tags: fluff, sfw, spoilers for shadowheart’s story quest/romance line, reader is some sort of rouge/assassin in the past, set in act 3, mention of gore and canon typical violence. written for @prettyboykatsuki accidentally. sorry pookie.
synopsis: it leaves her breathless how easily it comes to you to care for her and her own.
Shadowheart leaves the House of Grief with a heavy heart, and heavier hands as she leads her mother and father to the camp she has made with you. It’s unusual, she thinks she has her father’s face and her mother’s eyes. It’s hard to look at them for too long, as each glance their way means another terrible memory plucked by the hands of gods to mock her despite it all.
She awakes to the sound of a knife scraping. She knows that sound, she thinks - the sound of it cutting through flesh until it meets bone and still cutting even more. When green eyes focus from the blur of sleep Shadowheart follows the sound to your bedroom; separate from hers in the Elfsong Tavern. The sun peeks from the windows and Shadowheart thinks the sun rises only to flush you in pastel pink and oranges.
You’re sitting there, still in your sleep clothes and your hair falls around your ears in a way that makes her heart sigh. You are quick to find her, turning your head with the fluidity of an owl to meet her gaze. Shadowheart isn’t surprised - you’re just like her, hiding in the shadows from the pain of the light. It’s hard to believe it at times, Shadowheart thinks the sun and moon exist only to paint your skin.
You say her name, she responds and she is at your side sooner than she’d like to admit. Sitting next to you, curling into herself to be as small as she likes ; you bring out that side of her like peeling the oranges you shared with her last night at supper.
“What are you doing?” Shadowheart asks you and you jut your head to trays filled with food. Bowls of porridge, cups of water and peeled apple’s perfectly cut. Her gaze follows an invisible line and lands to your own hands and finds you carefully peeling a third apple. You hold the knife delicately, deliberately as you let your thumb rest on the back of the blade. The sound of the blade cutting through the fruit is not the same scraping noise that cutting through flesh makes. Shadowheart swallows as she lets that memory go and replaces it with how you peel away at the apple.
The sound is soft, and there is no blood, only soft bubbling sweet juice that drips onto your fingers. She leans her weight onto you and sits in the silence. It’s easy how simple it is for her to imagine doing this with you sitting on a porch to a cottage you share. It makes her heart sing and ache all the same.
The sweet silence is broken by you - your voice timid and shy. It makes her smile for she has never heard you sound like that.
“It’s for your parents. They are eager to help at camp but they deserve some free time after everything. I’m planning on going out later to get better clothes for them.” You list off, eyes wide as you peer down at her. You swallow and lick your lips.
You are nervous, she realizes as her smile never slips.
“Do you want to come? Your parents can come too. Just the four of us.” What you left unsaid is brought to life on her lips.
“Like a family.”
You nod. It’s painful for you too.
“Like a family…if you feel you are ready for something like that.” You add and her heart softens, shining like the silver of her hair from your gentle consideration. She takes her hand in yours, your thumb going to rub at the faint scar on the curve of her palm. Your touch is gentle, soft like the wind in her hair so unlike the pain of Shar’s caress.
Shadowheart allows her whole cheek to be placed against your shoulder.
“I’d like that…I’m ready for that.”
You squeeze her palm, goosebumps rising alongside her flesh at how warm your flesh is - her tender and soft warmth in a world filled with cold darkness. Shadowheart lets her lips settle on your fabric covered shoulder and lingers to pour all her love for you through a single action. She parts without wanting to but smiles at you and says she’ll wake her parents. You smile back and utter that you love her.
Shadowheart repeats it and as she walks through the doorway to the other rooms where her parents are resting for the first time in a long time the walls change and it’s easy for her to imagine the same little cottage filled with nothing but you and the care you give her.
M!BG3 x Chubby Fem!Reader: You kiss them and pull away before they can deepen it.
themes/content warnings (MDNI - 19+ only): suggestive implications, fluff/spice/everything nice, teasing, playing hard to get, banter, emotional tension, kissing, mentions of blood, mentions of self-deprecation/low self-esteem from characters, partial beta
a/n: I applied the degree of spice according to what I thought made sense for the character. Hope you enjoy! Apologies for any mistakes, I could only contribute a few minutes a day during my lunches this week for edits T^T
Astarion Ancunin
You grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard, swallowing his surprised gasp. For a moment he melted into you, his hands flying to your waist, fingers digging into your soft curves with growing hunger. Then you pulled back. His lips chased yours on instinct, finding only air, and his eyes snapped open with furious disbelief. "What the hells do you think you're doing?" he demanded, voice ragged. His grip on your waist tightened, claws pricking through your clothes, "You cannot just kiss me like that and walk away." But you batted his hands off of you and took another step back anyway.
The sound that came out of him was nearly a whine, though he would die again before admitting it. "You wretched, beautiful tease," he breathed, following after you. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving beneath his half unlaced shirt. "Do you have any concept of how long I have wanted this? What you do to me?" He cornered you against the tent post, close enough that you could feel the coolness of his body. You traced a finger down his chest. "Theeen do something about it," suggested, making his breath to hitch. "Perhaps I will then." His lips hovered over yours, not quite touching. "And you are going to love every second of it."
Gale Dekarios
You interrupted his lengthy explanation about the Weave by pressing your mouth to his. Gale made a muffled noise of shock, hands frozen awkwardly at his sides. Before he could recover enough to kiss you back properly, you already stepped away. He stood there with his lips still parted, blinking rapidly. "I--" he started. Stopped. Tried again. "That was." Nothing. The wizard had been rendered completely incoherent by a single kiss.
You watched with a smirk as color flooded his cheeks as his brain finally caught up with his body. "You... wonderful woman," he breathed, a slow smile spreading across his face. His hands finally remembered their purpose and reached for you, pulling your soft body firmly against his. "I have spent my entire life believing that knowledge comes from books and meticulous study." He walked you backward until your thighs hit the edge of his desk. "But you have just taught me something no scroll ever could." His hands settled on your hips, squeezing appreciatively as he lifted you onto the cluttered surface. He stepped between your thighs, mouth hovering just above yours. "And what's that?" you asked. He smiled. "That some lessons require a more hands-on approach." He kissed you deeply. "And I have always been an exceptionally dedicated student."
Wyll Ravengard
You caught him off guard in the middle of camp, turning his concerned check on your condition after a battle into something else entirely. Your hands fisted in his shirt and you yanked him down into a kiss that left no room for his gentlemanly restraint. Wyll groaned against your mouth but just as his arm moved to wrap around your waist, you released him and walked away. He stood frozen, watching you go, his eyes wide with shock. "Hold on now," he called after you, a breathless laugh escaping him. "This conversion isn't over."
You turned back to find him closing the distance with a loving smile spreading across his face. His hands found yours, threading your fingers together as he looked at you with amazement. "All this time..." he said softly, shaking his head to himself. His thumbs stroked across your knuckles as he stepped closer. "Before I say anything foolish, I need to know if that was real, that that wasn't merely to tease." You squeezed his hands. "I was, I want this, Wyll. I want you." His forehead dropped. "Then if you don't mind... I would like to kiss and feel you the way I have wanted to for months now."
Halsin
You slipped into his tent under the pretense of bringing him a healing potion. He sat cross legged on his bedroll, mending a torn leather strap, and looked up at you with a warm smile. You set the potion aside, knelt down to him and pressed your lips to his, causing the strap to fall from his fingers. His broad hand moved to cup the back of your head as he leaned into you, but you slipped away facing towards the tent flap.
"You would wake the bear," he said quietly, "and leave him hungry?" You heard him rise before a massive hand caught the tent flap above your head, holding it closed. His chest pressed against your back, "While I am known to be patient..." His other arm wrapped around your soft middle, pulling you back against him. "I can't help but notice how you smell like want... like need." His lips brushed the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. You tilted your head, giving him better access, "Then stop waiting and take me already." A growl rumbled through his chest. "Tell me to stop and I will. But if you stay silent, my heart, I will take my time with you until morning."
Minsc
You marched up to him with a grin and before he could greet you, you grabbed his face in both hands and planted a firm kiss on his mouth. Minsc went rigid with surprise, eyes flying wide open. A strangled noise escaped him before you released him and stepped back. He sat there frozen, staring at you like you had just performed impossible magic. His mouth opened and closed several times with no sound coming out.
"You kissed Minsc," he finally managed, voice pitched higher than usual. His hand came up to touch his lips in wonder. "On the mouth. With your mouth." Color flooded his face as reality caught up with him. He rose to his full towering height quickly, looking down at you with an expression of pure bewildered joy. "No one has ever wanted to kiss Minsc before! After all I am very large and loud and sometimes I forget to be gentle." His massive hands hovered near your shoulders, trembling with the effort of restraint. You smiled and reached up, placing his hands on your waist yourself. "I know you wouldn't hurt me Minsc." His breath caught. "Can Minsc kiss you back? I will be careful. So careful... Please?"
Raphael
The human-guised cambion materialized beside you on the moonlit balcony, swirling a glass wine. "Escaping the festivities, are we? I do hope you have been considering my generous offer." You let him for a bit, drowning out his words, as you plucked away his wine and downed the contents in one go before you lunged in and kissed him. Raphael hummed lowly against your mouth, as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. You released him before he could decide and set the empty glass back in his hand.
