kind of dramatic rescue sung about in taverns by bards who believed in happy endings and heroic gestures.
You finally found your voice.
“You can put me down,” you protested, breathless.
“In a moment,” he said smoothly. You glanced up at him, and the sight nearly stole your breath all over again.
Dust streaked across his cheek, his braids slightly dishevelled from the fight, but his expression remained composed, focused, utterly determined. There was a spark of concern in his eyes, softened by something warmer, something gentler that made your pulse stutter.
He looked like a knight straight from a romance novel. Strong. Dashing. Completely unflappable. You swallowed and you could feel your preteen self practically swooning.
“I was handling it,” you insisted weakly, if not to him, to yourself.
His mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.
“I have no doubt,” he replied, voice rich with reassurance. “But even the bravest heroes deserve a rescue now and then.”
Heat rushed to your face. He finally slowed, reaching the relative safety behind a line of fallen stone where the rest of your companions were regrouping. Only then did he lower you carefully back onto your feet, his hands lingering just a second longer than strictly necessary to make sure you were steady.
You swayed slightly. His hands tightened instinctively at your waist.
“Are you hurt?” he asked immediately, concern sharpening his tone. You are breathing quite heavily-"
"I'm fine!" You said a bit too quickly, and you took a deep breath in to steady yourself. “No. Just—startled.”
His gaze softened. “Good,” he said quietly.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. The battle still raged in the distance, steel clashing and voices shouting, but here, in the small pocket of safety he had carved out, everything felt strangely still.
You became suddenly aware of how close he was—how warm his hands felt where they rested at your sides, how steady his presence was, how easily he had carried you as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You didn’t have to be so dramatic about it,” you said, attempting to sound casual.
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his expression.
“Dramatic?” he echoed lightly.
You nodded, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in your chest.
“Yes. Very heroic. Very… theatrical.”
A soft chuckle escaped him.
“Well,” he said, releasing you at last, though his gaze lingered warmly on your face, “if I’m to be accused of anything, I would much rather it be heroism than negligence.”
You felt your lips tug into an involuntary smile.
He stepped back then, drawing his sword again as his attention returned to the battlefield—but not before giving you one last steady look, equal parts reassurance and quiet promise.
“Stay close this time,” he said gently.
And somehow, after being swept off your feet like that, you found yourself very willing to listen.
Halsin:
The forest had turned against you.
What had begun as a routine skirmish along the edge of the wilderness had spiraled into something far more dangerous, the undergrowth thick and uncooperative beneath your boots, branches clawing at your armor as you pressed forward with stubborn determination. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves, heavy with the sharp tang of sap and the distant metallic scent of blood, and somewhere above the canopy the wind howled through the treetops like a warning you had chosen, perhaps unwisely, to ignore.
You refused to retreat.
Even as the situation shifted—enemies closing in from multiple directions, the terrain growing treacherous, the ground slick with mud and scattered debris—you dug in your heels and fought harder, your breath coming fast and hot in your lungs, your muscles burning with the effort of holding your position. You could hear your companions calling out behind you, voices strained with urgency, but you blocked them out, focused entirely on the opponent in front of you and the stubborn, unyielding conviction that you could handle this on your own.
Then the ground gave way.
It happened in a heartbeat—a sudden collapse of loose earth beneath your feet, the edge of a concealed drop crumbling under your weight as you stepped forward to strike. The world lurched violently, your balance disappearing as the soil slid out from under you, sending rocks and dirt tumbling into the steep ravine below. For one terrifying instant, your stomach dropped and your arms flailed for purchase, fingers grasping at empty air as gravity threatened to drag you over the edge.
And then—
You were seized.
A massive hand clamped around your upper arm with crushing strength, halting your fall so abruptly it stole the breath from your lungs. Before you could even gasp, a second arm wrapped securely around your waist, hauling you backward with irresistible force. Your boots skidded across the unstable ground as you were dragged away from the crumbling ledge, your body lifted clear off your feet as though you weighed nothing at all.
You barely had time to register what was happening before you were pulled firmly against a broad, solid chest, your back colliding with something warm, immovable, and undeniably powerful.
“Enough.”
The word landed like a thunderclap. You froze. There was no mistaking that voice—deep, resonant, and usually so calm it carried the steady reassurance of ancient stone—but now it was edged with something sharper, something fierce and unmistakably angry.
Halsin.
He did not release you. If anything, his grip tightened, one arm locked securely around your middle while the other steadied you by the shoulder, holding you firmly in place as the last of the loose earth tumbled into the ravine below. You could feel the tension in him, the coiled strength beneath his skin, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled, measured breaths that spoke of restraint rather than calm.
You twisted slightly, still disoriented, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
“I had it,” you protested weakly, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then he turned you. Not gently. Not carefully. But firmly—hands gripping your shoulders, guiding you around until you were forced to face him directly. His expression stopped you cold. You had never seen him like this before.
Gone was the patient warmth, the soft kindness that usually lived in his eyes. In its place burned something fierce and protective, his jaw set tight, his brow drawn low, the quiet authority he carried every day sharpened into something far more intimidating.
“You had it?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate.
Your mouth opened and quickly closed again. Because the look on his face made it very clear that this was not a conversation you were going to win.
“You nearly fell,” he continued, his tone rising slightly, frustration bleeding through the calm he usually wore so effortlessly. “You ignored every warning, every signal, every call to retreat, and you placed yourself in needless danger.”
The reprimand hit harder than any blow. You blinked at him, stunned—not by the words themselves, but by the sheer force of emotion behind them.
He was angry. Not irritated or mildly concerned. Truly, deeply angry.
“I was trying to hold the line,” you said, your voice quieter now, defensive but uncertain.
“And you would have held it from the bottom of that ravine?” he shot back immediately.
The sharpness of the retort caught you off guard. He had never spoken to you like this before. Never raised his voice. Never allowed his frustration to show so openly. And yet here he was, towering over you, his hands still planted firmly on your shoulders, his grip strong enough to keep you steady but impossible to ignore.
“You are not expendable,” he said, the words landing with heavy finality. “Not to this battle. Not to this cause. And certainly not to me.”
Your breath caught. The forest seemed to go very still around you, the distant sounds of combat fading into the background as the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.
You should have felt chastened. Embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. Instead—Something warm and unexpected unfurled low in your chest.
Because there was something undeniably compelling about this side of him—the fierce protectiveness, the unyielding authority, the raw intensity of his concern. The way his deep voice rumbled with restrained anger, the way his broad shoulders squared as he held his ground, the way his presence filled the space around you like an unmovable force of nature.
It did something to you.
Your lips twitched. Then, despite every ounce of common sense you possessed— You smiled. Just a little. The reaction was immediate.
“Do you find this amusing?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.
You tried—truly tried—to school your expression into something more appropriate.
“I—no,” you said quickly, though the warmth lingering in your gaze betrayed you. His jaw tightened.
“You are smiling,” he pointed out, clearly unimpressed.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
There was a beat of silence. Then your smile widened despite yourself, a faint flush creeping up your neck as the realization settled in.
Gods. You liked this.
You liked the firmness in his voice, the way his hands remained steady and grounding on your shoulders, the protective anger burning in his expression. You liked the way he refused to back down, the way he held you accountable, the way he looked at you as though your safety mattered more than anything else in the world.
It was incredibly attractive. And he saw it.
The exact moment he realized what was happening flickered across his face—confusion first, then dawning recognition, followed swiftly by a fresh surge of exasperation.
“Incredible,” he muttered under his breath.
Your smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew softer, more open, your eyes lingering on his face in a way that made his frustration deepen rather than ease.
“You frightened me,” he said suddenly, the words slipping out rougher than before. The honesty in them made your chest tighten.
But still— You couldn’t stop looking at him like that.
Couldn’t stop the small, stubborn warmth curling in your stomach. His hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize the seriousness of his next words.
“This is not a game,” he said firmly. “You will listen when I tell you to fall back. You will trust that I am acting to protect you. And you will not throw yourself into danger simply because your pride refuses to yield.”
You nodded slowly.
“Yes,” you said trying to sound convincing, but the soft smile remained.
His eyes narrowed again, frustration simmering dangerously close to the surface.
“You are still doing it,” he said.
“Doing what?” you asked innocently.
“Looking at me like that.”
You tilted your head slightly, feigning confusion, though the warmth in your expression gave you away completely. He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to say something more.
Something harsher. Something he would likely regret.
Instead, he released you at last, though his gaze lingered, heavy and watchful, as though he fully expected you to charge back toward the danger the moment his hands left you.
“Stay close,” he ordered.
The command was firm. Uncompromising. And, to your own quiet surprise— You found yourself smiling again.
Rolan:
The explosion of magic came out of nowhere.
One moment you were locked in a tense standoff, trading careful strikes and measured spells with the enemy forces pressing in from the edges of the ruined courtyard. The air was thick with dust and the sharp tang of ozone, the ground beneath your boots trembling faintly from the force of arcane power being hurled back and forth. You had been focused—intensely so—tracking movements, calculating distance, preparing your next strike.
Then a fireball detonated against the far wall.
The blast sent a shockwave tearing through the courtyard, rattling loose stones from the crumbling masonry and filling the air with choking smoke and swirling debris. The force knocked several fighters off their feet, and for a brief, disorienting moment, everything dissolved into noise and confusion.
You staggered but kept your footing, pushing forward through the haze, squinting against the smoke, determined to regain control of the situation before the enemy could capitalize on the chaos. Your instincts screamed to keep moving, to stay aggressive, to hold the line no matter what.
Behind you, unnoticed in the turmoil, Rolan saw exactly what you were doing and he did not hesitate. The tiefling had been stationed near the rear, hands glowing faintly with residual magic, mind racing as he assessed the battlefield with sharp, anxious precision. Normally, he preferred distance, control, and careful calculation.
Normally. But then he saw the enemy preparing another spell and he saw your foolish beautiful self walking straight into its path and something inside him snapped into place with sudden, startling clarity.
You took another step forward, coughing lightly as smoke burned in your lungs, your vision still blurred from the blast. Shapes moved in the haze ahead—enemies regrouping, weapons raised—but you pressed on stubbornly, determined to finish what you had started.
You never saw the spellcaster lift their hand. Never saw the gathering surge of arcane energy coiling into a tight, deadly sphere. Rolan did, however, and his heart lurched into his throat.
“Move!” he shouted. You half-turned at the sound of his voice, confusion flickering across your face.
“What—?”
The spell was released. There was no time. No room for careful planning. No chance to think about dignity or appearances or the fact that this was very much not the sort of dramatic heroics he wanted to display for you of all people.
Rolan ran fast—faster than you had ever seen him move—boots pounding against the stone as he sprinted straight into the heart of the danger without a second thought.
You barely had time to register the blur of motion before something slammed into you from the side. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as arms wrapped tightly around your torso, hauling you off balance and dragging you bodily out of the path of the incoming blast.
The spell struck the ground where you had been standing an instant later, exploding in a violent burst of light and heat. You stumbled, disoriented, your ears ringing as the world tilted sideways.
“What the—?”
“Gods, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Rolan snapped. You blinked. Your vision cleared just enough to focus on the face inches from yours—flushed, breathless, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. But you recognised that voice of worried distain anywhere
Rolan. You stared at him. “Rolan?”
“Yes, Rolan,” he shot back, still gripping your arm with surprising strength. “Who else would be foolish enough to sprint into a blast zone after you?”
You opened your mouth and promptly closed it again. Because you were still trying to process the fact that he was holding you—firmly, decisively—dragging you backward through the chaos with a grip that brooked absolutely no argument.
You stumbled slightly as he pulled you behind a half-collapsed stone pillar, his hand tightening instinctively to steady you.
“I had it handled,” you protested weakly.
He stopped abruptly. Turned to face you. His expression was incredulous, similar to the look he had given to you back at the Last Light Inn when you said you would be the one to help him bring his sibling back.
“You were about to be incinerated.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were!” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the sharp edge of fear slipping through despite his best efforts to maintain composure. You blinked at him, caught off guard.
Before you could respond, another distant explosion rattled the courtyard, sending a fresh cascade of dust drifting down from the broken walls. Without hesitation, Rolan grabbed your wrist again and pulled you farther into cover, positioning himself squarely between you and the open battlefield.
The movement was instinctive. Protective. You couldn't help but stare.
“Since when,” you managed, still breathless, “do you charge into danger like that for someone you despise like me?”
He froze for half a second, clearly realizing what he had just done. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.
“I—well—someone had to,” he said stiffly.
You raised an eyebrow. “You tackled me.”
“I did not tackle you.”
“You absolutely tackled me.”
He bristled immediately. “I rescued you,” he corrected, drawing himself up with wounded dignity. “There is a distinction.”
You couldn’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escaped your throat. It was still surreal—being manhandled to safety by Rolan of all people, and yet here he was.
Standing close. Still holding your arm. Still breathing a little too fast. Still watching you with unmistakable concern.
“You ran straight into that,” you said quietly. His gaze flicked away for a moment, jaw tightening.