He stared at you. Then at the glass. Then back at you as a slow, insidious smile spread across his face. "My, my." He set the glass aside and stalked toward you, backing you against the railing with deliberate steps. "You continue to surprise me, little mouse." His hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him. "And I am not easily surprised." His thumb traced your lower lip, eyes roaming your features with open hunger. "I came here to bargain, but now I find myself wanting something far more... interesting." He leaned closer. "You. In my House. Where I can keep you close." You met his gaze without flinching. "Is that a threat or an invitation?" The corner of his mouth tilted upwards. "Both."
Haarlep
You found the incubus draped across the bed, watching you approach with lazy amusement as you crossed the room, climbed onto the bed and kissed them deeply. Haarlep made a delighted noise against your mouth, their hands immediately finding your hips before you pulled back and sat just out of reach. You watched as their expression shift from pleasure to bewilderment.
"Oh, you naughty thing." They pushed up onto their elbows, eyes bright with surprised delight. "No one has ever stopped kissing me before, they usually beg for more." Their tongue traced their lower lip, savoring your taste. "And yet here you sit, so composed, while I find myself positively aching." They crawled toward you across the silk sheets, until their face hovered inches from yours. "I think I've come to like you." Their fingers trailed up your thigh, teasing. "That almost never happens. Typically I am the one who inspires want, the one who denies." You caught their wandering hand and held it still. "Then I guess you finally know how everyone else feels." Their eyes widened, then darkened with fascination. "Continue this game of yours... I wish to play it some more."
Zevlor
He stood at the edge of the grove, and you approached without announcement as he turned with a tired smile that faltered when he saw the look in your eyes. Before he could speak, you took his face in your hands and kissed him softly. A shudder ran through his entire body as hands came up to grasp your wrists, holding on like you might disappear. When you pulled away, his eyes remained closed, his breath uneven.
"You should not waste such sweetness on me..." He finally looked at you, "There are better men in this camp. Stronger ones. Ones without cracks running through them..." His grip on your wrists loosened but did not release. "I would only disappoint you eventually." You stepped closer instead of away, pressing your soft body against his chest. "I'm not looking for another man, Zevlor. I'm looking for you." His resolve wavered visibly. "You deserve more," he whispered, even as his arms betrayed him and wrapped around your waist. "So why don't I want you to leave?" His forehead dropped to yours in defeat. "Tell me to let go. Please. Because I fear I cannot do it on my own."
Dammon
You visited his forge near closing time, when the other refugees had wandered off to supper. He looked up from the blade he was cooling, face flushed from the heat, and smiled at you with genuine warmth. "Come to check on your order? I was just finishing the edge." You walked around the workbench, took his soot stained face in your hands, and kissed him. The tongs clattered to the ground. His hands flew up instinctively, then froze midair, unwilling to smudge your clothes with ash and oil. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide with shock.
"I--" He swallowed hard, looking down at his blackened fingers with sudden embarrassment. "I am filthy. You should not have… I mean, I am glad you did, but…" He trailed off, completely flustered. You picked up a nearby rag and began wiping his hands clean yourself. "I don't care about the soot, Dammon." His expression softened, but then he noticed how close you were standing to the glowing coals and tugged you toward him. "Careful. The forge is still hot." His now clean hands settled on your waist, holding you against him. "If you are going to kiss me like that, do it somewhere you will not get burned." You cupped his cheek with your hand. "Show me where?" He smiled softly. "Gladly."
Rolan
You interrupted him mid rant about his siblings and their endless capacity for trouble. One moment he was pacing his study in Sorcerous Sundries, gesturing wildly. The next your hands were fisting in his robes and your mouth was on his. Rolan cursed against your lips as his hands gripped your shoulders, intending to push you away. When you released him and stepped back before he could, his hair was mussed and his expression was furious.
"What in the absolute hells do you think you are doing!?" He straightened his robes with sharp, agitated movements. "I was in the middle of a point. An important point. About responsibility and familial obligation and..." He lost his train of thought as his gaze dropped to your mouth. "Do not look at me like that." His voice had gone rough. "--You cannot kiss me senseless and expect me to just..." He gestured vaguely. You smiled at him. "Expect you to what?" He gave up and grabbed your wrist, yanking you back toward him. "Fine. You want my attention so badly? You have it." His other hand tangled in your hair. "But we are finishing this properly. And afterwards, you will listen to rest of what I was saying."
Kar'niss
The drider stood at the edge of the shadow cursed lands with his moonlantern as you approached him without fear. His various eyes blinking asynchronously at you. "You seek us? The Light of the Absolute?" You nodded and gestured for him to crouch to your level before pressing your lips to his his. He went absolutely rigid, every leg locking in place. A high, keening sound escaped him, somewhere between confusion and terror.
You released him and waited. His mandibles clicked rapidly as he processed what had occurred. "Soft one," he rasped, voice fracturing. "We do not… this is not… her Majesty never spoke of this." One hand reached toward you, stopping just short of your cheek. "Others flee from us. Others scream. Cast out. Forgotten..." One claw made contact, tracing your jaw carefully. "Why do you not run?" You covered his hand with your own. "Because I see you, Kar'niss. Not the monster your old goddess turned you into. You." His eyes fixed on you all at once, wide and unblinking. "Her majesty… she must have sent you. A gift. We are worthy. We are…" His legs shifted, drawing his massive body closer. "Show us again. Please. We wish to understand this warmth."
Enver Gortash
You found him alone in his office, reviewing documents with a scheming gleam in his eye. He glanced up when you entered, a diplomatic smile already forming. "Ah, my favorite visitor. Come to negotiate terms?" You crossed the room without responding, rounded his desk, and kissed him firmly. His quill scratched a jagged line across the parchment and before he could respond you straightened up and walked toward the door. "Think about that while you're re-drafting those terms of yours," you said over your shoulder.
"Stop." The command cracked through the room like a whip. You heard his chair scrape back and his hand caught the door, slamming it shut before you could leave. When you turned, his composure had returned. "I have manipulated the best minds in Faerun." He stepped closer, crowding you against the door. "And none of them have ever caught me off guard." His eyes roamed over your face with newfound interest. "You are either very foolish or very valuable. I intend to discover which." His thumb traced your lower lip. "And I always get what I want, terms included."
Dark Urge
He stood in the water, scrubbing blood from his clawed hands with mechanical precision. Another blackout. Another body. You watched from the shore, seeing the way his tail lashed the water in agitation. When you approached, he bared his teeth. "Stay back," he rasped, "I cannot control it. You know I cannot control it." You ignored him completely, wading into the shallows, before you pull him down into a kiss. His clawed hands seized your waist, talons dimpling your soft flesh.
When you broke the kiss, his inner lids flicked with confusion. "Why would you do that?" He looked towards the blood in the water. "There is something inside me that hungers for blood. For carnage. It whispers about you when you're gone... about what it wants to do to you." He couldn't stop himself from pressing his face into your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. You reached up and stroked his head. "It whispers when I'm gone, but what about when I'm near?" His forked tongue flicked against your skin, tasting you. "They quiet... you help calm the Urge." His arms tightened around your soft body, crushing you against his chest. "Stay. Keep it silent. Please... For your sake."
-On the neck or the inside of the wrist; he feels your heartbeat under his lips, and it always fills him with life. Your life. It's a nice feeling for once. But it's especially nice to linger there and feel how your mood shifts with a direct contact there, rather than just watching your expressions. The bites are nice, of course, but actually feeling the direct effect of his existence to your emotions almost gets his own heart beating.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the cheek; It's simple and chaste and it makes him giddy, since he knows there's no expectations for more. It often leads him to want a proper smooch, but he also appreciates greatly the feeling of your lips on his skin as simple as it is.
Gale
Favorite place to kiss
-On the lips; he missed the physical contact in his previous relationship too much. Now it's hard to go without it, and the most direct touch when it comes to kissing is, well, a direct kiss on the lips. To feel you answer and give as much as he gives is a relief he needs, often, as if needing to be reminded you're really there and you really do like, love, him. Maybe let him kiss you again for good measure, just to be sure.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the side of the neck; it's just really nice and melting brain kind of touch ! He gets all flustered and putty from it, it's incredibly cute. Again, missed the physical touching with Mystra, so something like that is a sure way to get his attention, and his affection. He'll melt against you into a puddle ready to be pampered for a bit if you do it several times, so do be careful how you wield this weapon of knowledge.
Halsin
Favorite place to kiss
-On the forehead; it's sweet and sickenly gentle, and that's what he wants it to be. That's how he wants his touch to you to feel, most of the time, and be remembered. And the forehead is the perfect place to kiss for this intention. Also a good way to check your temperature on a daily basis for some safekeeping.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the forehead or the cheek; he's a simple man and he craves the gentleness he gives out just as much, honestly. He's used to dishing it out, but he likes receiving it plenty. Bonus points for a kiss on the temple as well, but the forehead stays the fanfavorite.
Jaheira
Favorite place to kiss
-On the back of hand; quickly done or done in an easily sweet manner, Jaheira finds it a good middle-ground gesture. She's often busy, or often in a situation where it's necessary to be more discreet, so the back of your hand is a good place to press a peck to that holds meaning while keeping it relatively publicly chaste. Although she likes to press longer, lingering kisses to it in private too.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the corner of her jaw; innocent but almost not, it amuses her greatly. Where she tries to be a little more private in public, she lets you get away with a bit more leeway than she gives herself. It's also height related- if you're taller, seeing you bend down to kiss there gets to her. Seeing you reach up to her if you're smaller is incredibly amusing, as mentioned. And if you're the same height, well, it's still very sweet.
Lae'zel
Favorite place to kiss
-On the collarbones; more so in private, but there's something to that specific touch that enamores her. Feeling your skin give under the firm touch of her lips, following the lines she anatomically knows, from collarbone to shoulder bone or down to your sternum ? Woo ! She's obsessed.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the lips; she's simple with it, and she's still learning to appreciate the gesture for what it is, more than what it can lead to. She struggles for a long time with her longing for a tender touch, and the confusion it brings- but it feels nice, and who is she to deny herself pleasure ?
Karlach
Favorite place to kiss
-On the lips and face; loves the feeling of a kiss, loves the feeling of smothering kisses, so doing both is the best of both worlds, right ? Right. She'll start by a simple peck, before quickly dealing a hang of smooch-tornado punctuated with silly little 'mwah's, utterly endearing. It's a tad hard not to let it turn into a searing kiss, if it's not what you want, but if it is, well. Happy you, really.
Favorite place to be kissed
-Above her heart if possible but otherwise on any pulse point like neck wrist; the meaning of kissing her heart... it's not lost on anyone, truly, and it's heavy and emotional. But it's hot, literally, and she certainly doesn't want to see you burn off your lips for something like giving her a kiss. So instead, there are plenty of places you can opt for, anywhere you can feel her heart -machine- beat under her skin. She's alive, damnit, and she needs you to know it.
Minsc
Favorite place to kiss
-On the cheek; it's like a target zone for him, as if there was a big ol' sign pointing to your cheek saying 'kiss me !'. You'll very often get a kiss in passing, in greeting, mid-sentence, just because, and with no real thought or intention other than him simply thinking 'hey I like you'. Boo also gets to join in sometimes by booping his nose to your cheek.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the templeor the forehead > there's a LITERAL target on his forehead, look ! It's a big curcle that does scream 'kiss here'. He's a simple guy with direct directives, coming with built-in visual instructions. Silly thought aside, he adores bending down his head- or his body, if you're smaller- to receive a peck on his temple. Maybe it'll spark something behind those pretty eyes.
Minthara
Favorite place to kiss
-On the lips; okay, you've seen the scene of her poison kiss ? She has to be doing it with various things. Maybe she kisses you with a protective potion on a day, a poison another, building your tolerance and protecting you when she has a feeling it's needed. The feeling of your lips on hers is a sweet bonus she takes full advantage of, claiming. In private, she still does the kiss of death/life thing, but it's not as dire a need- unlike her need to be close to you, sweet, and loving. Just for your eyes.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the neck; it's vulnerable in a way that shows some dominance to others still, when you do it. Like, yes, look at her getting a kiss from her beloved. Be jealous. Be envious. It's a strong feeling of possession that bubbles in her when you do it, no matter your dynamic, and well, she's a tad in love with the feeling. But in private ? It's a lot more of a sensitive touch. She shows herself a lot more open and relaxed. A bit like a flower blooming at night rather than day.
Shadowheart
Favorite place to kiss
-On where shoulder meets neck; intimate and brazen of a touch. It's teasing, it's short but leaving you wanting more, and she adores the potential little shiver it can bring if you're ticklish. She does get a bit disappointed if you're not, for the simple fact she likes getting a reaction- but she'll turn it into a game of trying to get you to be all flustered in front of others. She's got no shame, and plenty of self-control, so good luck to you if you're the more stoic type. Or even if you react easily- that also makes her tease more. She's got an easy trigger for teasing.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the hand; she likes to be appreciated in a gentle manner that can also feel heavy. Hand kisses hold much intents with many different ways to do it, and god's favorite princess likes to be pampered. Kissing her knuckles, her digits, into her palm, the back of her hand, in the air a breath away from her hand like actual nobility... It's all very, very attractive to her, and she gets very, very pleased with the attention.
Wyll
Favorite place to kiss
-On the knuckles; habits are hard to break. It's a similar fashion as to why Shadowheart likes it, but in the other way of he likes to treat you like a treasure, pamper you. Treat you like nobility, if you aren't, and if you're comfortable with it. He doesn't miss being a noble, but he understands the attraction to the idea of it, the attraction to the importance it brings. He's more than happy to remind you you're the most important person to him, a treasure to follow and walk along with.
Favorite place to be kissed
-On the base of his horns; makes him feel appreciated. There's hardly a need to explain he has insecurities, especially at first, from the horns, making him resemble what he swore to hunt. But reminding him appearance doesn't a devil make in such a sweet manor is a sure way to calm his anxieties, and it helps develop an appreciation for his newfound appearance through your eyes.
-♧-
I was inspired to write my own headcanons by this post by @/moonselune , whose writing I heavily recommend reading !
BG3 Companions reacting to you being stood up (when they have a crush on you) + Rolan & Raphael
This has never happened to me guys, definitely not using any recent experiences to help write this, not me, no, not at all
Karlach:
Karlach finds out by accident.
You’re lacing your boots near the fire, humming to yourself, when you mention it casually—too casually—like it’s nothing worth noticing.
“Oh, by the way, I’m heading into town tonight. I’ve got a date.”
If Karlach were less honest with her emotions, she might have hidden it better. As it is, the reaction flashes across her face before she can stop it: the way her grin falters, the way her shoulders stiffen, the brief, stunned pause like someone’s knocked the air clean out of her chest.
Then she recovers. Mostly.
“Oh!” she says brightly, a little too brightly. “That’s—yeah! That’s great. Awesome. You should, uh—have fun. Big fun. Tons of fun.” She gives you a thumbs-up that looks like it might snap off from how hard she’s holding it there. “You deserve it.”
You don’t miss the way her tail flicks once, sharp and unsettled, before she forces it still. Or how she suddenly finds the ground fascinating.
She even helps you straighten your collar before you go, fingers warm and lingering just a heartbeat too long.
“Knock ’em dead,” she says, voice soft. “Literally—no, wait. Metaphorically. You know what I mean.”
You do. And for a moment, you wonder if you should say something. But you don’t.
You’re back far sooner than anyone expects.
The campfire’s still burning when you step into the clearing again, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the ground like you’re hoping it might swallow you whole. You don’t say anything at first—just drop your cloak onto a log and sit down hard, staring at nothing.
Karlach notices immediately.
She’s on her feet in two strides, boots thudding softly against the dirt as she crouches in front of you, eyes searching your face.
“Hey,” she says gently. “What happened? You’re back already.”
You shrug, the motion small and defeated. “They… didn’t show. I waited. An hour. Asked around. Turns out they left town this morning.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Karlach straightens slowly, firelight catching in her eyes as something fierce and incandescent ignites there.
“…Oh.”
She plants her hands on her hips, jaw tightening. “Fuck them.”
The sheer, immediate certainty of it startles a weak laugh out of you.
“No, seriously,” she continues, already pacing. “Fuck. Them. You get dressed up, you put yourself out there, and they just—what? Decide you’re optional? Nah. Absolutely not.”
She stops in front of you again, crouching so she’s eye-level, her expression softening but her voice still burning with indignation.
“Listen to me. You are way too beautiful to be stood up. That’s on them. Entirely.”
You blink at her. “Karlach—”
“Not done,” she says, wagging a finger. “Because here’s what’s going to happen instead. We are going out. Right now. On the town. Drinks, food, noise, the works. You don’t get banished to sulk-camp because some little shit didn’t have the spine to show up.”
She grins then, sharp and feral and so Karlach.
“And if I see them? I will stamp on them. Just a little. As a treat.”
That does it—you laugh, really laugh, the heaviness in your chest easing as her warmth presses in around you like a shield.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say, though you’re already standing.
Karlach’s smile softens into something gentler, something almost shy. “I want to. Plus,” she adds, rubbing the back of her neck, “I’d hate for someone else to have all the fun tonight.”
You look at her—at the hopeful spark she’s trying not to show, the way she’s offering herself without pressure, just presence—and your heart aches in a different way now.
“…Okay,” you say. “Let’s go.”
Her grin lights up the clearing. “Hell yeah.”
She throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as she steers you toward the road, tail flicking happily behind her.
“Tonight,” she says, “we’re making new memories. Better ones.”
And for the first time since you walked back into camp, you believe her.
Minthara:
Minthara hears it the same way she hears most things that matter to her now: accidentally, and far too late to prepare herself. You mention it in passing while tightening a strap on your pack, voice light, almost cheerful.
“I’m heading into town later. Going on a date with someone I met there.”
For half a heartbeat, something sharp and unwelcome twists in her chest. It shows—just barely—in the way her hand stills on the hilt of her blade, in the fractional tightening of her jaw. Then the mask snaps into place, smooth and cold and practiced.
“Do as you wish,” she says coolly. “I fail to see why that concerns me.”
Her tone is flawless. Detached. Unbothered. You don’t see the way her eyes follow you as you leave camp, or how she stands there long after you’re gone, irritation simmering beneath the indifference. She tells herself it’s foolish. You are not hers. You have never said you were. Whatever this feeling is, it is inconvenient—and therefore to be ignored.
You return much sooner than expected.
Minthara notices before anyone else, because she always does. Your footsteps are uneven, your laughter too loud for the quiet camp, and when you stagger into the firelight there’s a flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with warmth. You sway slightly where you stop, blinking as though the world has betrayed you by refusing to stay still.
She’s on her feet instantly, irritation giving way to something far more dangerous—concern.
“You’re back,” she says, sharp. “And intoxicated.”
You grin at her, broad and unfocused. “Yep! Turns out my date never showed. So I decided to drink for both of us. Very generous of me, I think.”
You laugh at your own joke and wander past her, already humming a tuneless little melody as you search the camp with exaggerated seriousness.