“Well,” he muttered, “you were being reckless.”
The words were defensive, but the tremor beneath them gave him away. You studied him, something warm and unexpected stirring in your chest.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
He blinked. The simple sincerity of it seemed to throw him completely off balance.
“I—yes—well,” he stammered, color creeping up his neck. “Try not to require such dramatic interventions in the future.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ll do my best.”
Raphael:
The fight had begun as so many of yours did—loud, messy, and entirely under your control, or so you believed.
Steel clashed in sharp, ringing bursts that echoed through the ruined hall, each strike reverberating up your arms and settling deep into your bones as you pushed forward with relentless determination. Dust drifted lazily from the fractured ceiling overhead, disturbed by the force of spells detonating against stone pillars and shattered walls, while the air itself seemed to hum with tension, thick with heat, smoke, and the lingering bite of magic that prickled unpleasantly across your skin. It was chaos, yes—but it was a chaos you understood, one you had learned to navigate with stubborn confidence and an almost reckless refusal to yield.
You advanced another step, breath coming hard but steady, your focus narrowing to the enemy directly in front of you. Their guard faltered under the pressure of your assault, their footing slipping slightly across the debris-strewn floor as you drove them backward with a sharp, decisive strike. Victory felt close—so close you could practically taste it—and the familiar surge of adrenaline pushed you onward, urging you to finish the fight before anyone else could interfere.
That was when the battle shifted.
It was subtle at first—a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, the faint whisper of leather against stone behind you, the quiet repositioning of an opponent you had momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment. But you were too focused, too determined to press your advantage, and the warning signs slipped past your notice like shadows in the dark.
Someone else noticed.
From the far side of the hall, just beyond the immediate clash of weapons and magic, Raphael watched with an expression that hovered somewhere between mild amusement and growing irritation. He stood perfectly composed amidst the chaos, doublet untouched by dust or blood, as though the violence unfolding around him were nothing more than an elaborate performance staged for his personal entertainment. His sharp gaze tracked your movements with unsettling precision, lingering not on the enemies themselves but on you—on the way you pressed too far ahead of the others, on the way your attention locked forward while danger gathered quietly behind your back.
He saw the blade rise. Saw the intent behind it. Saw how little time remained. A soft, exasperated sigh escaped him, barely audible beneath the din of battle.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured, voice smooth and low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like concern despite the dry humor lacing his tone. “You truly do make a habit of this and it simply will not do.”
You never saw the attack coming.
The enemy behind you moved with sudden, lethal speed, their weapon arcing downward in a clean, deadly line aimed squarely for the space between your shoulders. Your focus remained fixed on the opponent in front of you, your muscles already coiled to deliver the next strike, completely unaware of the danger closing in from behind.
Then the world shifted.
Without warning, a powerful arm wrapped around your waist, firm and unyielding, hauling you backward with startling force. Your feet left the ground entirely, the momentum of your forward motion abruptly stolen as you were yanked out of the path of the descending blade. The weapon sliced through empty air where you had been standing an instant earlier, its edge biting uselessly into the stone floor with a harsh, grating screech.
The sudden movement knocked the breath from your lungs.
“What in the hells—?!”
Your protest dissolved into confusion as you found yourself pressed against a solid, immovable chest, your back colliding with a figure who smelled faintly of musk, cherries, and unmistakable sulfur. The heat of him seeped through the layers of your armor, unsettlingly warm, and before you could fully process what had happened, a familiar voice drifted down beside your ear—silky, amused, and entirely too composed given the circumstances.
“Really,” Raphael murmured, his tone equal parts dry reproach and quiet satisfaction, “must you insist on turning every minor skirmish into a near-death experience?”
Your stomach dropped as recognition slammed into you.
You twisted immediately, bracing your hands against his chest in an attempt to push yourself free, indignation flaring hot and sharp in your chest. But his hold did not loosen. If anything, his grip tightened just enough to steady you, his arm locked securely around your middle in a way that made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of releasing you anytime soon.
“Let go of me,” you snapped, breath still uneven from the abrupt rescue.
“Mmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, as though considering the request with polite interest rather than immediate compliance. “I don’t believe I shall.”
Before you could argue further, he moved again—smoothly, effortlessly, as though the chaos of the battlefield meant nothing at all. The air around you seemed to twist and fold in on itself, reality bending subtly at the edges as he guided—no, dragged—you several paces away from the thickest part of the fighting. The shift was disorienting, the world blurring for a heartbeat before snapping back into focus as your boots touched solid ground once more.
You staggered slightly, caught off balance by the sudden displacement.
His arm was still around you. Still holding you firmly in place and entirely too close to you.
“I said let go,” you repeated, sharper this time, irritation bleeding into your voice as you struggled against his grip.
“And I heard you,” he replied calmly, unmoved. “I simply chose not to comply.”
Your temper flared. “I was handling that!”
Raphael finally released you then—but only enough for you to turn and face him fully. His hand remained on your arm, fingers curled securely around your sleeve, as though he expected you to bolt straight back into danger the moment he loosened his hold.
He regarded you with a faintly raised brow, his expression composed yet unmistakably skeptical.
“Handling it?” he echoed, voice smooth as polished glass. “My dear, you were moments away from being carved open like an overripe fruit.”
“I was not—”
“You were,” he interrupted, more firmly this time, the humor in his voice thinning just enough to reveal the steel beneath. “And while I admire your enthusiasm for dramatic heroics, I would prefer not to witness your untimely demise today.”
The words landed heavier than you expected. You crossed your arms, bristling.
“I don’t need you stepping in every time things get difficult,” you shot back, frustration bubbling over. “I’m not your responsibility. I’m not your—”
“Pet?” he supplied smoothly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a knowing smile.
Your jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
For a brief moment, the teasing expression faded, replaced by something quieter—something more deliberate and unexpectedly sincere.
“No,” he said softly. “You are not.”
The simple acknowledgment caught you off guard, stealing the sharp edge from your anger for just a heartbeat.
But before you could respond, another blast of magic struck nearby, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor. Instinctively, Raphael stepped forward again, one hand settling against your shoulder to guide you back out of harm’s way. The motion was swift, decisive, and maddeningly protective.
You jerked away, irritation returning in full force. “I can stand on my own,” you insisted. His fingers tightened briefly, steadying you as you shifted your footing.
“Then stand somewhere less likely to get yourself killed,” he replied sharply.
For a moment, the usual theatrical arrogance slipped away entirely, revealing a flash of something deeper beneath the surface—an edge of genuine concern that unsettled you far more than his teasing ever could. The faint smile returned to his lips, smooth and composed, as though the brief crack in his mask had never existed at all.
“There we are,” he said lightly, stepping back at last and releasing you completely. “Safe and sound. A much more agreeable outcome, don’t you think?”
You straightened, brushing dust from your armor with more force than necessary, your pride still smarting from the unwanted intervention.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” you muttered.
“No,” he agreed easily, hands clasped behind his back as he regarded you with quiet amusement. “You rarely do.”
A beat passed between you, the tension lingering in the air like the fading echo of thunder.
“I had it under control,” you insisted again, stubborn to the end.
Raphael tilted his head slightly, studying you with that same unsettling intensity. “Of course you did,”
You narrowed your eyes.“I mean it.”
“And I believe you,” he replied smoothly, his voice lowering just enough to carry a hint of something more earnest beneath the polished charm. A pause. Then, softer— “I simply chose not to risk being wrong.”
The words settled heavily in your chest, unwelcome and difficult to ignore. You exhaled slowly, frustration still simmering—but now tangled with something far more complicated, something you weren’t ready to name. You shot him one last glare.
“Next time,” you said firmly, “stay out of it.”
His smile deepened, slow and knowing, as though he had already made his decision long before you spoke.
“Of course, pet."
I simply could not resist doing the spider scene for gale, I know everyone else's was during battle but I just could not pass up the opportunity.
I really hope you guys enjoyed these! I have a similar concept to this in mind, but dithering on whether or not to do it for the dark!BG3 lot or the regular companions. Decisions, decisions. Anyway hope everyone is doing well 💜- Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
the bg3 community in general does NOT talk enough about how ludicrously OP gale was pre-folly and pre-tadpole.
- archmage. not an arbitrary title - awarded to 18+ level wizards. meaning he could cast spells through 9th level.
- chosen of mystra. akin to demigod-level status. slowed aging, chosen-specific abilities, direct access to the depths of the Weave, plus more.
- lover of mystra AND protégé of Elminster Aumar. privy to the most advanced Weave manipulation and magical tutelage.
imagine a situation where tav/his partner falls in battle and gale loses it. magic explodes out of him in raw waves. his grief/rage calls on the Weave without verbal control. he reduces the battlefield to cinders. blood pours out of his nose as he casts far more than his body can currently handle. his eyes glow. runes appear and disappear across his skin.
and the party remembers that oh shit. this wizard who cooked them stew and rambled about planar theory used to be a living magical weapon. and still has the capacity to be.
march (fields of mistria)/f! reader | 7.4k | read it on ao3
march has a problem. he's got this frustrating feeling coming from the depth of his chest at the lack of interaction with you. so when he's already stomped off out of the inn barely having seen you all day, his anger is tested when the face he's been dying to see greets him by his front door.
smut, dry humping, headlock, piv, thigh job, no use of y/n
i highly recommend reading this fic as well, another march/reader so incredibly well done it has me in a chokehold (hehe)
⁺₊⋆main masterlist
the weather in mistria has only just started to become bearable again.
the forge is another story altogether, searing white hot metal never giving march any respite from the high temperatures, so when the gusts of colder wind started getting more common, he took a deep whiff of the early autumn air. yeah, it's getting better now. what hasn't been getting better, though, is the heat he still felt on the back of his neck, spreading down to his chest and up into his cheeks — the shade of which could rival that of his hair when freshly dyed — every time you came by to say hi.
really, he shouldn't have stuttered that much, not when all he did was echo your own words, but there's something about the way you seem to see him that has him stumble over his words and feet, not knowing where to look first, your smile or your outstretched hand that's handing him the most perfect iron ore he's ever laid eyes on or… something even more perfect. something that he definitely shouldn't be staring at like some kind of pervert, definitely shouldn't be plagued with images of how it would feel to touch, squeeze, kiss, bite, fuck… no, he definitely shouldn't be thinking about your breasts.
despite telling himself it's probably a normal reaction to seeing someone you're deeply attracted to — though it took him an eternity to admit even that to himself — march still feels a little bit of shame, awkwardness, an unsettling bubbling at the bottom of his stomach that keeps reminding him that he's no longer just satisfied being good at what he does… no, sometimes he curses the feeling of want that bubbles up in his chest and head and… abdomen. the want that follows him for the rest of the day when he's left there trying to remember what the glob of red hot metal on the anvil is supposed to be turning into.
you seemed to have become really good at this in such a short time, at scrambling his brains to the point where he stopped knowing when his thinking got sidetracked from work, work, more work, and work again. and work is the furthest thing from his mind now, when all he's focused on is the fact that you only came by for a second, already on your way to the museum… or the mines… or fishing. he didn't register the words you chirped at him and eiland. he couldn't have, when you waved and smiled and just… looked like that.
it bothers him now that you barely breezed past him all day today, he couldn't help but wonder when you'd come by to actually talk to him so he could talk to someone other than olric and ryis that he actually enjoys being around while he's sober.
not that he'd admit it, of course. at least not quite yet.
it's already so late that the street lights have started attracting bugs, everyone has gathered at the inn, and he's scanning the room in hopes of seeing your figure mingling with the townspeople, grabbing something to eat from reina, playing along with whatever elsie may be gossiping about, or really just sitting there trying not to get lost in the endless swirling sea of chatter. but nothing. not a peep, not a glimmer of your grin at the large door. the night keeps getting more and more hopeless for march.
the crowd stays as lively as ever, and he usually doesn't mind, not when he's slowly feeling lighter and lighter, gently swaying on his feet as he hiccups and slurs along with the rest of the townsfolk when they decide it's high time for a sing-along. tonight, though, whatever drink hits his tongue feels like ash, dead and grey and horrid, making his stomach turn.
"where ya goin'?" olric looks at him, one eye open and leaning back on his chair. a dangerous choice, march imagines at least five tragic outcomes of this action.
"home. not feeling well." he rubs a hand on his stomach to emphasise his point, though he's been sour all evening, nobody could doubt him even if they were sober enough to do so. and with a halfhearted wave of his hand he turns and leaves them all behind as he walks out into the night. march gives himself exactly two seconds to feel the breeze in the air before his face returns to the scowl that so many people know on him.
an entire day has passed, he thinks while making his way back home, and you barely came by. an entire day and you gave him the same smile that you give everyone else. even eiland got the same treatment, he got to smell your very light perfume as you fluttered past them on your way west with a sword strapped to your back. now his mood sours even more.
a rock lands a few steps ahead as he's kicking it on the way to his house, focusing more on its path to avoid his mind going to other places. the places he really shouldn't be entertaining. the places where his jealousy will get the better of him. where he'll imagine the rock is eil—
"fuck!" he groans, shaking the thought out of his head, knowing it will get him nowhere other than into a spiral of jealousy and hardly covered up aggression towards everyone that speaks to him — something he knows he should work on, but not when it means admitting that he wanted to be the special one, the person you'd smile at the most, the person that could make you at least as flustered as you make him.