“Now,” you announce, “where do we keep the good stuff?”
Minthara watches, jaw clenched, as you stumble toward Shadowheart’s pack with all the determination of someone on a sacred quest. You crouch, triumphantly unearthing a bottle of wine, holding it up like a prize.
Before you can even tug the cork free, Minthara snatches it from your hand.
“No,” she says flatly. “You are done.”
You frown at your now-empty hand, then at her. “Hey! That’s rude. I wasn’t finished being miserable yet.”
“You are going to bed,” she replies, voice brooking no argument.
You roll your eyes dramatically. “You’re not my—” you pause, squinting as another thought occurs to you, “—well, you’re not my boss.”
You reach past her, clearly intending to find more alcohol.
That is when Minthara’s patience finally snaps.
In one smooth, efficient motion, she bends, hoists you over her shoulder, and straightens again as if you weigh nothing at all. You yelp in surprise, then immediately begin protesting, thumping weakly against her back.
“Minthara! Put me down! I am a grown adult with feelings!”
“Then act like one,” she snaps, already striding toward your tent.
You grumble the entire way, voice wobbling with drink and frustration, until she finally lowers you onto your bedroll. The moment your feet touch the ground, the dam breaks. You shove at her chest, clumsy and unfocused.
“I waited,” you sob suddenly, the words tumbling out as your composure collapses. “I waited like an idiot. I dressed up and everything. And they didn’t even bother.”
The anger drains out of you all at once, leaving only hurt. You curl in on yourself, crying hard enough that your shoulders shake.
Minthara stiffens, clearly out of her depth.
“Enough,” she says, though her voice is less sharp now. “Pull yourself together. You are far too pretty to be making such an awful noise—especially over some gods-forsaken surface dweller.”
You sniff loudly, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand.
“…You think I’m pretty?”
She freezes. There it is—the slip. The truth she hadn’t meant to bare.
Minthara exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose, then straightens with a look of resigned irritation—as if annoyed not at you, but at herself.
“Yes,” she says finally, voice quieter. “I do. You are… infuriatingly beautiful. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen, if you must know.”
You stare at her for a moment, then your expression softens into something warm and relieved and painfully earnest. Without warning, you surge forward and wrap your arms around her, hugging her tightly.
“I wouldn’t know what to do without you,” you mumble into her shoulder.
Minthara stands rigid for a heartbeat, then—hesitantly—rests a hand between your shoulder blades, holding you just enough to keep you steady.
“…Me too,” she murmurs, so softly that you don’t quite hear it.
But the warmth lingers all the same.
Lae'zel:
You come back to camp long before anyone expected you to. The sun hasn’t fully dipped yet, the fire is only just being coaxed into life, and there’s still that soft, anticipatory hum in the air that usually greets you when you return from something pleasant. This time, though, you move like someone who has misjudged the weight of their own body.
Your boots drag. Your shoulders sag. You drop your pack by the edge of the camp with a dull thud and sink down beside it, elbows on your knees, staring into the flames as if they personally owe you an explanation.
You don’t notice Lae’zel at first, but she notices you immediately.
She’s sharpening her blade nearby, movements precise and rhythmic, but the sound falters the moment she looks up. Her eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but in assessment. You’re off-balance. Wrong. Not injured—but not whole, either.
She rises and approaches, stopping a few steps away.
“You have returned,” she says. “Earlier than planned.”
You give a short, brittle laugh. “Yeah. Didn’t feel much point in staying out.”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
You hesitate, then sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I got stood up.”
There’s a pause. Lae’zel blinks. Once.
Then again, slower, like she’s checking to see if the world has rearranged itself without telling her. “…Explain.”
You snort quietly. “We agreed to meet. They didn’t show. I waited. They never came. End of story.”
Her brow furrows, deep and sharp with genuine confusion. “This is illogical. Why would someone arrange a meeting and then fail to appear?” She studies you more closely. “Was the purpose not sexual?”
The bluntness catches you off guard, and a surprised gaffaw slips out of you before you can stop it. You lean back on your hands, shaking your head.
“Gods, Lae’zel—no. Not just that.”
“Then what?” she presses.
You stare into the fire again, the words tugging uncomfortably at your throat. “It was for… companionship,” you admit finally. “For attention. To feel wanted for an evening. I wanted to be flirted with. Swooned over. Chosen.” You swallow. “I wanted someone to look at me and decide I was worth showing up for.”
Lae’zel says nothing at first. Instead, she steps closer, boots crunching softly against the dirt. You feel her gaze on you—not predatory, not dismissive, but sharp and intent, like she’s cataloguing something important.
“Hm,” she says at last. “If you seek such attention, Astarion would no doubt welcome another opportunity to rehearse his seduction techniques.”
You smile faintly, the edge of the hurt softening. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m fairly certain I’ve heard every single one of Astarion’s lines. Including the ones he pretends are improvised.”
Lae’zel huffs. “A pity.”
Then, after a moment—long enough that you glance up at her—she continues, more slowly now.
“If attention is what you desire,” she says, “I could provide it.”
That makes you look at her properly. She’s closer than you realized now, arms folded, posture rigid as ever, but her eyes are searching your face with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.
She gestures vaguely. “Your eyes are swollen. Red. Puffy. You look as though you have been awake far too long—or crying.”
You prepare a defense for yourself but in the breath it takes to ready it, Lae'zel continues:
“And yet… even like this, they are striking. The redness only draws focus to them.” Her jaw tightens. “They are the most entrancing eyes I have seen.”
Silence crashes down between you. Lae’zel freezes. You can see the moment she realizes she’s gone too far—the slight widening of her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her mouth snaps shut as if the words surprised her as much as they did you.
She straightens abruptly. “—Your posture is atrocious,” she snaps, pointing at you. “You slump like a wounded animal. It is unbecoming. Sit properly.”
The whiplash is too much. You laugh—really laugh—doubling forward, pressing a hand to your face as the sound spills out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. The tightness in your chest finally loosens.
“Thank you,” you manage between breaths. “Truly. I feel significantly better after being emotionally validated and then immediately insulted.”
Lae’zel scowls, clearly flustered. “That was not validation.”
“Sure it wasn’t,” you say warmly, looking up at her with a smile that still carries a bit of rawness around the edges. “But it helped. A lot.”
She clicks her tongue, turning away slightly. “Good. Then you are no longer distracted by foolish customs.” She pauses, then adds, more stiffly, “And… anyone who would fail to appear for you is a fool.”
You soften at that. “Thanks, Lae’zel.”
She doesn’t respond—but she stays nearby, blade forgotten for the moment, keeping watch like she always does.
Shadowheart:
You barely make it back to camp before the ache in your chest turns sharp enough to sting behind your eyes. You don’t announce yourself, don’t linger by the fire, don’t even look to see who’s around. You slip straight for your tent like a guilty secret, ducking inside and letting the flap fall shut behind you with a soft, final sound.
You sit there in the dim, knees drawn up, forehead pressed briefly to them as you try to get a grip. You tell yourself you’re fine. That it was silly to expect anything. That you’ll laugh about it later.
You absolutely will not cry.
Outside, the camp carries on—low voices, the crackle of firewood, the familiar comfort of people who don’t yet know you’ve already come back, empty-handed and hollow.
Except one of them does.
Shadowheart had been pretending not to watch the path. Pretending very carefully. She’d told herself she was just being vigilant, just keeping an eye out, just… coincidentally glancing up every time footsteps might have been yours. When you finally appeared—too early, shoulders slumped, moving like you hoped the shadows would swallow you whole—her heart dropped straight into her boots.
“Oh,” she murmured to herself.
She didn’t follow you right away. She didn’t need to. The way you disappeared into your tent said everything.
So instead, she acted.
She ducked into her own tent first, emerging moments later with her good wine—the one she’d been saving, the one she absolutely pretended she wasn’t emotionally attached to. Then, without a shred of guilt, she veered toward Halsin’s tent. She slipped inside like a whisper, emerged with a small cloth bundle, and smirked to herself.
Honeycakes. Of course he kept honeycakes.
“Worth it,” she muttered, already heading for you.
When the flap of your tent lifted again, you scrub hastily at your eyes, hoping the low light hides the worst of it. Shadowheart steps inside without hesitation, arms full, expression infuriatingly gentle.
You blink at her. “What… what are you doing?”
She drops down across from you, arranging the loot between you like this is the most natural thing in the world. Two goblets appear. The wine is uncorked with practiced ease.
“Drinking,” she says lightly. “With you.” She nudges the bundle of honeycakes closer. “And eating these before Halsin realizes I stole them.”
You stare at her, caught off guard, emotions still too close to the surface to hide properly. “You… stole from Halsin?”
She lifts a brow. “Please. I liberated them. Now—” she tilts her head, eyes sharp but kind, “—are you going to join me, or are you planning to rat me out?”
For a moment, you just look at her. Then your shoulders sag, the fight draining out of you. You swipe at your face one last time, inhale, and nod.
Shadowheart smiles, soft and victorious. “Good.”
She pours the wine and hands you a goblet, her fingers brushing yours just briefly—warm, grounding. Then she settles back, legs folding comfortably beneath her.
“Now,” she says, voice lowering conspiratorially, “tell me everything about this stupid human being.” Her lips curve, dark and amused. “Preferably in great detail, because I am absolutely going to imagine finding them tomorrow morning and killing them to shake off the hangover.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it—surprised, shaky, but real. You take a sip of the wine, let the warmth spread through you, and then you start talking.
You describe the way they’d spoken, the stupid confidence, the way they’d promised to be there. Shadowheart reacts to every bit of it with escalating commentary—snorts, eye-rolls, muttered insults that grow increasingly creative.
“Gods, what an idiot,” she says at one point, shoving a honeycake toward you. “Eat. You can’t properly slander someone on an empty stomach.”
You do. You drink. You complain. And with every shared laugh, every exaggerated insult, the weight on your chest eases just a little more.
Shadowheart watches you over the rim of her goblet, jealousy still there—but softened now by something warmer, steadier. She doesn’t say anything about it. She doesn’t have to.
Tonight, she’s here. And that’s enough.
Jaheira:
Jaheira knows something is wrong the moment you return to camp. Not because you say anything—you don’t—but because you come back too early, and you move like someone trying not to be seen. Your shoulders are tight, your steps careful, as if you could fold yourself small enough to slip between the trees and disappear. You don’t stop by the fire. You don’t greet anyone. You just angle straight for your tent with your head down.
Jaheira watches from where she sits, fingers stilled around her mug. She exhales slowly through her nose. “So,” she murmurs, already on her feet, “that’s how it is.”
She doesn’t follow you immediately. Jaheira has never been one to crowd pain the second it appears. She gives you a moment—just long enough for you to think you might have gotten away with it. Then she moves, steps purposeful but quiet, ducking into your tent without ceremony.
You startle slightly when the flap lifts. “Oh—Jaheira. I was just—”
“Saving me the trouble of pretending I didn’t notice?” she says dryly, settling herself down across from you. Her eyes sweep over you in one quick, assessing glance: the stiffness in your posture, the way your hands won’t quite still, the faint redness around your eyes you definitely think you hid better than that.
She clicks her tongue once, sharp and displeased. Not at you. At them.
You huff out a weak laugh. “It’s fine. Really. They probably just—forgot. Or something came up.”
Jaheira’s brows draw together, her expression going flint-hard in a way you’ve seen directed at far more dangerous foes. “People do not ‘forget’ when they have arranged to meet someone,” she says. “They choose. And that is very different.”
You open your mouth, ready to deflect, to soften it, to make excuses the way you always do—but she lifts a hand, stopping you.
“No,” she says firmly. “Don’t diminish it. Not to spare them.”
There’s a pause. The tent is quiet except for the sounds of camp outside, distant and unreal. Jaheira’s voice softens when she speaks again.
“Did you wait long?”
You hesitate. That alone is answer enough. Jaheira sighs, long and slow, and leans back, rubbing a hand over her face.
“Gods above,” she mutters. Then she looks at you again, and this time there is no sharpness left—only something steadier, older, and unexpectedly gentle.
“You know,” she says, “I have survived gods, tyrants, and more fools than I can count. And still, I am perpetually surprised by how casually people can wound one another.”
You swallow. “I just wanted… I don’t know. To feel wanted, I guess.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “You are wanted.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Jaheira seems to realize it a heartbeat later. Her jaw tightens slightly, and she clears her throat. “By people with sense,” she adds, a little gruffly. “Which admittedly narrows the field.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
She allows herself a faint, satisfied huff. Then she reaches out—not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel her presence grounding you.
“You took a risk,” she continues. “That takes courage. Being disappointed does not mean you were foolish—it means you cared. And I will not have you shamed for that.”
You look down at your hands. “Still feels stupid.”
Jaheira snorts. “Of course it does. If it didn’t, I’d be worried.” She pauses, then adds, more quietly, “But for what it’s worth… if someone stood me up after being given the chance to spend time with you, I would consider it a staggering lapse in judgment.”
You glance up at her, startled.
She meets your eyes, steady as a mountain, and though she doesn’t smile, there’s warmth there—real, unflinching. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return.
“Well,” she says briskly, standing and offering you a hand, “come sit by the fire. You can brood in isolation if you like, but I’d prefer you do it with decent company. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them you had better plans.”
You take her hand.
As she helps you up, her grip lingers just a second longer than necessary—protective, reassuring—and though she says nothing more, the message is clear:
You were not wrong to hope. And you are not alone now.
Gale:
You come back to camp with your jaw set and your heart in pieces, which is a frankly awful combination.
You don’t go to your tent. You don’t go to the fire. You grab an axe and head straight for the perimeter like the trees have personally wronged you.
The first strike bites deep into the log with a vicious crack. The second is harder. The third harder still. Wood splinters fly, your shoulders tense, breath coming sharp through your nose. Each swing is too forceful, too angry, too desperate to be felt—and it shows.
Wyll notices almost immediately.
He watches you from a distance, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin as the axe rises and falls again and again. “That,” he says carefully, “is not how someone chops wood when they are well.”
Karlach follows his gaze and winces. “Oof. Yeah. That’s a ‘don’t talk to me or I’ll bite’ chop.”
Wyll turns to her, hopeful. “Karlach, perhaps you could—”
She cuts him off instantly. “Nope. Absolutely not. I like my limbs attached, thanks. I’ve seen that look before.” She squints at you. “They’re sad and angry. That’s dangerous. You need loverboy.”
There’s a pause.
Gale, mid-sip of tea, sputters violently. “I beg your pardon—”
“Oh,” Wyll says, eyes lighting up. “That’s brilliant. A wonderful idea. An inspired one.”
Gale splutters again. “Wyll—”
“This is the perfect opportunity,” Wyll continues cheerfully, already steering him by the shoulders. “You’ve been meaning to say something for ages.”
“I have not—”
Karlach grins, nudging Gale forward. “Go on, wizard. If you die, I’ll avenge you.”
“I would prefer not to require avenging!” Gale protests, but his heels dig uselessly into the dirt as he’s propelled closer and closer to you. “This is highly irregular—emotionally volatile individuals and edged tools—”
Before he can finish, he’s there.
Standing directly in front of you.
You lift the axe again, breathing hard, eyes bright with unshed tears and fury. Gale freezes for half a heartbeat, instinctively flinching—then forces himself to stay put.
He swallows. “Ah. Hello.”
You stare at him like you don’t quite recognize him, like he’s wandered into the path of a storm.
“Are you—” Gale begins gently, “—are you alright?”
Something in his voice—soft, earnest, utterly unconcerned with his own safety—snaps the last thread holding you together.
You let the axe fall.
It hits the ground with a heavy thud, embedding itself into the dirt inches from Gale’s boots. He startles despite himself—but then he sees your face crumple, your shoulders hitch, and the anger drains out of you all at once, leaving only raw, shaking hurt.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You don’t even manage a word before you’re crying—properly crying, the kind that steals your breath and makes your chest ache. Gale doesn’t hesitate for a second. He steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you in firmly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, the other pressing you close to his chest.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs immediately. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You don’t need to be strong right now.”
You clutch at his robes, fists bunching in the fabric as you cry into him, tears soaking through. Gale rocks you gently, a steady, grounding motion, murmuring nonsense reassurances and quiet comforts, his voice low and warm and constant.
He lets you cry as long as you need.
Eventually, the sobs quiet into shuddering breaths. Your grip loosens. Gale shifts slightly, just enough to look down at you.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me a moment, will you?”
You hesitate, then lift your head.
The world changes.
Suddenly, the camp is gone—replaced by a soft, endless night sky. Stars bloom into existence around you, dozens of them, then hundreds, glowing gently in familiar constellations. The air seems calmer here, quieter, like the universe itself has leaned in to listen.
Your breath catches. “…You did this.”
Gale smiles, small and fond. “I did. I remembered you like this one. You once said it made you feel… less alone.”
You let out a watery laugh, wiping at your cheeks. “You remembered that?”
“Of course I did.” His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, wiping away a tear without even thinking about it. “I’m very glad to see that smile again. It suits you far better than swinging axes in a murderous rage.”
You snort despite yourself.
Gale’s expression softens further, eyes warm and earnest. “Whoever failed to show up tonight,” he says quietly, “is a fool of the highest order. Anyone who could miss the chance to make you smile like that…” He shakes his head. “Well. It’s their loss entirely.”
The stars shimmer softly around you, and for the first time since you came back to camp, the tight knot in your chest loosens.
And Gale stays right there, holding you, as if there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
Astarion:
You’re nearly finished getting ready when Astarion makes his presence known in the most irritating way possible—by saying absolutely nothing.
You catch his reflection first, lounging against a tree with all the casual elegance of someone who has absolutely nothing at stake. Arms folded, one boot crossed over the other, red eyes following your every movement with pointed interest. The silence stretches just long enough to become deliberate.
Finally, he clicks his tongue.
“Oh my,” he says lightly. “Look at you. Polished. Preened. Almost radiant. One might assume you’re trying to impress.”
You don’t turn around. “I am.”
That earns a slow, lazy smile. “How tragic. And here I was hoping this was all for me.”
You snort and reach for your cloak. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Impossible,” he replies, pushing himself upright and circling you like a bored cat. “You’ve clearly put thought into this. Clothes chosen with care, hair fussed over, perfume—gods, is that perfume? Someone’s serious.”
He leans in just a little too close. “Do I need to remind you how dreadfully unreliable strangers tend to be?”
You finally look at him. “You’re one to talk.”
He places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Darling, I’m exceptionally reliable. In my own way.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and shoulder past him. “I’ll be back later.”
“Mmm,” he hums, eyes tracking you as you walk away. “Do try not to be murdered. Or seduced. Or worse—disappointed.”
You laugh it off, but you miss the way his smile falters the moment you’re gone.
When you return, it’s well past dark.