"march, hi!" a voice as light as the breeze stops him as he's about to forcefully push open the front door. his head whips around, ears as hot as the sand in the summer, cheeks tingling with the blush that's spreading across them with no help from the beer this time.
"h-hi."
march tries, he really does, to keep a hold on at least some of that frustration, because what's coming for him may be worse. he keeps a grip on the corners of his lips, willing them not to rise. he keeps his fists balled up, not letting himself run a hand through his hair, though there's no point in fixing it since you've already seen him in all his sweaty and messy glory.
"back so early?" you chirp, leaning against the anvil by the entrance, standing at a very comfortable distance from him. maybe a little too comfortable.
"not feeling the crowd. and you? back so late?" he nods at you, keeping one fist against the door where he froze it when you caught up to him.
"got… a little sidetracked." you chuckle, a devastating sound. "not feeling the crowd either."
he lowers his gaze, seeing the way your leg slightly wobbles, almost struggling to hold your weight. the way you still smile at him despite so clearly being hurt is enough to make his walls drop, at least until he can be mad at you safely again.
"what's up with your leg?" he asks, as cold as he can make himself be when all he wants is to kneel in front of you and fix you up if you let him.
"ah! it's fine, actually, just a sprain probably."
"a sprain doesn't bleed." march scoffs, pushing himself off the door and allowing himself a few steps towards you, where he can now see just how tightly your fingers are gripping the edge of the anvil, knuckles going pale against the dark steel. "either you walk inside with me or i throw you over my shoulder. your choice."
he watches you squirm, not that bright and cheerful anymore, not when you need to accept help. from him. a breath of relief escapes him when you let go of the anvil and hobble along with him, walking into the shop while he secures the lock after you. march should be used to seeing you here at this point. it's been the place where you bothered him the most at first, always chatting away with olric while he was concentrating on very detailed work at his desk, but at the same time trying to will his ears not to perk up every time you giggled at something his brother said. he can't have been that funny…
every so often he caught you looking over his shoulder, trying to sneak a peek at his latest project, and every time he'd go to protect it from your view out of pure habit, not thinking you would be interested in what he's doing but instead tease him for it. it feels weird to him not to try and cover up everything he's worked on this time, to just let you limp over to his chair and nearly sit, but it slides away from you, and you're falling, falling…
"done playing brave and strong?" he huffs, having lunged forward to grab you before you managed to land on the floor. you serve him a smile, a sly little curve barely visible in the darkness before the lights flicker on, but he just clicks his tongue, refusing to feel the warmth that crawls up to his cheeks. it's not fair, not fair at all how you get him flustered at the drop of the hat. it's not fair how his heart keeps hammering against his ribs, so loud in his ears, echoing so hard he's half-certain you could hear it. his grip on you tightens, and without much ceremony he lifts you up, hooking his other arm under your knees.
that might have been a mistake on his part, because as he's making his way to his bedroom — where the bed he's planning to place you on won't slip from under you — all he can smell is your scent. in his head he's seeing you breeze past him like so many times already, making him want to drop everything and follow in your every step like a puppy, the same way that he wanted to drop his hammer this morning, eiland's requests be damned…
march grits his teeth, not caring that you can so clearly hear it as your head is leaning against his chest — a feeling he knows he'll definitely revisit when he's not trying to push down the betrayal rising in his stomach — but the sight of your brilliant smile as your light steps took you away today keeps flashing before his eyes. he pushes the door open with his knee, slowly lowering you down onto the edge of the bed where you immediately sink into the mattress with your wounded leg outstretched. without a word, he reaches for the box of random stuff he got from valen a while ago where it sits forgotten on the bottom shelf.
just from a quick glance your way — another mistake on his part — he decides not to believe his eyes. you most certainly, definitely, absolutely did not just check him out. at least as far as he's ready to believe. not when he's bent over like that, his trousers maybe a little too short now, in need of fixing some stitching… no, it must have been his mind playing tricks. he feels his cheeks warm up too fast, damn it, and he hides the colour in his face in the darkness, avoiding the little lamp on his bedside table as much as he can.
he puts the box down on the bed beside you, glad to have an excuse not to look you in the eyes as he kneels down in front of you, shrugging his jacket off and throwing it over the chest at the foot of the bed before carefully taking the leg you've been sparing into his hands and examining it. not too bad, he decides as the box opens and he fishes out everything he needs, just in a very awkward place. you shouldn't be moving your foot too much as you'd most likely just keep it agitated, not allowing the wound to close properly if it doesn't get any rest. and knowing you…
"how did you manage this?" he says with a scoff.
you shift on the mattress, no doubt trying to see his careful hands working the bandage around your ankle and calf with such precision.
"stupid rock exploded too close to me." you murmur, still looking down at him, a fact he's a little too aware of now, feeling your eyes pierce his skin like a million heated needles.
"i— exploded?" he lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. but that… that may have been the biggest mistake he's made so far with you. because what meets him there is your pretty face illuminated only by the warm glow of the lamp beside you, keeping half of your face hidden in the shadow, but the side that's light? golden. like the sun itself. march has to remind himself to breathe in that moment, replaying the last few seconds of your conversation to himself as if to restart at the last chapter. "what the hell is happening in those mines?"
you chuckle, sighing once he returns to tightening the bandage on your leg. "stuff i neither can nor want to think about right now. it's… interesting down there. full of wonders. oh, and—" you reach into your pocket and take out a small, but brilliant piece of what seems to be—
march inhales sharply, nearly dropping your leg on the floor. your heel rests on his thigh as his hands fly upwards to cup the item you're handing him. the most incredible, beautiful piece of gold ore he's seen in his life. gold. actual perfect gold ore. the exact size he would need to examine on his desk, too. he takes it from your hand, gulping as your fingers brush against each other, and leans over to the light to get a better view. his breath hits your hand, something he becomes aware mere moments after it happens. his chest is pressing against your legs, face so close to your thighs he can feel the warmth radiating from your body.
he dares not move for a while. even if it kills him.
pretty sure his heart stopped there for a few moments and started again when you cleared your throat and spoke, march pulls away to move from you. he busies himself with putting the rest of the bandages into the box and crawling away to put it back on the shelf, not trusting his legs to work after this.
"so you like it?" you ask, not letting your eyes leave his figure while he's making himself not return the gaze.
"like it?" he scoffs, finally sitting on the floor in front of you. "it's perfect. it's literally in the name. perfect gold ore. i love it."
however, his face drops when that quick mind of his lands on something he doesn't want to think about anymore. was this really for him or was it as fleeting a gift as your smile that morning. he can't believe he's still bothered by it, it shouldn't matter, not when you're right here in front of him, and if he were to look at you properly instead of relying on his peripheral vision, he'd see a softer version of that same curve on your lips, this time just for him.
"well good," you lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees as he puts the piece of ore away, "because i had a feelin' you'd like it. love it, whichever. that's the only reason why i went to get it." march tilts his head to the side, raising a brow at you. "what? i really did. knew i should've gone back up to the surface at that point, at least to catch you before you go to the inn but—"
the bed barely has time to creak before march shuts you up with his lips on yours.
his hand is warm, rough, cupping the side of your head almost too tenderly, as if he's afraid you'll melt like a piece of metal on his anvil. his lips are clumsy, trying to give and take at the same time, unsure of what he actually wants to do, but luckily you're moving along with him, letting him try to kiss you with the intensity that he feels in his chest. his breath escapes into your mouth between two very needy kisses, hot and quick, and it takes a second before you're reaching behind his back and tangling your fingers into his hair.
it's hard to stop once he starts, nearly impossible, because you're responding so perfectly. because all of a sudden march's knees are digging into the mattress too, and he's pressing you down into it, caging you between strong arms flexing when he's holding up his weight on them and the knee that's slotted between your thighs. your hands, your damn hands gently go along the back of his head, making his entire body shiver and nearly collapse on top of you. he's barely holding onto the reins his own desire, the beast that's been banging on the inside of his chest for far too long to be contained now, it's demanding to be fed, demanding to get satisfaction between your bodies.
your little moan against his bottom lip almost ends him.
march is almost completely surrendered when you slide his headband off and toss it aside, making space to trail your wandering hands all over his scalp. it's nearly burning up with excitement, but fear as well. fear that he's not doing it right, that he's messing up by being too eager — something he doesn't even know how to stop at this point — but your body arches up into him regardless, and that thought simply evaporates out of his mind.
it feels natural, having your curves pressed against his body, feeling your waist under his callused palm so warm to touch. march never thought he'd get here, feeling your softness and the goosebumps on your sides. but now that he is, he's not ready to part with the sensation.
until you tug on his hair.
and he fucking groans into your mouth.
and you buck your hips upward, rubbing yourself against his thigh.
and he's sinking deeper into this spiral of want.
and sinking.
and losing his mind.
and his lips find your neck, deciding to kiss it just to feel your pulse quicken under them.
driven completely by his body moving before he has time to think, he lowers his body against yours, not completely stopping you from rutting against his thigh, but making it a little harder, in turn feeling your movements against his crotch. he's beyond saving as soon as his hips move as well. rolling with the grace he never knew he had, what may only be described as a desperate rolling of waves one over another, he's breathing hard against your neck, fighting the urge to bite you — as punishment for making him so needy. as punishment for ignoring him. as punishment for being so tantalising with your soft yet strong body and your warm neck and your pretty, pretty moans that have him scrambling to stay alive.
the heat from his body seems to be pooling in his cheeks as well as in his abdomen, that tightness that he's somewhat used to now increasing at least tenfold, overwhelming when he's rolling his hips against you, and he's certain there is only one way this can end. march can't hold it in anymore, he licks a stripe up your neck and bites down, letting himself groan against your wet skin, gripping your pliant body like he needs it to stay afloat. the pleasure is quickly taking over him, taking over any and every molecule of his being that's telling him to pull back, pull himself together, pull away and stay calm. he's done staying calm.
the way you throw your head back might just be his undoing. he's moving faster, chasing after something he thought he shouldn't want while you helplessly lift your hips to rub yourself against his leg like that, moaning and whimpering in frustration, like it's there for you as well — that finish line glowing golden behind your eyelids. march tightens his hold on your waist, lying pressed against you while your fingers tug on his hair. it's right there, he can feel it, if only he can—
the whine that leaves your lips is heavy. he's never heard a sound so powerful, and with a stutter of your hips he knows you've found your peak. the heat is even stronger in his abdomen, he presses a little harder against you, replaying that tight sound in his mind until he's cursing into the warm skin of your neck, bucking his hips like a desperate animal while release takes over him, covers his brain with wool, stuffs his ears with it, until the only things he can feel are the echo of your pleasure in his mind and the cum leaking from his oversensitive cock.
the only sounds in march's room are two breathing patterns intertwined together as you lie trapped underneath him.
somewhat tentatively, your hand leaves the messy strands of his fiery red hair to glide down between his shoulder blades. he shivers at the tenderness with which your fingers touch him, sliding just under the fabric of his shirt to feel the muscles underneath. he should move. he really should. he should get off you and make sure he doesn't catch your leg that should be resting, get cleaned up… should he help you clean up as well? probably, maybe it would be the nice thing to do when he just used your body to get off, even if it is in his pants.
but you just keep… holding him there. not pushing him away, not making him get off you once you got your fill too, so he just tries to… lean into it. he lets go of your waist and instead digs his hands under your body to embrace you and hold you against him. he hasn't done that before, and yet the touch feels familiar. like something he's been craving but didn't know it. like something he might even be able to get used to.
but it soon comes to an end when you squirm underneath him, adjusting your hips so he's not crushing you completely.
"can you… i need to take these off." you request, and it takes him a moment to realise you mean your underwear. oh. he scrambles off you, cursing as he knocks the edge of the bed with his foot, and he helps you sit up. as he stands there in front of you he can hardly look away, not when you pause with your fingers hooked under the waistband of your pants, not when you chuckle and continue the movements anyway, not when he can feel the wet patch on his pants, not even when he gets hard again, only minutes after blowing his load to the feel of you.
"you're just gonna—" he starts, but one look at your smirk only tells him he should be making a move himself.
"are you not gonna give me something to change into?"
he's forgetting where his clothes are, where his mind has gone, where he is. quickly, he grabs the first thing he can reach, a change of clothes that should be okay for you, but there's no way he's letting you walk out of here, at least not tonight. wounded leg and all, of course.
you've already changed into his clothes by the time he decides he probably should've looked away, the blush on his face may as well be permanent, the way it creeps back as soon as he shakes off the dream-like feeling that wraps around his body and mind every few moments. wow, you must think he's some kind of a loser, the way he reacted as soon as you told him you had done something for him just because. and he might be… he very well might be. an absolute loser, who can't think much further than how he's going to do that with you again, get you to touch him like you just did, gently caressing his back like you don't want to ignore him and breeze past him in the mornings.
"come on." you murmur, and he notices that you've already got yourself into his bed.
into it. not on. covered with his duvet, pushing your hair to the side as you lie down on the cold white pillow.
"you want me to—" he points at the empty space behind you, and you wreck him by giggling.
"i'm not going home tonight, march." you say as if it's the most normal sentence in the world. "and i'm not sleeping on the floor. neither are you, come on."
march moves in slow motion.
his steps are a line of half-remembered movements that somehow lead him to the edge of the bed again. he grumbles as he takes his shirt off, throwing it over the jacket on the chest at the foot of the bed, following it by his pants and underwear that he replaces when he turns around to not risk you taking an accidental glance. almost naked, almost completely bare, he slides under the covers and immediately faces away from you, but there's no escaping the feeling of your body so close to him. surely there's no way he got addicted to feeling your touch after only a few minutes… surely, it must be something else, it must be the weather getting into the real autumn mood, the air cooling down enough to where he's going to have to think about wearing actual clothes to bed instead of barely covering himself in order to not soak the sheets with sweat.
then he feels the duvet shake a little as your body shivers.
"what was that?" he murmurs, half turning to your side of the bed. well, his side, but yours for the night.
"what?" you ask, pulling the covers over you a little tighter.
"you're cold?"
"yep."
he sighs, trying to find a way out of this. there isn't a spare blanket, but he could give you more clothes. he's about to get up and hand you some when your hand closes around his.
"come closer."
now a shiver runs down his spine. march turns his head and sees you curled up on the side of his bed, so still, odd when he's used to you fluttering around town always on your way to the next thing. but you're gently pulling him a little closer — and he gives in.
his body slots against yours like a puzzle piece.
march tries not to breathe as he lies down again, his chest pressed against your back, very keenly aware of the softness of your ass against his crotch. still hard. unlikely to go down soon. or ever. you don't let go of his hand, instead leading him to drape his arm over your torso, leaving his palm to just… sort of dangle there. halfway between your navel and your chest, and march knows where he'd rather have it — if he were brave enough, of course. still, he keeps a little bit of distance between his face and the back of your head, just so he's not forced to inhale your scent and get lost in it all over again. it has to get easier, he can't be aware of every heartbeat in these four walls forever.
"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses you, huffing as he flexes his fingers across the slightly uncovered skin of your stomach, "enjoy playing with my feelings?"
your laugh is quick, soft, and completely disarming.
"stars forbid a girl wants some body heat from a cute blacksmith."
march shakes his head, refusing to let the corners of his lips quirk up at that. "cute?"
"aren't you?" he can hear the smile in your voice. you're bold. toying with him like this when he doesn't even know where he stands with you… or even himself.
"shouldn't you tell me that?"
"i wouldn't do this… with just anyone, march." he rolls his eyes at you. "i'll tell you again… in the morning when i'm not as… tired." your voice keeps trailing off, so he knows you must be telling the truth, you're surely about to pass out any second now, what from the exhaustion of mining, what from the drop in adrenaline of… he chases the memory out of his head.
"sure. good night." march closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the images of you. you from just a few minutes ago, arching into him seeking release. you from earlier tonight, smiling at him like you're ecstatic to have run into him before he made it to bed. you from this morning, smiling at him — and only him in his head — as you waved and hurried off to find something to gift him. sometimes he feels like an absolute idiot, pining in silence and torturing himself instead of just laying it out there and giving you a chance to accept him as he is — flustered, clueless, and desperately horny for you.
march can feel your breathing slow down as the clock ticks on.
he's already used up his bravery for the day — hell, maybe even a month — but your skin is so warm he can't resist but slowly move his hand until it's resting above your heartbeat. there's something soothing about it, the rhythm even and constant, that makes march's head feel lighter, lighter, lighter as he rests with his eyes closed and finally decides he can let go of consciousness.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
the door to march's bedroom open with a loud creak.
olric stumbles into the room, apologising to the hinges, the floor, the wall, and march takes those few seconds to snap out of the initial panic and… panic even more once he realises you're still in his bed. that wasn't a dream, and he can't have his brother finding out about it, even if he is completely wasted by the sounds of it.
"h-hey march!" he slurs, half-yelling as he holds onto the door frame. "ya missed out! ha, reina mixed sum stuff an' let m' be her guinea pig!"
in a moment of sheer desperation, march tries to cover you up as much as possible, shielding you from view with his body and the covers. your soft, cold hand rests on his forearm where it presses against your neck, and only then does he realise he's got you in a headlock. but… you're not pulling it away. if he could show his reaction to you, he might even be shocked, albeit a little aroused as well, but you're holding his arm like this is the best placement for it.
"what the shit?" march mumbles, louder than intended. thankfully, olric took it as a reply to him.
"he-hey man, tomorrow! you gotta come t'morrow! don't ca— oh damn," he stumbles, barely saving himself from the fall by grabbing onto the door knob, "care if yer stomach hurts you goooootta come!"
you're quiet, march has to give you credit for it, but your pulse is quickening under his forearm, and it's doing something to him. he's getting uncomfortably hard, the bulge in his underwear precisely pressing against your body, the feeling of which is not helping him right now. march can feel your smile widen, the muscles on your cheeks shifting and he reflexively tightens his hold on you, saying this is not the moment. but you've never been one to listen.
with slow, barely there movements, you're lowering your hands under the covers and march has to try and move along with you to not put unnecessary attention to what's really going on in his bed.
"olric, leave me alone, i was just about to fall asleep." march grumbles, loud enough to cover up the sound of fabric being dragged along the sheets. you've successfully taken off the clothes that he gave you earlier. oh he's done for. rock hard and in a pickle, trying to be loud enough for his brother to not hear, but not loud enough to draw attention to his movements. "we'll talk tomorrow, just… let me sleep." his arm flexes against your neck, bicep twitching on your cheek to try and warn you, but you don't stop. instead, you're already shifting, hand reaching behind you to brush against his aching bulge, and he's doing all he can — which is really nothing — to stop himself from bucking into your touch.
he recalls the feeling of your pliant body as he was grinding his hips against you, your hands tugging on his hair, your moans… he needs it all again, but this time he's not sure he could be satisfied with just that. it's a slippery slope, having you here freshly undressed and looking for trouble, because you're already reaching into his underwear, wrapping that cold hand around his cock. his brother is apologising to the door for bumping into it again, but march can't even roll his eyes at it because fuck you feel so good, slowly stroking him so good he's instinctively pressing closer against you in search for more of your warmth. you're so soft, his cock is flush against your ass now and it takes him more self-control than he has available to stop himself groaning against the back of your head.
"you said sumthin?" olric murmurs, finally having finished his conversation with the door.
"no!" march exclaims, too loud, too panicked, "just go…" he can't take it anymore, not with your gentle hand guiding him, your legs parting slightly, your… your damn wet pussy just perfect as he nudges it with his tip when you release his cock. march is so gone, head swimming with desire, with the wish to feel you but also punish you for being such a temptation for him. for making him act like a fool, for making him scramble to make up a believable lie to his brother, for making him panic and try to hold you as close to his body as possible to not get found out, for enjoying his arm around your neck holding you in place.
his reward for holding out this long is just a touch away now, and all march has to do is to angle his hips a little, trying to be inconspicuous and not make a damn noise. it's proving to be more difficult than anticipated, especially when he feels your breath hitch, a dainty little huff against his forearm that he reflexively tightens and groans to cover up the sound of your moan.
"'m gonna go t' bed now," olric announces, to which march can't help but sigh in relief, "but… one more thing…"
march can't do it anymore, he nudges your soft folds apart, olric be damned, and now he finds himself in the warmest, softest dream he's ever had. his arm is tight around your neck, a warning not to be loud, and your hand rests on his forearm, as if grounding you while his cock sinks into you, pushing into your slippery, squishy cunt.
"… i know yer all sulky today because of the farmer not comin' by. 's a little obvious…" olric continues, and march can hardly take in half of his words as he's struggling to stay afloat while your pussy squeezes him as you adjust. "give 'er a break, march… she's doin' her best, so… maybe be nicer to 'er, yeah?"
march breathes heavily against the back of your head, pressing you into his chest as he tries to get enough breath to speak.
"yea. fine." he squeezes through his teeth. "good night."
without another word, but with plenty of stumbling noise, olric closes the door to march's room and leaves you all alone again.
"be…" you start, straining against his forearm, "nicer to me, huh?"
march huffs. you've made it all but easy for him. tonight and all the times before, with your fleeting smiles and offhanded touches, with your gifts and your attention and your goddamn teasing. he moves his hips now, slightly pulling back before snapping them forward like he's been dying to do to you.
"you liked that, did ya?" he grunts into your hair, holding you in place as he takes you like he wants. "liked bein' a menace while my brother was here? liked makin' me work extra hard to be quiet?" his hips snap forward again, this time not giving a shit if you squeal or not… in fact, hoping you do. "or did you wanna get caught?"
the noise you're making has him roll his eyes as your warm walls squeeze around him, making his hips stutter while he's moving them, repeatedly thrusting into you. his anger is bubbling up, frustration growing thicker in the air as he fucks into you, harder, harder, snapping quick punishing thrusts into your cunt like it doesn't matter that his heart is racing. because you will be the end of him with how well you take him. the pulses of your squelching cunt — and now he doesn't give a damn that you're noisy — the tiny little whimpers as your nails dig into his forearm, everything about you screams to him that you're right where you want to be, fucked out of your mischievous mind on his bed.
now, when the danger is gone, when the door to his room is shut, when the creaking of the bed is only between the two of you, he grunts and curses against your ear, baring his teeth as the tip of his cock hits a beautiful spot in you, the spot that has you whimpering into the darkness.
march really has no idea what he's doing. all that his mind and body are agreeing upon is that he simply has to keep fucking you as long as you're making those sounds and clenching around his shaft like that. and for now, that's all he needs to keep him thrusting. the symphony of your choked little breaths and stuttered curses keeps his rhythm steady, keeps his mission clear even when his brain is chock-full of static, the electricity sparking in the code of your name.
it's infuriating, the power you have over him, how he wants to have you even when you're doing your best to bring him down to his knees like he was mere hours ago when he wrapped your leg in bandages, to make him flustered like every time you say hi in that stupid giggly tone that leaves him stunned for a full minute.
a harder thrust, a higher pitched whine. he's enjoying turning the tables on you, now you're the one who can't even form a word that doesn't sound like his name, you're the one blushing and begging and tightening with every pointed thrust of his thick cock into your spongy walls, like you're trying to keep him there forever. oh how it feels to have the higher ground now, he grazes the shell of your ear with his teeth, just as he feels the pressure in his abdomen get impossible to handle without breaking into pieces. he won't choke you any tighter, though you sound like you're exactly where you're supposed to be — on the precipice of pleasure with him stuffed inside you.
"f-fuck march i'm gonna—" the sweetness of your moan mixed with the filthy slapping sound of his hips on your flesh makes for a concoction that march will never be able to get out of his head.
he shakes out of a haze at your words, gritting his teeth against the side of your head. "yeah? fuck… you're that filthy are you? getting off to me puttin' you in a headlock?" he struggles to taunt you any more, being so damn close himself. he's losing the thread, all the words he wants to say just turn into a long string of fuck please please need you in his mouth. your soft hand leaves its place on his forearm, reaching down between your legs to rub little circles on your swollen clit, something he heard felt good from juniper's countless tipsy lectures at the inn. seems like something actually stuck in march's head, because he's feeling the effects of your movements in the fast fluttering of your perfect pussy around him.
march is so close to tumbling over the edge with you when your entire body shudders and he feels his cock get coated in slick, warm release, fucking you through it all. you're moaning more softly now, all satisfied as you pulse for him, curses slipping from your lips like praises. he groans one last time as you squeeze around him and pulls out reluctantly, keeping his cock between your warm thighs as he thrusts between them, whispering nonsensical babbles and finally… finally letting go. orgasm wrecks him like a carriage, knocking him sideways as you squeeze your thighs together and his tip spills pearlescent white cum between them. he fucks your thighs all through it, stuttering in his rhythm as he feels more and more weightless, loosening his arm around your neck.
everything goes quiet.
save for your heartbeats.
there's no other sound that echoes in march's head, no other distraction from the feeling of your soft, sweat-slicked skin against his. he flexes his hand, until then tightly balled into a fist, and glides it down your torso, almost as if making sure you're really there and it hasn't been a sick trick of his imagination. your breathing gets a little deeper once your neck is free of the pressure of his forearm, and it takes only a few moments for your hand to reach his, resting atop his rough palm. it's no longer cold like it was when you reached for him to come closer, now it feels like comfort.
march is not thinking clearly. he presses his lips against your bare shoulder, instinctively trailing kisses up to your neck like he knows on some level it would beat with the rhythm of your heart and he would be able to tell that you don't regret this. he needs to know you don't regret this.