You don’t stride confidently into camp. You stumble.
Your steps are uneven, your cheeks flushed with too much drink, your eyes rimmed red and glassy. You pause near the fire as if unsure where you meant to go, then sink down heavily, shoulders slumping as the weight of the evening finally crashes in on you.
You stare at the ground. Then your hands. Then nothing at all.
Astarion notices immediately.
He’s on his feet before he realizes it, crossing the distance with uncharacteristic urgency. The teasing expression he’d worn earlier evaporates the second he sees your face.
“…Well,” he says more gently than he intends. “That was quick.”
You don’t answer.
He crouches in front of you, tilting his head, studying you closely. “That bad, hm?”
You sniff. Once. Then again. “They didn’t come.”
His jaw tightens. “Didn’t come.”
“I waited,” you say thickly. “Like an idiot. I thought maybe they were late. Or nervous. Or—” Your voice wobbles. “—or something.”
Astarion feels something twist in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. It makes him angry in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle.
“Forget them,” he says immediately, voice edged with heat. “An absolute fool. Clearly lacking vision.”
You laugh weakly, then drag a hand over your face. “I liked them, Astarion. I thought they liked me too.”
That ache deepens, settles somewhere uncomfortably close to his heart.
He scoffs reflexively, trying to smother it with cynicism. “Darling, please. It was probably a con. Someone charming you just long enough to get something out of you. Or lure you somewhere unpleasant. Or sell you out. Or kill you.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “You dodged an arrow.”
You blink at him, processing through wine and hurt. “…So I’m not even worth being tricked, kidnapped, or murdered?”
He freezes. “That’s not—”
“Fantastic,” you interrupt, pushing yourself to your feet with wobbly determination. “I see my destiny now. I’m going to dig a hole. Live in it. Become some strange little hole creature. No expectations. No dates.”
You start toward the tree line.
“Oh no you don’t,” Astarion mutters.
He’s up instantly, catching your arm and smoothly redirecting you toward your tent instead. “Absolutely not. Hole creatures don’t get blankets or decent wine, and frankly I refuse to watch you commit to that lifestyle.”
You grumble but let him guide you, leaning into him more with every step.
“We’ll deal with this properly in the morning,” he continues darkly. “Track them down. Decide whether to trick them, kidnap them, or murder them. I’m open to suggestions.”
You nod solemnly, then abruptly turn and throw your arms around him, clinging tight as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
He stiffens—just for a heartbeat.
Then he exhales and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, one hand settling protectively between your shoulder blades. His voice softens despite himself. “Alright. I’ve got you.”
You stay like that for a moment, breathing him in, grounding yourself.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing gently beneath your eyes, wiping away tears with surprising care. “Honestly,” he murmurs, “absolutely wasted, emotionally devastated, and still far too charming for your own good. It’s infuriating.”
You huff a small, broken laugh.
“Now,” he says, guiding you into your tent, “into bed with you. I’ll fetch some water. We cannot have you waking up with a headache when we have such brilliant revenge fantasies to plan.”
As you lie down, he pauses at the entrance, glancing back to make sure you’re settled—really settled.
And when he returns with the water, he lingers just a little longer than necessary, sitting nearby, watching over you like he’s guarding something precious… even if he’d never admit it.
Wyll:
Wyll is already in full heroic mode before you’ve even finished getting ready.
He leans against a crate near your tent, arms folded, a grin bright enough to be seen from the Hells, watching you pace and fuss with your clothes like they might betray you at any moment.
“You look incredible,” he says for what must be the fourth time. “Truly. Any fool would be lucky to spend the evening with you.”
You stop pacing long enough to groan. “You’re biased.”
“I am correct,” he replies easily, then softens when he sees how tightly you’re wound. “Hey. You alright? You’ve been chewing your lip for ten minutes.”
“I’m nervous,” you admit. “What if I say something stupid? Or they don’t like me? Or—”
Wyll lifts a finger. “Hold. I’ve got this covered.” He steps closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Here’s the plan. You go. You give it an honest shot. And one hour in, I check on you.”
You blink. “Check on me how?”
“I’ll find an excuse,” he says smoothly. “Urgent hero business. Camp emergency. Karlach accidentally set something on fire again. If you’re having a terrible time, you latch onto the excuse and we make a dramatic exit.”
You laugh despite yourself. “And if it’s going well?”
“Then I vanish,” he says, smile just a touch tighter than before. “And I’m very happy for you.”
He means it, even if it costs him something.
An hour later, Wyll steps into the tavern, already rehearsing his cover story—and stops short when he sees you.
You’re sitting alone at the bar, shoulders hunched, staring into a drink you haven’t touched much. Your face is flushed, but not with excitement. Mortification clings to you like a second skin.
He’s at your side in an instant. “Hey,” he says gently. “What happened?”
You look up at him, eyes shining. “They… never came.”
His smile drops. “What?”
“I waited,” you say, voice small. “Asked the bartender. Apparently they weren’t even planning to show. Just… didn’t bother.”
For a heartbeat, Wyll is utterly stunned.
Then something resolute settles into him, like a shield locking into place.
“…I see,” he says carefully. “And you’re telling me this person willingly chose to miss an evening with you.”
You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Seems so.”
Wyll straightens, fire lighting behind his eyes. “Well. That simply will not stand.”
Before you can protest, he sets a coin on the bar and offers you his hand. “Come on.”
“Wyll—”
“Tonight,” he says firmly but warmly, “you are not going to sit here wondering what you did wrong. Because you didn’t do anything wrong. And I intend to prove it.”
He pulls you onto the floor when the music swells, spinning you into a dance before you can overthink it. He laughs when you stumble, steadying you easily, praising you for every step like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He compliments your laugh. Your smile. The way your eyes light up when you relax. He fetches you water, then another drink when you want one, fussing just enough to make you feel cherished instead of pitied.
For the first time that night, you forget to feel embarrassed.
You have fun. Real fun.
By the time the two of you make your way back toward camp, you’re laughing freely, legs aching pleasantly. When you finally admit you’re tired, Wyll crouches in front of you without hesitation.
“Up you go,” he says.
You climb onto his back, arms around his shoulders, and he carries you the rest of the way, talking softly about nothing and everything just to keep you smiling.
At the edge of camp, you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For tonight. For… everything.”
He freezes for just a second, then smiles—soft, sincere, a little bittersweet.
“Anytime,” Wyll says. “Truly.”
And if his heart feels a little too full as he carries you the last few steps home, well… that’s a burden he’s more than willing to bear.
Halsin:
You make it back to camp under the cover of early night, the fire already lit, its glow spilling outward in warm, familiar shapes. Laughter drifts toward you—Karlach’s booming joy, someone groaning theatrically at one of Astarion’s remarks, Gale’s voice weaving in like a calm thread. It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
Your steps slow as you take it all in, your chest tightening with something sour and heavy. You know the moment you step into the light they’ll look up. They’ll ask how it went. They’ll care. And right now, that feels unbearable.
So you don’t let them see you.
You turn away instead, slipping past the perimeter of camp and into the woods, the shadows quickly swallowing you whole. The sounds fade behind you, replaced by the soft creak of branches and the hush of night insects. The air smells of damp earth and leaves, grounding and cool, but it does little to settle the storm churning inside you.
You stop near a fallen log, pressing your palms to your face and breathing hard through your fingers. Your shoulders shake despite your efforts, tears slipping free no matter how fiercely you try to will them back.
“Idiot,” you mutter to yourself. “Gods, you knew better.”
You swipe at your eyes angrily, pacing a few steps, then stopping again as your breath catches. You’re so focused on not falling apart that you almost don’t hear the footsteps behind you—soft, deliberate, unmistakably familiar.
“Hells,” you say, turning away sharply as you recognize them. “Damn it, Halsin—don’t.”
He doesn’t retreat.
Instead, his presence fills the small clearing, solid and steady as a great oak. “You disappeared,” he says gently. “I thought you might need company.”
You shake your head, covering your face. “I’m fine. I just needed a minute.”
He steps closer anyway, the forest seeming to make room for him. One warm, calloused hand closes gently around your wrist, not forcing, just asking, and he lowers it from your face so you can’t hide anymore.
“Look at me,” he says, low and calm.
Reluctantly, you do.
Your eyes are red and swollen, lashes clumped with tears you haven’t quite managed to stop. Halsin’s expression shifts immediately, concern deepening into something heavier, more personal.
“How are you?” he asks.
You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “Clearly not well. My date never showed.”
For a moment, Halsin says nothing. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s tamping down a spark of anger, and lifts both hands to your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes, wiping away tears with such care it nearly undoes you all over again.
“They are a fool,” he says, voice firm and unyielding.
You scoff weakly and look away. “You’re just saying that because you’re you.”
His hand slides to your jaw, guiding your gaze back to his. “No,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “I am not.”
There is no indulgence in his tone. No gentle lie meant to soothe. Only conviction.
“I mean it,” he continues. “Anyone who could arrange to meet you and then choose not to show—without explanation, without honesty—has revealed their character. And it is lacking.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow, blinking hard.
“You did not imagine the connection,” Halsin adds. “You did not do something wrong. Their failure is not a reflection of your worth.”
He leans closer, forehead resting briefly against yours, his presence grounding, his warmth undeniable. “You are thoughtful. You are brave enough to hope. That alone makes you extraordinary.”
The forest feels quieter, like it’s listening, holding the space for you. Your shoulders sag, the fight finally draining out of you as the hurt settles into something softer, easier to bear.
Halsin’s arms come around you then, broad and sure, drawing you against his chest. “You don’t have to be strong out here,” he murmurs. “Not with me.”
And for the first time since you turned away from camp, you let yourself believe him.
Rolan:
You’ve been sitting at that table long enough that the chair across from you feels accusatory.
The candle has burned low, wax pooling unevenly, and the tavern’s hum has shifted around you—patrons coming and going, laughter rising and falling, the bartender polishing the same glass for the third time while pretending not to pity you. You stopped watching the door a while ago. There’s no point now.
That’s when Rolan spots you.
He’s meant to be enjoying a rare pause in his relentless studies, spellbook closed for once, sleeves rolled up, trying very hard to look like a wizard who knows how to relax. He doesn’t—never really has—but seeing you alone, shoulders drawn inward, gaze fixed on nothing at all, makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t have a spell for.
He knows you. Well enough to know something’s wrong.
He hesitates only a moment before crossing the room.
“…You look like someone who’s been waiting,” he says gently, stopping beside your table.
You glance up, recognition softening your expression immediately. Your smile comes out of habit—polite, practiced—but it falters at the edges. “Oh. Rolan. Hi.”
He pulls out the chair across from you but doesn’t sit yet. “Are you alright?”
You don’t bother lying. “No,” you say, with a little shrug. “But I will be.”
Rolan’s brows knit together at once. “That,” he says firmly, “is simply not good enough.”
You laugh under your breath, rubbing at the rim of your glass. “It’s fine. Really. These things happen.” You look up at him, eyes bright with unshed disappointment. “Actually—why don’t you sit? I want to see what you’ve been working on lately. Your new spells.”
He stares at you for a second. Then he snorts softly. “Now I know you’re not fine.”
You tilt your head. “And how’s that?”
“No one who’s fine tries to distract themselves with magical demonstrations,” he says, sitting at last. His tone softens. “That’s what I do.”
You smile, sheepish but warm. “Please?” you ask again, quieter this time. “I’d like to see.”
Rolan exhales, lips twitching despite himself. “How am I supposed to say no when you ask like that?” he mutters, ears warming faintly as he looks away. “You know I can’t refuse you.”
He lifts a hand, murmuring a careful incantation. Light blooms between his fingers, spilling outward in delicate threads that weave themselves into small, floating sigils—tiny illusions that shimmer and drift like fireflies, changing color as they move.
You watch them, shoulders slowly relaxing, something in your expression easing as the magic dances between you.
“They’re wonderful,” you say softly. “You’ve gotten so good.”
Rolan ducks his head, embarrassed and pleased all at once. “I had an excellent reason to practice,” he says before he can stop himself.
Then he clears his throat and adds, more quietly, “Whoever stood you up is an idiot.”
You glance at him, surprised. He meets your gaze this time, unflinching.
“You deserved better than that,” he says. “At the very least, you deserved honesty.”
Your smile this time is small, but real. “Thank you, Rolan.”
His heart stutters at the sound of his name on your lips, and he looks away again, pretending to focus on keeping the spell steady.
“Stay,” he says after a moment, casual as he can manage. “At least until the lights fade.”
And for the first time that evening, you don’t feel quite so alone waiting at the table.
Raphael:
You decide, quite sensibly, that if you’re going to be abandoned like an unwanted side quest, you might as well enjoy yourself.
The tavern is warm, loud in that comforting, lived-in way—mugs clinking, a fiddle whining somewhere off-key, laughter bursting out in uneven waves. You slide onto a barstool and order something strong, then something fruity, then something strong again just to prove a point to no one in particular. You’re not drunk—far from it—but there’s a pleasant looseness in your limbs, a soft buzz behind your eyes that takes the edge off the disappointment.
You lift your glass in a private toast. To me, you think. For showing up.
That’s when the air shifts.
It’s subtle at first—like the tavern has inhaled and forgotten to breathe out. The candle flames bend ever so slightly, shadows stretching where they shouldn’t, and then a familiar, infuriating voice curls around your ear like smoke.
“Well, well,” Raphael purrs, appearing beside you as if he’s always been there, crimson smile sharp and satisfied. “It seems the little mouse scurried all the way to the trap… only to find no cheese waiting.”
You close your eyes and sigh into your drink. “Oh gods. Not tonight. Go away, Raphael.”
He places a hand over his heart in exaggerated offense. “And leave my favorite adventurer to drink alone? How dreadfully impolite of me.” He slides onto the stool beside you without asking, coat immaculate, presence far too large for such a mundane space. “Honestly, you wound me.”
You squint at him. “Fine. Stay. But you’re paying.”
A snap of his fingers and the bartender stiffens, nodding faintly as if compelled. Raphael smiles smugly. “Anything for you.”
You take another sip, eyeing him sidelong. “So. What do you want?”
He studies you for a moment longer than strictly necessary, gaze sharp but oddly attentive. “I was curious,” he says lightly. “What could possibly possess someone as… interesting as you to waste an evening mingling with a mortal so painfully dull?”
You scoff. “Why do you care?”
He gasps, hand fluttering to his chest again. “Care? Me?” His eyes gleam. “Darling, of course I care. You wound me twice in one night.”
You snort. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “here I am.”
You swirl your drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “If you’re so all-powerful,” you say casually, “why did my date stand me up?”
Raphael’s smile sharpens—not amused now, but intrigued. “Ah,” he says softly. “That sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a deal.”
You glance at him, unimpressed. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not bargaining my soul because some idiot couldn’t show up to a tavern.”
He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Perish the thought."
"How about if you tell me, I won't ruin the ambiance of this lovely place by trying to smite you." You smile at him, eyes narrowed and he nods his head in agreement. You study his face, searching for the trick, but he only looks… sincere. In his own infernal way.
“The truth, then,” he continues, voice lower. “Your would-be companion was a coward. Intimidated by you. By your presence. By the idea of being seen next to you.”
You blink. “You’re just saying that.”
“I assure you,” Raphael says, eyes flicking to yours with something dangerously close to honesty, “I am not.”
You huff a laugh, warmth creeping into your cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “Well. That’s flattering. Infuriating. But flattering.”
He lifts his glass in a toast. “To cowards who flee greatness.”
You clink your mug against his. “And to devils who know when not to push their luck.”
He smiles—slow, pleased, and far too fond.
Popping in to write my heart out, added rolan and rapahel as an offering of my love and gratitude of you all as I crawl back into my hole, hope you enjoy!! - Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
I have a funny little request, How do you think the baldur's gate 3 companions would react or respond to Tav talking to someone and who ever they are talking to asks them something about a husband/Wife and they point to one of the companions say “Yeah that’s my Husband/Wife right here”, Or Tav greeting the bg3 companions and saying “Hello my beautiful Wife or Handsome Husband how are you today?” Idk I think it would be funny you can either do all the companions or just a few and whoever else you want.
P.S One of the companions has to Karlach pls and thank you. Have a good day/night
↪"Say that again?"
Bg3 companions x reader
Warnings : none that I can think of, if there anything triggering please let me know
A/n : this is such a cute idea !!! Thank you so much for the request and ofc I'll include Karlach it's a literal crime if I don't
Astarion is mid-sip of his wine when he hears it. You’re chatting with a bartender, mentioning offhandedly, "Oh, my husband enjoys that brand of wine!" The words seem to hang in the air. A moment later, he chokes, coughing as he hurriedly sets his glass down.
"Sorry, darling, did I just hallucinate, or did you actually call me your husband?" He grins, sharp and playful, but there’s something else lurking in his ruby eyes—something softer. "How bold of you. I don’t recall signing any vows, though if they involve more pet names and adoration, I might be convinced."
Despite his teasing, there’s an undeniable smirk of satisfaction on his lips, and later that night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you catch him whispering his name with your last name attatched—testing the sound of it with a chuckle.
▢ shadowheart
Shadowheart stiffens, her hand momentarily pausing over the clasp of her pack as you effortlessly refer to her as your wife in conversation. She recovers quickly, a well-trained mask slipping into place, but you catch the slight widening of her eyes, the way her fingers tighten just a bit.
When the conversation is over, she turns to you, arms crossed, voice a delicate mix of amusement and hesitancy. "Wife, huh? That’s...a rather serious word, don’t you think?" There’s no irritation in her voice, just a quiet wariness.
You lean in and reassure her—tell her it just felt natural—she exhales, her stance softening. "I suppose... it doesn’t sound terrible coming from you." She smirks faintly, then, in a rare show of vulnerability, she murmurs, "Say it again. Just once."
▢ gale
Gale practically beams. He was in the middle of explaining some grand magical theory when you casually referred to him as your husband, and the conversation might as well have ceased to exist. He turns to you with wide, delighted eyes, as if you just handed him the crown jewel of Mystra herself.
"You—you truly think of me that way?" His voice is filled with genuine wonder, his hands twitching as if resisting the urge to pull you into an embrace right there. "I must admit, I rather like the sound of it."
For the rest of the day, he finds ways to bring it up—entirely coincidentally, of course. "Ah, yes, my spouse and I were just discussing that," he’ll say to a trader. Or, "Well, as my beloved has so kindly pointed out..." He’s positively radiant, and when the two of you are alone, he holds you close, murmuring, "One day, perhaps, we could make it more than just words."
▢ karlach
Karlach lets out the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. One moment, she’s hauling a crate of supplies, and the next, she’s throwing an arm around you, laughing loud enough to startle a nearby bard.
"Wife? You think I’m wife material?" She practically lifts you off the ground in a hug, her infernal engine humming warmly. "Oh, babe, you really know how to make a girl’s heart melt."