"march…" you begin, and he freezes. "not to be a pain, but… i don't wanna lie in a puddle of your cum."
he blinks the haze away, then blinks again, registering what you said. "my…"
"march—" you snicker, body shaking against his chest while his hand rests on the top of your thigh, gently squeezing, not even realising he's doing it. damn, the way you say his name in the bliss of pleasure does damage to his heart, stabbing it with arrows adorned with feathers of your voice, devastating him to the point he wants to make you cum again, and again, if anything just to hear that noise again.
"right… sorry." he pulls back, gasping as his softened cock slips from between your thighs, slick with your release. "but i'm not doing that now."
he can tell you're about to protest, but before you get the chance he grips you tighter and flips you over his body to the other side of the bed where you land unceremoniously, holding onto his forearms. once you're settled again, he pulls you into his chest, warm like you never left. like an overgrown cat, reluctantly accepting affection, he glides his other hand up and down your side, in what seems almost unconscious movements. it feels nice under his fingertips, though, the softness of your skin so different from the tools he is used to.
"gross." you wrinkle your nose and he really can't care less about the puddle currently drying on the other side of the bed.
"you're gross." he murmurs through what can maybe even be classed as a smile. a sweet, soft little curve of his lips as he buries his face into the back of your head. at least until the morning.
march doesn't think about what will come after. not about the explanation for why he's keeping olric staring at something on his desk while you take the chance to sneak out of the house, not about the annoying wash he will need to do to clean the sheets, not even about how the hell he will be able to function around you knowing about what you did tonight. instead, he thinks about tonight, not about tomorrow. all of that will happen at some later point, after he's done taking this moment and finally understand that he is special. at least a little bit. at least to you.
♡ if you enjoyed this, consider leaving a like, reblog, or a comment. interaction helps keep your writers motivated! also, feral or any other comments keep me giggling and kicking my feet, and you really want to do that i think.
♡ dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/cursed-carmine
⁺₊⋆ @pixelcafe-network
Description: when you're suddenly put out of commission by a(open ended) sickness, March decides to take that news as you slacking off and faking it. Only, when he sees you, his actions instantly betray his first impression.
Warnings: not proof read and might be faster passed near the end(I'm so tiredd..)
Notes: tagging cause I was told to :)) @cozydelaney
It was just another day. You had fed your animals, watered your crops, checked the request board, and even managed to finish Elsie's request for berries.
It was just another day.. So why were you suddenly opening your eyes in Valen's clinic..?
The sound of murmurs where heard from the other side of curtain. You could only barely manage to make the voices out to be Olric and Valen, but despite that, you still couldn't decipher what either was saying.
Things started going by in flashes. Valen talking to you.. Olric giving you a thumbs up... And then you were alone.... You were confused, but could also somehow understand that you should probably just stay in the medical bed and rest..
But you had so much to do. What if you didn't manage to put your animals back away tonight? Plus you had some request items in your bag that just needed to be handed over to the respective villagers-
Suddenly Valen walked in from out side, heading towards the counter only to turn to you in slight surprise.
"Ah- You're awake. Good." Valen said, now walking to your side as she began to explain what happened.
"You passed out outside the general store. I've subscribed you some medication, but also highly recommend getting a lot of rest this week." She said, flipping through a clip board she had just picked up from beside you.
Valen kept talking to you for a while. Answering any questions you had about your situation, how you got there, and more details on what needed to be done so you could get back to helping the town a lot faster.
You were very grateful that Mistria had a doctor like Valen. She was kind, took the time to explain things, and she didn't treat you like you were completely stupid. But right now, the thing that you were by far the most thankful about her for, was that she kept everything confidential.
Because barely a second after Valen had answered your last question was when the town's grumpy blacksmith decided to barge into the clinic. The door being swung open took you so off guard that you let out a brief yelp of a gasp, only for you to sigh out in reluctant understanding when you realised it was March standing in the door frame.
Valen was quick to stand, walk briskly forward, and close the privacy curtains around your bed before promptly asking March what he needed.
After a strangely long pause, March finally spoke on his reason for entering the clinic. "I'm here to check on the Farmer." He said, making your face heat up in a strange mix of endearment and slight anger. Why could he admit that, but never thank you to you face-
"If they're too sick to do my request I need to know." He said, adding it on a fair bit too quickly to sound casual.
You desperately wanted him to leave or for Valen to turn him away from getting to see you. March seemed more volatile then usual, and you didn't feel like being sick and vulnerable in front of the one guy in town that was adamant about hating your guts.
"I see." Valen said, a silence falling on the room for a moment before Valen spoke again. "You can't see them right now. I need to finish my consultation. But you are welcome to wait outside and I'll call you back in later." She said, and you were so grateful that Valen essentially said 'no', because you highly doubted March would wait outside for you both to be done.
But alas, once both you and Valen had covered all the bases, she went outside to check if March was still there.. Only for her to return with a very annoyed looking Blacksmith.
You were filled with dread the moment you heard March and Valen talking once back inside the clinic. The fact that March had stayed outside was a complete twist, and the moment Valen had opened the curtain you managed out a weak smile at the two of them.
"Hey March." You said, and March's face looked like he had seen a ghost.
You have no clue what March was seeing from your state, but you were quite sure it was a fair bit exaggerated. He stumbled back slightly as Valen walked closer to you, asking you a question you yourself would've stumbled from if you were standing.
"Are you okay with March walking you back? Remember, you're only to put your animals away, take your medication, and go straight to resting." She said, eyeing you as you sort of just sat there in shock. March seemed to be under the same affect, not so much as fumbled backward again, but his frown definitely gave him away that he wasn't made aware that he might be walking you back to your farm.
"Uh- Okay.." You said after a few more beats of silence passed. And before you knew it, you were being helped up onto your much weaker feeling legs by Valen before being handed over and held steady by March - who frankly acted like he had just had a piece of glass thrown at him to carry.
You both bumbled about awkwardly, neither of you wanting you to fall or lose your balance, but also not being very comfortable being led and leading.
It took some time, but eventually the river and bridge leading to your farm to came into view. It was right then when you finally questioned why March was still half cradling you, not that you minded it too much.. But at this point you definitely felt you could walk on your own.
"I can head back on my own from here." You let out, trying your best to sound reassuring and confident instead of all flustered like you still sort of were.
"No. Valen said I'd walk you to your farm.." March retorted, trailing off a bit near the end as you looked up at him in disbelief just as he looked away.
"March, I can walk. It's not too far from here and my legs feel much better now-" You started out, only for March to speak up against you in defiance. "No. I'm not having you pass out when there's no one around to carry you back to Valen. If you can walk on your own, then fine. But I'm still walking you the whole way." He said, steadily letting go of your shoulder and upper arm before simply walking the rest of the way beside you.
This new behaviour from March was strange, and only got exceedingly stranger when you got to your farm.
First you went to put your animals away, only for March to near speed walk past you and get all your animals inside in record time(while also making you question if you'd need to get new bells for your barn and coop now..).
It left you standing by the crops in front of your house in absolute gobsmack, only for March to walk back up to you. "Okay, what's next?" He asked, leaving you near speechless as you quietly mentioned just needing to take your meds now and rest.
And that's exactly what you were forced to do, thanks to this strange new version of March.
"You swallowed them?" March asked from your kitchen as you sat on you couch with now only half a glass of water left. "Yeah." You called back, still dumbstruck about the fact March was armament he was cooking you dinner.
He was back to being snappy and much more March-like now, but that only happened after you tried to politely hint that he can leave and go back home. Instead, he was straight to raiding your fridge, getting you a glass of water, and handing you the correct dosage of your new meds.
Then he asked you what you wanted for dinner, and got straight into making it.
By the time he was done with the meal and you were about to take your first mouth full of food, you suddenly questioned where his plate was when you turned to see him leaving. "Bye then. See you tomorrow." Was all you heard before he shut the door and left you sitting there in utter confusion.
It was only once you had done the dishes and were now in bed when you finally realised what March had said. 'See you tomorrow'.... What? ......No.. Surely not.... Right?
But sure enough, March showed up at your door the next day, asking for your watering can before tending the fields..
And then he fed, pat, and let all the animals, out...
And then he made you breakfast..!
You didn't dare bring up this strange new behaviour, at least not that day, because sure enough, that whole next week of you being sick was filled with March showing up at your door.
"I've done your animals and crops, now have you damn meds!" March said, not fully shouting, but definitely loosing his temper.
You were at the point of hating the sensation of needing to swallow pills in order to get better. Why couldn't your dragon bestie just give you magic to cure being sick??
"I don't want to!!" You argued back, wanting nothing more than to be better already.
"I'll get you ice cream if you swallow the damn thing before I'm back from watering your crops." March said, getting up from your bed and heading outside to do said watering.
After the third day of showing up, March made it very clear that he was going to be helping you out, but you were still a bit confused as to why. Reluctantly swallowing your meds with water, you thought back on the March that always made a dig at you. It wasn't as if March had stopped making off handed comments, but they were much tamer, and he was always searching your face to see if he pushed it too far.
You didn't really miss that March, but you were also scared that this March would only be around when you were sick.. And you were really growing to enjoy this side he was showing.
He was still rough around the edges, but he would put so much care, effort, and strangely enough, understanding into the things he'd help you out with.
It was mostly just your farms manual labour tasks, but he'd also always cook you something. Not to mention, he'd always check if you'd had your meds, and after the day you almost forgot to take them, he started showing up first thing to make sure you had them on time.
Finally, the conflicting day arrived that you were given the all clear that you could get back to helping everyone out and doing your farm work again. And instead of your fears coming to fruition, they were trampled that moment March ruffled your hair and gave you a look of absolute pride.
Please more of Eiland , Balor , and March with the mythological creatures au 💔 it’s sooooo good 🫶🫶🫶🫶
ᯓ★ SYNOPSIS. part two of sorts for the mythological au ! part one is here.
ᯓ★ STARRING. balor , march , eiland , caldarus
ᯓ★ CONTENT. balor being slightly possessive
ᯓ★ A/NOTE. not sure how I'm supposed to do a part two, but I hope this turned out well. Added Caldarus because I like him <3
ᯓ★ FAE BALOR
☆ You won't see Balor a lot, but he's there. As a fae, it's kind of in his nature to avoid your sight, so spending time with him requires planning. He always makes sure you know he's there though.
☆ He leaves you candies and pastries, or flowers, or literal gold and gemstones, rare artifacts, seeds, a random piece of glass he liked... He leaves you a million little gifts everywhere so you can have them. All of them are left with a note that has only the word gift or free on it.
☆ He has a space where he keeps everything you give him. He even kept some food you gave him there, until he realized it would mold... But everything that can't go bad, he has shelves and tables to put them on. He wants to display all of it!
☆ He wants everything you give him. When you spend time together, he'll keep staring at your hands until you take the hint, or he'll slowly lean into you. Fae aren't very touchy, Balor is included, but he loves it with you.
☆ He wants your name.
☆ He wants it so bad it hurts. He still carefully shuts you up every time he feels you about to say it near him, but he wants it. He hasn't told you his name either. Never has he taken another creatures name, despite his kin pushing him to do so, and never has he shared his own.
☆ He knows the kind of power names have. But he wants it. He'll whisper his name into your ear one night to show you that you can trust him, and while you clearly don't understand what it means, his heart is beating so fast he's scared he'll be sick.
☆ He's very sweet. Well, to you. His fellow fae are horrified that he would give his name to a human. Have you possessed him or something?
☆ Balor finds he doesn't mind that you have so much power over him, regardless of the whispers. You've stopped saying your name around him because of his explanation, and he hopes you understand what him giving you his name means.
☆ He wants you to give him yours, one day, by your own choice.
ᯓ★ SIREN EILAND
☆ Wants to be with you all the time! Once you learn he's technically a merfolk prince, you hesitate about how much time he spends with you. But he insists they don't need him, his sister is plenty capable!
☆ He'll use his own scales to make you jewelry, as well as seaglass and shells he finds deep in the water. You have quite a collection of incredibly rare artifacts and gemstones that he's found at the bottom of the ocean. The kind of bottom of the ocean that humans simply can't reach, even with the aid of machines.
☆ Will absolutely insist on seeing pictures or books with more human artifacts. In fact, he loves learning your history! He has so many questions about the wars and eras of humans. And of course, he'll tell you all about the merfolk as a trade.
☆ Sometimes he'll sing for you. He now knows that it makes you unaware, desperately pushing your way towards the source of the sound (him!! he loves loves knowing you want him so badly). Of course, he doesn't want you hurt and always makes sure that he's away from the water, and he keeps a hold of you the entire time.
☆ He might bring you different kinds of merfolk foods. You can't eat any of them. It's either raw and riddled with disease, or it's simply toxic to humans. But he's determined to find something you can eat.
☆ Will absolutely let you touch him to study if you want to. Want to feel his scales? The skin between his fingers? Measure the length of his tail or fins? Absolutely! He will want to return the favor with your legs though.
☆ He can't hold hands. The skin between his fingers that help him swim faster simply won't allow it. Merfolk usually intertwine their tails. You don't have a tail for that, and he doesn't have fingers like you for human rituals.
☆ He's very upset about that. He will pout at you.
☆ He's practically a conscious metal detector. If you lose anything on the beach he will find it very quickly, and if you lose something in the water he'll find it for you. No worries!
☆ He wishes he had a camera, after you explain them to him. He hates that you can't breathe underwater, and that he can't walk. Wouldn't it be nice if he could show you around the city? Introduce you to his sister? She's so shy with humans... Or, even better, he could see your town!
☆ He's heard his parents talking about a witch who has moved closer to the castle city... He doesn't think it would hurt to see, right?
ᯓ★ SELKIE CALDARUS
☆ He gives you his skin.
☆ It's probably faster than someone who is nearly last of his kind should've, but it's so easy to let you have it. And sure, he could've kept it for himself, but it's easier to let you have it. Besides, someone could take it from him any day. It's better you have it than some stranger. He's seen that you're a good person firsthand, too.
☆ In his human form, he likes draping it around you. Whenever he's with you, whether it's out on a shoreline or at your couch, he'll take the skin and wrap it around your shoulders. He loves the way it looks on you. And it's warm, too, and so soft.
☆ He'll insist on going swimming somewhere remote all the time. He'll take his seal form and let you hang onto him so you can both just float on the water. Isn't it nice? He's a very powerful swimmer. It doesn't matter how far out you get, he can still bring you safely back to shore.
☆ Hasn't spent much time with humans. He's pretty ignorant to what food they eat, how to date someone, etc. You might have to show him. He's eager to learn!
☆ He loves rubbing his nose against yours. He does it regardless of which form he takes. He'll wrap his arms around your head so your face is close to his and do it. Introduce him to kissing, and he'll do the exact same thing. Wrap his arms around your head to have you as close as he can while he kisses you, and he'll stay there as long as you let him.
☆ He avoids touching anyone else, but he's all over you. He loves the warmth of your skin, especially against his own, and will touch you whenever he can. A hand on your lower back, his hands on your hips, and his face pressed against your neck... He's addicted to it.
☆ In his seal form, he'll do little other than just flopping on top of you and laying there. That, in the sun? His favorite pass time.
☆ Sometimes he will refuse to go to any body of water. He never tells you why, and he never let's you go close to it either. He just tells you it's for the better, with a disgusted look on his face. It's safe to assume your town might not have only one selkie.
ᯓ★ VAMPIRE MARCH
☆ Most of the time, you'll be the person who seeks him out. Sometimes you bring him metals and ores, sometimes just human food that you secretly eat yourself to help him hide his identity. He still doesn't understand why, why you bother helping him. You're meant to hunt creatures like him. And yet, you're here, helping.
☆ March will handle the metals that burn his skin without gloves, on occasion, whenever some hunters or other blacksmiths stop by. It helps him hide his secret. No vampire would be dumb enough for that, right? It takes a lot to heal the burns though, and he certainly doesn't eat enough to do so. Make a display about scolding him for being so careless, working with metals, without gloves! What if he gets burnt, or cuts himself, or hits himself with a hammer?
☆ He grumbles about it being a hammer. But now, the rest of the guild will laugh at him and remind him to wear his gloves whenever he tries to go without them, with passing joke about him worrying his lover. The thought makes his heart stutter — but you've certainly made his life a lot easier by doing that.
☆ The entire guild thinks your dating. You being worried that he doesn't use his gloves? You're scared of your boyfriend getting hurt! Actually, no, you're just not in the mood to be super dizzy from blood loss.
☆ You bringing him food whenever he works so long before a heist? You're just taking care of him and being a good lover. In reality, you've already had your portion for the day and wanted extra. You know March can't eat it, so you get it instead. It's a ploy for extra food on your part, and helps further the March-is-a-human agenda on his.
☆ The two of you mysteriously disappeared for some time during the day, or people seeing you sneak into each other's rooms? Everyone is passing around jokes about how March should keep it in his pants during work, or joking around how being active is good for you. Really, it's just so March can feed. It's easier on you if he does it frequently in small amounts, after all.
☆ He... doesn't understand why you never argue against the rumors. Or why you shoot him that look to meet him in the bathrooms, where you'll press a hand against his forehead and tell him he looks pale. That he should eat. Or why you bother going over to him outside of any reason to feed him. Why you just sit there while he works talking.
☆ It's hard for him to process the fact he cares so much for a human. Again. He hates it. Hasn't he learnt his lesson the last time it happened?
☆ It's an accident — when he doesn't notice the signs of alcohol in you before it's too late, and you're both sitting pressed against the wall of some hallway, giggly and drunk. He doesn't mean to tell you about how much he misses his family, how much he hates his brother for being a dumb human, for leaving him. He's crying before he knows it, and then your arms are wrapped around him.
☆ He's pressing his lips against yours before he knows what he's doing. He's shifting to get closer, pressing himself as close as possible, sighing when you wrap your arms around his neck. Let's his own wrap around your waist. You can feel his fangs there, on occasion, but he never bites. Never even thinks of moving his mouth to anywhere other than your lips. He doesn't even bother moving when someone walks past you, whistling.
☆ He hopes you don't regret it, later. He knows he won't.
♡ CONTENT. mentions of violence, forced slavery and manipulation. modern au of sorts. not really accurate depictions of mythological beings. maybe mildly suggestive for some of them, but it's a big maybe.
♡ A/NOTE. idk I just really wanted to write balor as a fae and eiland as a siren
♡ BALOR... as a fae
♡ Balor is a very successful fae. He gets his hands on just about anything, and everything one could want through means unknown even to his fellow fae. It's easy to make humans think they're being given a gift, binding them to him until he no longer wants them.
♡ Really, it isn't even his fault. Your kind should know better by now, after so many decades of woven and spoken warnings.
♡ He's enchanted when you give him gifts instead. When you trade what he gives you for something else, a fair trade, or when you leave gifts like food or trinkets at the place you've made just for him.
♡ You're just too cute, leaving him so many things. Really, he is weak to things with a bit of sparkle to them. Oh, and he does love savroury treats like that. And when you take note of what he takes, and leave more of those?
♡ Knowing you pay so much attention to him.. He's never liked a human so much before. So he starts giving you little things too, leaving them around with notes of gifts. Makes sure you know they're gifts.
♡ He doesn't expect to like giving you things as much as he does. He adores watching the joy on your face when he gets something you really like, loves watching you place them around your house or enjoy them with a drink.
♡ He's sweet, in the ways a fae can be. He makes sure that his kin knows you're his, so nobody else can have you as he quietly shushes you when you try telling him your name. Don't you realize how precious a name is?
♡ He'd hate for you to forget him, to belong to someone else, so he'll steer you away from any harms with promises of luxury and gifts he knows you want. Just keep returning the favor, and he'll be content.
♡ CALDARUS... as a selkie
♡ Caldarus, not as a dragon, but as a selkie. You first find him as a seal, nursing him back to health from an attack he can't even remember. He's so grateful for your help, soothed by your gentle, loving hands.
♡ He can't get enough of it. He knows you have no clue who he is when he approaches you without his skin. But he can't get enough of your sweet voice, the way you smile at him, offer to get a coffee with him. He really likes you, and it isn't like he has anywhere else to be.
♡ When you recount the injured seal you helped a few weeks ago, he'll nod along like he wasn't there. Like it wasn't him youwere cradling and speaking so softly too. Would you do that again? If he told you? In this form, this time?
♡ You seem to run into him often, and with how much you see him, you can't help but wonder how you've missed him until now. It's only when you find him sickly, with his long hair draped in water that you realize.
♡ The seal skin you find close to the lake is lovely, but nowhere near as lovely as the flush on his face as he wraps the fur around your shoulders with a hum, leaning into your side, telling you how much he missed the warmth of your body against his.
♡ EILAND... as a siren
♡ Eiland, as a siren, who doesn't quite realize that he isn't the same as the other mermaids he lives with. He doesn't realize he's hurting humans when he pulls them beneath the water, thinks they've just found a new love for the water when they stay. He doesn't realize that they aren't following him because they want to when he sings, voice echoing across the deep cliffs of the shore.
♡ Eiland, who watches you walk across the sand of the shore as he sits in silence. He hears your voice echo weakly as you hum a song, that he tries to harmonize with from the rocky ledges in the water he stays on
♡ He's happy when you start making your way towards him and into the strong waves, having a new playmate after so much time stuck with his sister. He stops singing when you step on a piece of glass, as he watches you flinch and fall down as you try to get the glass out of your foot with a curse.
♡ He watches you with wide, curious eyes as you work, slowly swimming further towards the shore where you sit. Eiland, who dips down under the dark depths when you spot him with a strangled sound. He only pops back up when you call out for him, beaconing you closer.
♡ He'll inch up on the sand next to you, watching with fascination as you stretch your toes. He'll poke and ask more questions than you can reasonably answer. Still, he'll be grateful that you try to answer them.
♡ Eiland, who keeps meeting up with you every time you make your way down to the shore, eyes staring at you with wonder as you explain that humans can't breathe under water. And the next time he's pulling you towards the deeper waters, it's done with a hand carefully keeping you safe from the waves threatening to pull you under.
♡ HAYDEN... as a troll
♡ Hayden, whose grandmother recently passed, leaving him all alone with no one else. He knows it's bad luck for him to interact with trolls, but he hates the silence and there is only so much the forest animals can offer him.
♡ He'll approach a small farm with plenty of animals, hoping his own connection with the surrounding wildlife will help keep the humans from being afraid. The animals of the farm immediately flock to him, eager to follow him and search for food on him as he offers various nuts, fruits and berries to them.
♡ He'll give the most awkward smile when you step outside to figure out why your animals are all causing such a ruckus, and just stare at him. Trolls are known for mistreating and stealing from humans— why was one feeding your farm animals? Did he intend to take them?
♡ When he offers to help you around the farm in exchange for a meal a day, arguing about how he could handle all the heavy lifting and knew exactly what the animals liked, well... the offer is too good to pass up. No foxes or wolves would threaten your sheep and chickens with a troll standing guard, right?
♡ As your farm becomes more and more successful as Hayden spends more time with you, your neighboring farmers all ask what your secret is. But you can't really tell them that the secret is the huge troll who offers his services every time you let him spend dinner with you, can you?
♡ MARCH... as a vampire
♡ March working as a blacksmith for a vampire hunting guild. Only promise is that, he's, well, a vampire. He does it because he believes the last place a hunter would look for a vampire is in their own home. And well, why would a vampire work so closely with the very metal that would sear them to death at the lightest touch?
♡ He's established and well protected because the stupid humans around him all refuse to believe a vampire would ever be willing to craft weapons to kill other vampires. Hah, why wouldn't he? Vampires were territorial, this just made his job easier
♡ Well, if he doesn't count how hard it is to eat for him. He's constantly starving, and has a reputation for eating a lot. With so many hunters around, it's damn near impossible to find a meal that won't just have him killed. Which is why he never kills them; just takes enough for him to not go rampaging because of the hunger.
♡ You probably find him right at the end of it. You see him stepping back and helping the human sit down, passing them a box of juice and some kind of protein bar before you can step in. The whole situation is weird... as a hunter, you'd never thought a vampire could be good.
♡ March doesn't understand where your sudden fixation on him came from. Suddenly you're constantly stopping by to chat, and give him things, and everyone else is joking that you must have a crush on him. He thinks it's stupid, but after a while he grows... well, fond isn't the right term (it is) but he certainly doesn't mind anymore.
♡ And when you corner him, saying you've known about his nature the whole time and say if he needs, he can feed off of you... well, it does make his life much easier. And well, he can't deny that he likes the way you ask for it.
♡ RYIS... as a hamadryad
♡ Since his kind live in solitude, tied to their respective trees he's spent most of his life in solitude— he can't leave anyhow, dependent on his tree for life.
♡ Still, he's eager when the first humanoid person passes by for centuries— a stray human wanderer who didn't mean to go this deep into the woodlands Ryis lives in? He's happy to help you find your way out of the forest, and all you have to offer him is one of the small cookies you've brought with you.
♡ He doesn't really expect to see you ever again. Humans live such short lives, and the last time he saw one so deep must've been at least a hundred years ago. So when you do pop up, with a smile and a whole jar of cookies as a thank you, his heart is already beating more than it should.
♡ He's happy when it happens again, and again. You're the first friend he's ever had, and before he knows it he's already expecting your company. He's up with the sun, and waits for you until you visit.
♡ He might be more attached than he should be, but he thinks you're wonderful, and since you keep showing up with all these wonderful smiles, he's sure you don't mind.
synopsis: in which march, despite his immense reluctance, can no longer deny his wants, which are very few and narrow down to just a simple farmer
a/n: hi all! i downloaded the game after the steam sale, ive been hooked, n now im here.
warning: mature; drunk shower sex later (mdni)
covet: yearn to possess or have (something)
in march's case, it is to have someone.
it has only been a few days since you were sent off to the capital. the journey over was just as long as your intended stay. 3 days to get to the capital, the same amount as your stay, and the same amount as your journey back. 9 days, march did the math. not that he's counting.
but in the little time that you had joined the small, tightknit town of mistria, march's initial hatred for you gradually simmered off like water splashed onto molten metal. march wasn't too keen about admitting his feelings for you (let alone admitting them to you), but he has absolutely no regrets.
except for times like these where you're not a walk away.
you are not across from him, wielding your hammer at the forge while shaping metal under his guidance. you were not at the inn, taking a load off with the others while swigging whatever brilliance hemlock has concocted. you were not at your farm, pulling out dead weeds and chasing after your animals, who were constantly driving you mad.
march did not realize how important it was to have you so physically close until you had gone to the capital. your absence left an abyss in his heart, and he was not sure how long he could hold out. he might end up going to the capital and dragging you back himself.
he missed your scent, the musky aroma of grass and earth with hints of sweet flowers and linen. his fingers were desperate to weave between the strands of your hair, despite your constant complaints about him causing frizz. his hands longed to rub at the curves of your waist, and the divot of the bottom of your spine, which quickly prompted goosebumps to ornate your skin.
he was especially tormented the day of your expected arrival, in which all he spent most of his day wandering around the entrance of town between work at the forge and his meals. he was antsy, and he hated it, but his heart was determined to see you. he wanted to be the first to greet you home and hug you, but those chances slimmed with every hour passing, and your absence still present.
the sun finally set, and march stretches his overworked body, his muscles rippling from how spent he was. olric comes out from their home with a shit eating grin on his face. "has she arrived yet?"
"what do you think?" march hums as he returns his tools back where they belong. olric eyes the forge, which has seemed to been lulled for a while now. a small, comfortable fire dances in its cubby, anticipating to become large once again the next day. "she's taking too long."
olric begins to slowly untie his apron before hanging it besides march's, "the distance from the capital ain't no joke, and she of all people know that, considering she's from there."
march doesn't care for the logistics. he just wants his farmer home. "yeah, well," march slips off his overworn gloves, "m'not staying up for her. we have too much to get done for me to lose any rest."
he's definitely staying up. olric already saw his bluff and snorted, but not loud enough to piss off his brother any further. he could tell he was already agitated, and if you delay your arrival any more, the young red head might just blow up. "got any energy left for dinner at least?" olric hums, a genuine smile of excitement drawn on his lips. "reina and josephine got help from eiland to get some fancy cheese imported. something about a risotto."
march's stomach grumbled from olric's words. with a small nod of approval from march, the two begin their slow stroll over to the inn. as they did, ryis and juniper caught up to them.
"evening you two," ryis hums, a warm smile strewn on his face. "have we worked hard today?"
"i'm completely worn out," olric manages before letting out a long yawn. "i'm beyond happy our little town is ranking up, but the requests from eiland and adeline are wearing us thin."
ryis immediately agrees, "it feels like they're never ending, too."
march shrugs, "work is work. better occupied then idle."
"this isn't occupied-- its overbooked," ryis quickly interjects. he then feels an itch on his head, and quickly begins to fluff out his do. the smallest of wood chips begin to flick off from his head. "i've been working with so much wood, i think i'll become a tree."
juniper finally joins the conversation, upon interest, "i'd love to see that. i would hate to miss such a fascinating transformation."
ryis playfully (and somewhat genuinely) shudders at the purple-haired vixen, "i'm more than confident that you would claim some responsibility for that happening to me."
juniper brought her hand to her chest, cheeks tinted crimson, "i'm flattered!"
march long checked out from their conversation, and allowed himself to enjoy the warm night. the end of spring was the definition of perfect weather. especially in mistria, who gifted its residents with cherry blossom breezes and a warmth that was neither too much nor too little.
as they all turned to enter the inn, march couldn't help but eye towards balor's usually parking spot for his wagon. he, too, had been sent with you to the capital, as he played an important role as mistria's brainy trader. he was also annoying enough to the point where people purchase simply to make him stop haggling.
but, for that moment, march mentally begged to see that wagon, and that damn merchant. because seeing balor would mean he would see you. and god did he want to see you.
entering the inn also added water to the fire, as march desperately looked around for the surprise of you. but, even with the large crowd and ample chit chatter, you were still nowhere to be seen. hemlock immediately caught march’s disappointed gaze, and quickly grabbed a glass and some liquor.
“good evenin’, ya’ll,” hayden warmly welcomed. march and olric quickly noted how drunk he was, as he began to tie his taupe brown hair into a lazy bun. “finally joining us i see.”
ryis is the first to walk over to the furthest dinning table from the entrance of the inn, quickly wrapping his arm around hayden, “some of us are busier than others, hayden. whatcha got there?” the carpenter quickly involves himself with hayden, valen, celine, and nora, who were all just preparing themselves for their friday ritual of doodling.
“could you ask hemlock to send me a bottle of his best wine?” juniper hums to olric before she strolls over to the table ryis had just joined. despite the bickering, march was confident that juniper lived to ‘torment’ valen, who seems anything but bothered by the bathhouse host just behind her clinic.
“ah juniper,” valen welcomes warmly as she scooted over to allow juniper to join right beside her. "i knew i'd be so lucky to see you tonight."
"for someone who's a doctor, you have quite a knack of giving me a headache," juniper somewhat jokes, cozying up beside the resident doctor as they quickly engage in debate.
as march shoves his hands down his pockets, celine quickly rose from her seat to bid the two brothers over. "olric, march, grabs some chairs n join us here!"
albeit his exhaustion, march could not find any reason to refuse her offer. he and olric fetch the vacant seats from the table right next to the crowd, which had also been empty. it seemed the folks opted in for a more cozy night of hang, seeing as adeline and eiland walk through the entrance and quickly follow after the brothers' example.
olric quickly takes a seat beside celine, with march bringing his chair beside his. hemlock immediately calls march over to grab their drinks. march was not irritated, but this song and dance keeping him from sitting and resting was getting old quick. but, hemlock just let him know its on the house, so perhaps it might be worth the exertion.
as he slides his brother his drink and takes a seat with his own in hand, march finds himself fortunate. his brother pats his arm in gratitude while continuing his conversation with the warm blonde beside him. the crowd that surrounds him are engaged with one another, and he doesn't anticipate being include in any conversation anytime soon. he could finally attend to his very high demanding thoughts, which happen to be only about you.
he hated that he couldn't see your face, and the way it would light up whenever he showed you something he had done at the forge. he hated not being engulfed in your aroma after a days work. he hated not being able to just sit there silently while you went on a rampage about how you caught no fish after hours of fishing, despite all of the advice terithia had bestowed on her.
you had him too wrapped around your finger, as before he even realized, he had been several drinks down. the hot poison burnt through this throat and body, sending bursts of warmth in every single place-- particularly in a place that reserved an invitation only for you.
his heart pulsed, sending all his blood downstairs where it shouldn't be. but you reigned his thoughts, and he could feel himself getting more drunk at the thought of you under him. your face flushed, your unclothed chest heaving, with those damn eyes that make him want to take you away from the world, gone from threat and pain.
his body ached for yours, his arms deserved to be wrapped around your luscious dents and curves. he needed to be further intoxicated by your scent, engulfed by chamomile and lavender. he wanted to hear his name come out your mouth, ripping them out of you with each stroke in that tight body of yours.
everything was spinning. he could almost feel your fingers cup his face desperately, begging for more with lips shiny from sucking mouth with him. he might black out-- it'd be better than spending another minute without you. he wants to black out, you were plaguing his mind, tormenting him with your physical absence.
"please, march, more..." your desperate voice danced in march's ears, his eyes envisioning you before him, body like puddy in his hands, seeing your hips buck up. march wanted nothing more than to hover above you, forcing out moaned curses and ungodly sounds with each thrust inside that unholy body of yours. this memory might end him now.
he needed to see you. he'd get you himself if need be, drunk and all. by foot, if that was the only way. and as if on queue, the entrance of the inn opened, and two figures appeared before the town. march's eyes struggled to stay open (he was quite a sleepy drunk), but the sudden roar from the crowd pushed away any exhaustion.
it just hit midnight, and at the front of the inn, stood balor, with his usual cheeky grin. and beside his crouched figure, was you, with your arm over his shoulders. you could only give a sheepish smile, already preparing for the onslaught of questions regarding your state.
you walked in, with your entire seeable torso (as you had a gentle tube top on), was wrapped in bandage. you weren't hurting, but you definitely practiced hiding any grimaces before walking in. the moment march looked up and over to you, you could feel him seething. you weren't sure if it was because of your wounds or your arm being around balor's neck.
either way, march's eyes had darkened, and you quickly understood that you were either getting lectured or consumed. before you could allow anyone the moment to ask you what happened, you looked over to hemlock, who too participated in the sea of immense concern. you mouthed a drink request, getting in return a gentle nod.
as you attempt to avoid every question by reassuring the town, you were quickly met with the smell of crackling wood and smelted metal. you feel a warmth removed from your arm, replaced with a different warmth, and shorter hair. turning to your side, your eyes widen just a tad to see march had assumed balors place. he doesn't meet your gaze at all, but you feel his calloused hand hold yours, his fingers snaking their way between yours. he was worried, you could tell from his face, but as usual, he maintained a stern facade that couldn't be unraveled right then and there.
the crowd calms down, taking note of march's presence so much that the questions had simmered away. "'m taking her home to rest. she will explain to us when she's more rested," march hummed.
they all reluctantly nod, concern still mounted on everyone's shoulders. olric nods at march, who quickly takes control and gently turns you both over to make your way out of the inn. you look over your shoulder to hemlock, mouthing an apology. hemlock lifts your drink in the air, a teasing smile playing at his lips before he downs it.
as the two of you make your way outside the inn, you try your best to remain in this silence. but it was uncomfortable, as you weren't sure whether march was upset, or angry. to be fair, he was within reason regardless; you just aren't prepared for it.
instead, you attempt to distract yourself with the comfort of being back at mistria. even in the night, the petals of the cherry blossom trees danced in the wind, allowing glimpses when they fly underneath the street lamps. you felt at ease being back at home, taking in the sights that you did not appreciate enough, you now realize.
as you two walked, you noticed march was guided you away from the path towards your home, and rather more north of the town. he's taking you to his house. his body was warm to the touch, his eyes fixated on what's in front of him. he doesn't dare meet your eyes, and perhaps it was best he didn't.
"march," you break the silence, but march was as brisk as the nights breeze.
"let's talk when we get there," he says lowly. you accept this, looking forward as the strong blacksmith helped you walk towards his house. it was funny. despite balor being capable of helping you walk, now with your arm around march felt like you were barely walking.
You’re right, this town ain’t big enough for the both of us. So, let’s work together to improve its infrastructure and fall in love during the process.
to absolutely no one's surprise, i adore march. what can i say, you give me a grumpy romanceable npc and i'm sold.
tectonic (march x gn!reader, fields of mistria)
March was busy wiping the sweat from his brow and enjoying the coolness of early dusk when he spotted you trudging up the path from the Narrows. He huffed lowly and turned his back to you, bicep taut as he brought his hammer down. He was only half paying attention to the ingot he was forging, ears pricking at the sound of your boots on stone as you passed him by, whistling a little tune as you went.
Irritated by the sound, March lifted his head to ask what had gotten you so cheery, and stopped short as he got a good look at you.
“The hell happened to you?” he gaped, taking in your torn flannel and the bruised skin peeking out from beneath your shorts.
“Oh, this?” you murmured sheepishly, rubbing at the back of your neck and unknowingly showcasing another bruise on your inner forearm. “Errol and Eiland opened up the mines.”
March’s face went through a series of expressions as he struggled to process that statement. The mines were open? And you were… what, exploring?
“Did you trip or something?” he asked, one brow raised as he cataloged the plethora of bruises dotting your frame.
You laughed. “There were monsters,” you explained airily, and then you were on your way, leaving March to stare incredulously after you.
“What the hell… ?” he muttered, squinting at your back until you disappeared from sight. He was still standing there when Olric poked his head out of the shop and questioned what was taking so long, and despite promptly returning to his task with an annoyed shake of his head, the sight of your body riddled with bruises lingered long after he and Olric had shut the forge down for the night.
March woke the next morning determined not to give you or your adventures in the mines another thought. He even succeeded, at least until Olric returned from the general store the next afternoon and mentioned seeing you heading down the road to the Narrows.
“Oh?” March muttered, deliberately nonchalant in his delivery despite the sudden swell of annoyance he felt. Were you headed to the mines again? Already? Your first trip down there had left you decorated in bruises, and you were going back for more?
What the hell was wrong with you?
It was a question March was forced to ask of himself an hour later when he found himself trudging toward the Narrows, a cumbersome piece of iron armor cradled to his chest.
“What am I even doing?” he grumbled to himself as he walked, pretending he wasn’t keeping an ear out for the trod of your boots as he made his way towards Errol’s cabin.
He took his time traversing the grass - the armor was heavy, after all; he wouldn’t want to trip and scuff up all of his hard work - but even so, there was no hint of you by the time he reached Errol’s door.
The old man was thrilled by the armor, of course, thanking March profusely as he took it from the blacksmith’s arms and hefted it easily into his own.
“It matches perfectly with the piece our dear farmer constructed for me days ago,” he gushed, and March felt his ears turning red. Could he not go a measly hour without mention of you?
“Are the mines really open again?” March asked, not allowing his irritation to show in his voice despite you having mentioned Errol having a hand in it.
“Oh yes,” Errol noded, lips curled in an exasperated smile. “I advised against it, of course - there’s no telling how much damage the earthquake caused - but you know Eiland.” He laughed a little, shaking his head fondly. “I didn’t expect our new friend to have such an interest in archaeological study as well, though! They’re certainly surprising, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” March muttered darkly, unable to ignore the memories of your bruises infiltrating his mind. “They’re surprising, alright.”
He bid goodbye before Errol could extol any more of your virtues, hands stuffed in his apron pockets as he followed the path towards home. He debated taking the long way through Sweetwater Farm - the path that would lead him directly through your farm - and shook the idea from his head as soon as it arrived. So what if you were still in the mines? It wasn’t his responsibility to look after you.
“March?”
March lifted his head, blinking as he spotted you sitting on the museum’s front steps, legs akimbo and a sword cradled against your hip.
“I thought that was you,” you continued cheerily as he approached, the moonlight throwing the fresh bruises and scrapes dotting your skin into sharp relief. There was a new abrasion on your cheekbone and torn skin on your knee, and March barely withheld a sigh as you smiled up at him, seemingly unbothered by any of it.
“What happened to you?” he murmured, his tone rife with indifference despite the careful once-over he gave you when you weren’t looking.
You glanced down at your scraped knee and laughed softly. “Got surprised by a monster and tripped over some barrels,” you explained, before grinning proudly and patting at the sword by your hip. “Managed to get a few floors further than yesterday, though!”
Just how far down are you planning to go? March wondered waspishly, before he bothered to get a good look at your weapon and felt like his head might actually explode from indignation.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been fighting monsters with this?” he asked incredulously, grabbing for the sword and holding it aloft with abject disgust. Riddled with rust and flimsy in the hand, the thing looked more like a piece of scrap metal than a weapon!
“Well, yeah?” you murmured, jumping as he turned blazing eyes on you and quickly lifting your hands in a placating gesture. “It’s worked okay so far! Really!”
It took some effort, but March sighed and returned the sword to you, hands on his hips as he surveyed the sad sight you made. “You really need to be more careful,” he muttered, and you smiled, seemingly unconcerned when the gesture pulled at your injured cheek.
“I know,” you told him, head tilting as you regarded him for a moment. “Thanks for worrying about me, March.”
March’s cheeks burned. “I wasn’t - “ he started, before scoffing and turning on his heel. “Go home and rest!” he called back over his shoulder, your soft laughter following at his heels as he strode down the path towards the shop.
March avoided you for the next few days. It was easier said than done, unfortunately, the whole damn town intent on singing your praises no matter where he went. You were like a damn ghost following him around, regardless of whether he actually saw you or not, and frankly, it was starting to piss March off.
Not nearly as much as that sad excuse for a weapon you’d been wielding, but still.
March gritted his teeth at the reminder of your pitiful sword. No wonder you were covered in bruises with a weapon like that! If you were really intent on exploring the mines, you needed something better, something sturdier, something -
March caught himself perusing their supply of ore and hurriedly shook his head. If you wanted to use an old rusty sword then who was he to tell you otherwise? It wasn’t his responsibility to arm you with something you could actually use to protect yourself.
“March!” Olric burst through their door with cheeks red from the wind and a beaming smile plastered on his face, noticeably excited about something March couldn’t immediately discern.
“What is it?” he asked, tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his apron pocket. He’d head to the inn for a meal after Olric clued him in to whatever had roused him up so much. Maybe then he’d stop entertaining nonsense thoughts about forging new swords for idiot farmers.
“I’ve got something for you,” Olric said, digging into his pockets. “Well, it’s not actually from me, it’s a gift from the new farmer. Hold on a sec - “
March’s brow twitched at the mention of you. He opened his mouth, fully intending to tell Olric to keep whatever it is you’d deigned to give him, when his brother made a triumphant sound and plopped the gift down in March’s palm.
March stared at the thing in wonder. “This is - “ he started, before Olric nodded and clasped his hands together, nearly vibrating with joy.
“It’s a piece of perfect ore!” his brother practically cooed. “I can’t believe they actually found some! Just think of what we could make with it!”
March stared silently down at the clump of ore, perfectly formed and gleaming in the lantern light. He wondered how many floors you’d had to explore before you’d found it. How many monsters you’d had to fight. How many new bruises you must have earned.
His chest felt very full, and then very tight.
“I think I have an idea,” he murmured faintly, and Olric’s eyes shined.
It took a few days - days in which March worked diligently without allowing himself to think too deeply about what he was doing. Days in which Olric refused to stop shooting him simpering looks rife with sibling sentimentality - like he was proud of his brother for doing such a kindness for the farmer, as if March was doing this for any other reason than to preserve his own sanity. It wasn’t his responsibility to arm the newcomer - that much was still true, but when the object of his ire seemed so determined to use subpar equipment, March had no other choice than to take matters into his own hands.
“They’ll love it,” Olric breathed as he wrapped the finished product in cloth. “Make sure you thank them for the ore when you give it to them!”
“I wasn’t planning on - “ March started, before huffing as Olric pushed the wrapped sword into his arms and nudged him toward the door.
“You have to be the one to give it to them, March,” his brother scolded him gently. “Now go on! They’re probably still on their farm at this hour.”
March blew out a breath but didn’t bother to fight. The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could stop thinking about you.
You seemed surprised to see him - little wonder as to why, considering he’d never bothered to set foot on your farm before.
“March?” you questioned, pausing in the watering of your crops as he approached. “Is that you?”
“Clearly,” March groused, but all you did was smile, apparently happy to see him. Again he got that feeling in his chest - that too full, too tight feeling - and grimaced as he held the cloth-wrapped sword out for you to take. “Here.”
You glanced down at the package in confusion, before setting down your watering can and taking the bundle from his arms. “What’s this?” you asked, testing the heft of it, and March gritted his teeth against the urge to snap at you to just open it already, his fingers prickling with what he refused to call nerves.
“It’s for you,” he muttered inelegantly. “As thanks for the ore.”
“You liked it?” you wondered, obviously pleased at the thought. Why did it matter so much to you, March wondered. Why did you care if he liked anything about you?
Carefully unraveling the cloth, you marvel at the expertly crafted sword contained within, its hilt wrapped in high-quality leather and the blade gleaming like silver.
“You - “ you started, glancing at the sword and then at March with growing awe. “You made this? For me?”
March flushed at the expression on your face, at your genuine gratitude and obvious wonder. “It’s not a big deal,” he tried, but you shook your head.
“It’s amazing!” You leaped forward before he could stop you, wrapping your arms around his bare shoulders and squeezing as you breathed, “Thank you, March.”
His ears burned. You were a soft weight against his chest, your bare forearms sun-warm against his shoulders, and despite not consciously ordering them to do it, his hands had somehow managed to wrap around your waist, fingertips twitching against your lower back.
“I - “ he started, only to swallow and decide that it wasn’t worth it to push you away. That feeling in his chest had reared back up to choke him, and he needed to disengage from you before he really did something stupid. “You’re welcome.”
You let him go with another squeeze, cradling the sword to your chest and telling him, “I’m gonna go test it out right now! Thanks again, March!”
Before he could stop you you were off toward the Narrows, but not before pausing and flitting back to push a kiss to his cheek.
“I’ll stop by after to tell you how it went,” you promised, before grinning and going on your way.
March watched you go with burning cheeks and a terrible certainty that he had just gotten himself into some very big trouble. He reached up to touch the spot where you’d pressed a kiss and found his lips twitching, dangerously close to what might have been a smile.
“What the hell?” he muttered, shaking his head and heading back the way he’d come. If he had any sense he would avoid the shop for the rest of the day, giving you no chance at fulfilling your promise of seeking him out after your adventure in the mines.
But if this whole ordeal had taught March anything, it was that there was no escaping you. Not really. So he might as well just get with the program and deal with it.
“Ridiculous,” he huffed. Only the old dragon statue nestled by the entrance to your farm saw the smile that curled his lips as he said it, but that was fine.
Hello!! Would you be interested in writing a hc for Sebastian (with x reader)? Basically of how the friendship is at first, then who fell first for the other, who confesses first, the relationship, etc. Whatever inspires you most! (Idk if I explained those phases properly but I hope so) Love your writing! :D
The Sebastian Sallow Experience™ — HCs
hi anon!! I AM. SO. DOWN. thank you so much for the kind words, I genuinely appreciate them more than you know 🥹 I hope I can keep writing fics you (and everyone!!) will love!! this was also written earlier during the road trip and fueled by questionable signal and feelings, so sorry for the delayed upload (I hope this was worth the wait aksjdhfakjs)
masterlist!
1. At first, it’s just friendship. Sebastian decides you’re his person very quickly, though neither of you call it that yet. You’re the one he sits next to without asking, the one he nudges when he’s bored in class, the one he drags into corridors with a grin and a whispered “come on, I’ve got an idea.” It’s easy. Too easy. The kind of closeness that doesn’t feel like something you had to earn.
2. Somewhere along the way, you become his constant.
You start studying together without planning to. Walking back to the common room together even when it’s out of the way. He waits for you without admitting he’s waiting.
Sebastian doesn’t notice when it stops being a habit and starts being a need—but you do.
3. He’s the first one to fall, even if he doesn’t know it yet. It happens in quiet moments, not the dramatic ones.
When you laugh and he feels lighter. When you’re hurt and something in him goes sharp and cold. When someone else has your attention and it sits wrong in his chest.
He tells himself it’s concern. He’s very good at lying to himself.
4. You realise it first. You notice the way his voice softens when it’s just the two of you. How he listens—really listens—when you speak.
You care, and that’s the problem. Because caring about Sebastian Sallow has never been simple, and you don’t want to be another thing he carries like a burden.
5. The line between friendship and something else blurs quietly. There’s no moment where it breaks cleanly. Just longer looks. Closer proximity. His hand brushing yours and not moving away.
Neither of you mention it. You both pretend not to notice. It’s safer that way.
6. The confession is not planned. It comes out wrong and rushed, spilled in the aftermath of a fight or a fear or the possibility of losing you.
Sebastian admits it like a fault, like something sharp he’s been trying to keep buried.
He doesn’t ask for anything. He just needs you to know.
7. Loving him is intense, but never careless. Sebastian loves like he does everything else—wholeheartedly, fiercely—but you teach him how to slow down.
You are the person who can pull him back when he spirals, the one he trusts with his worst thoughts and his quiet hopes.
He is loud with his affection in private. Gentle with it in public. Protective always.
8. In the end, it feels inevitable. Like this was always where you were heading, even back when it was just shared laughter and stolen time.
Being with Sebastian isn’t easy—but it’s real. And he chooses you, every day, with the same certainty he once chose to sit beside you without asking.
a lil sumn sumn extra <33
It comes out wrong.
Not at the height of the argument, not when voices were raised and words were sharp enough to cut. It comes after—when the silence settles heavy and wrong between you, when the adrenaline drains and leaves only the echo of what if.
Sebastian turns away first. He drags a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back together, shoulders tense, breath uneven. For a moment, you think that’s it. That he’ll retreat into himself the way he always does when things get too close to the truth.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says instead.
The words stop him cold, like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. He lets out a short, breathless laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “When you didn’t answer. When I couldn’t find you. I kept thinking—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I kept thinking this was it.”
He turns back to you then, and there’s something bare in his expression. Not desperation. Not anger. Fear—quiet and bone-deep.
“I can handle a lot,” Sebastian continues, voice lower now, steadier only because he’s forcing it to be. “I can deal with things going wrong. I can deal with people leaving.” Another pause. Longer this time. “I just didn’t realise how much it would ruin me if it was you.”
The confession slips out of him like a wound reopening. Like something sharp he’s kept buried under sarcasm and bravado and fine, really for far too long. He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t soften it.
“I tried to ignore it,” he admits. “Thought if I didn’t name it, it wouldn’t be real. That I could keep this—whatever this is—safe.” His mouth twists. “Turns out pretending doesn’t stop it from hurting.”
He doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t reach for your hand. He looks like he wants to—like every instinct in him is screaming to—but he stays rooted where he is, giving you space he clearly doesn’t want to give.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he says quickly, as if afraid you might think he is. “You don’t owe me anything. I just—” His voice falters, just for a second. “I just needed you to know. Before I lost the chance to say it.”
The silence that follows is fragile. Trembling. The truth sits between you, exposed and waiting.
Sebastian swallows, eyes flicking away like he’s bracing for impact.