For the rest of the day, she won’t stop teasing you. "Hey, love, your wife could use a back rub after all that heavy lifting." Or "Shouldn't a wife get extra rations? I think that’s fair." But underneath the playful exterior, there’s a warmth in her gaze every time she looks at you—like you just gave her something precious she never thought she could have.
▢ lae'zel
The moment the word leaves your mouth—wife—Lae’zel halts. Her expression sharpens, golden eyes locking onto yours with an unreadable intensity. The person you were speaking to wisely excuses themselves, sensing the tension crackling in the air.
She steps closer, head tilting, her voice a low rumble. "You claim me as a wife?" It isn’t anger, but a challenge. Prove it, her tone demands.
You meet her gaze unwaveringly and confirm it without hesitation, she exhales, something pleased flashing across her face. "Hmph. Among my kin, such a title is not spoken lightly. If you speak it, you must own it."
Later, when camp is quiet and you were walking towards your tent, she pulls you aside, her hand gripping your wrist—possessive, firm but there was a softness to it that couldn't be denied. She looked flustered, frowning at you with a twitch of her brow," As your... wife. I demand we sleep in the same tent."
▢ wyll
Wyll is in the middle of charming a noble when you casually refer to him as your husband. The words slip from your lips without hesitation, and at first, he doesn’t react—so well-trained in maintaining composure. Only until the noble left did something warm flicker in his bi-coloured eyes, his confident smile faltering for just a heartbeat.
"Ah—your what?" He turns to you, and for the first time in a long while, the Blade of Frontiers looks genuinely caught off guard.
When you confirm it with an easy smile, he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to suppress the warmth creeping up his face. "Well, now you’ve gone and made a man blush," he teases, but there’s a softness to it. A part of him that seems to hold onto the word like a cherished melody.
Later that evening, when the two of you have a rare quiet moment, he leans in, his voice lower, more earnest. "You really see me that way?" His hand finds yours, thumb tracing circles against your palm. "Because I could get used to that."
▢ halsin
Halsin is kneeling by a wounded animal, murmuring a quiet spell of healing, when the word husband leaves your lips. It’s said so casually—to another druid, in passing—that at first, he doesn’t seem to react.
But then, as the spell finishes, he turns to you, golden eyes warm with something deeply affectionate. A slow smile spreads across his face, creasing the corners of his eyes. "Husband," he repeats, testing the weight of it, his voice rich with amusement. "That is… a title of great commitment. And yet, hearing it from you, it feels as though it has always been true."
There’s no teasing, no hesitation—only an earnest kind of joy. He steps closer, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his touch feather-light. "If this is how you see me, then I will wear the title with pride." His voice drops to a low murmur, meant only for you. "And should you ever wish to make it more than words, I will answer gladly."
From that moment on, he often refers to you in kind—my heart, my love, and, on particularly affectionate days, even my wife/husband/mate. It is not just a title to him; it is a promise.
▢ minthara
Minthara doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. She merely continues sharpening her blade, her red eyes cold and unreadable as you casually refer to her as your wife in conversation.
The person you were speaking to quickly departs, sensing the weight of silence that follows. Then, without looking up, Minthara speaks, her voice dangerously low. "You called me wife."
It isn’t a question. It’s an evaluation. A test.
You confirm it, she finally lifts her gaze to meet yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "How bold of you," she muses, setting her blade aside. "Amongst lolth-sworn drow, such words are not spoken lightly. They are a claim. A promise."
She stands, stepping into your space, her presence as commanding as ever. A hand grips your chin—not harsh, but firm. Possessive. "If you call me wife, then you had best mean it."
And yet, later that night, when the camp is quiet and she believes no one is watching, she lingers at your side a little longer. A rare softness flickers in her eyes before she turns away, murmuring to you just loud enough for you to hear—"Hmph. It does have a certain... power to it."
▢ raphael
The moment the word husband leaves your lips, Raphael goes completely still. The conversation you were having with an unfortunate merchant screeches to a halt as the cambion turns his attention fully on you. The air crackles with something dangerous—something deeply, intensely amused.
A slow smirk stretches across his lips. "My dear, I do believe I misheard you," he purrs, voice as smooth as velvet. "Did you just call me your husband? How delightfully bold of you."
He steps closer, red eyes gleaming with something unreadable—pleasure? Possession? The thrill of a game he suddenly must win? He takes your hand, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. Never breaking eye contact as his lips were curved in that usual salacious smirk of his,"Now, if you are to call me husband, I expect proper treatment. Gifts. Devotion. Perhaps a throne befitting a devil of my caliber."
There’s teasing in his tone, but beneath it? Oh, there’s something else entirely. Later, when no one is around, he murmurs against your ear, "let me hear it again... it sounds so terribly tempting when it falls from those lips of yours."
▢ rolan
Rolan is mid-rant—complaining about some idiot who failed to organise the library books the right way—when you absentmindedly refer to him as your husband. He stops talking. Completely.
His mouth opens. Closes. His tail flicks rapidly behind him, betraying his internal spiral.
"Wha—wait—what did you just call me?" His voice cracks, and he immediately clears his throat, straightening his shoulders in a desperate attempt to regain his dignity.
When you repeat it, casual as ever, he stares at you like you just cast Wish in front of him. "That’s… I mean, I am an impressive partner, but—" He crosses his arms, looking away, his cheeks burning a darker, unmistakable shade of red. "You can’t just say things like that without warning someone!"
But for the rest of the day, he’s noticeably smug—standing taller, magic practically crackling at his fingertips. And if you listen closely, you might hear him muttering under his breath: "Husband. Hah... obviously."
Hey! I love your shapeshifter, but I had an idea 👀
What about a feral! Possessive! mimic that steals the form of a husband who was a piece of shit, and the reader knows that it’s a mimic but doesn’t care because she’s being treated well. Bonus points if she tells the mimic that they don’t need to pretend anymore because she loves them.
Pretty please? 🙏🏻
I will offer cute cats pics in exchange for the fic lol
Oh ho ho! I'll take that offer!
-
You noted an immediate and positive change in your husband; he was kinder, softer, and doted on you, whereas not even a week ago, you had been mere moments from having a full-blown domestic incident every night. It was too good to be true, and you found out why very quickly, as a grocery run with your new husband became something of a spectacle, having him wrap his arm around your waist and almost hiss at some random woman who tried to hit on him, practically growling that he was yours.
At any other time, he would have taunted you with that incident, rubbing in that he was wanted by others and could leave you at the drop of a hat.
During his brief display, you'd seen it - the way his skin moved, his jaw opening, that shrinking slit to his eyes. Whatever had taken the form of your husband wasn't human, but it was certainly better at being in a human relationship than the man it had replaced. So you took your time, didn't change your routine with him, but took your time to watch, to observe, to take note of how attached this thing in your husband's face seemed to be.
Whenever it seems to think you're asleep or unaware of him being around, you can see how he rolls his neck, flexing his fingers and scratching at parts of himself that normal human arms cannot reach, his eyes don't react to light like yours do, shrinking when others approach and blowing wide when looking at you, almost akin to a cats in a way.
The day you really learnt what had replaced your husband was on a night out, having been to a bar and excused yourself to the bathroom for a moment, laughing as he followed you, leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, almost whining when you closed the door. As you had been washing your hands, you heard it, in the alleyway behind the bar, something like a fight with loud crashes and a sickening crunch. Peaking over the edge of a window as you stand on the toilet seat, you see him, it, the form of your husband hunched over holding another person down, another him?
You make a swift exit out of the bar, paying your tab and tipping the bar staff before rushing into the side alley, rushing forward and finding the creature with your husband's face snarling and hissing in the face of your actual husband.
He's dirty, scratched up and bruised.
Seeing you, he gurgles something out and reaches for you, the thing holding him down growls, pushing down on his chest in a way that makes a soft creaking sound, its teeth, more like fangs, as it hisses. You step forward, pressing a hand to its shoulder, pulling it away from the scrap of a man you no longer cared for.
You leave that alleyway and don't look back, helping the thing with his face straighten himself out, smiling softly as you make yourself very clear about how you'd prefer it over him any day, laughing as its eyes go wide and it purrs at you. Taking its hand, you walk home humming softly as it watches you with big, eager eyes, telling it softly that if it wants, it doesn't have to wear its fake face at home.
You would like to know exactly what your new husband looked like when he was at peace, after all.
Oh, the instinct of comforting your shapeshifter husband when he thinks you're going to leave him.
You have been married to him for two years now. And you did know your husband very, very well. You knew his accent, his jokes, the way he walks. Everything a wife is supposed to know, you do. And he does believe that, too.
Except, of course, that Joshua never believed you would figure out what he truly was.
When you first started dating, he was a perfect actor. He had a career, an apartment, and a handful of friends. He even ate normal food around you. Until you started noticing that he always disappeared for a few minutes after dinner or lunch, just to throw it all up. And whenever you asked if he was alright, Joshua pretended nothing had happened. There were also the nights when he waited for you to fall asleep before slipping away to hunt. You pretended to sleep, of course — but it didn’t take long for you to connect the dots. News about random people going missing always seemed to follow the nights he was gone.
You didn’t quite understand what he truly was, but you did know he was not a human being. He couldn’t eat regularly, couldn’t sleep as much as you did. And he was warm. Really, really warm. On certain days, his skin was so hot you were sure it was almost vaporizing. On those days, he took long, long cold showers, and he wouldn’t let you come near him or touch him.
“Baby, if you’d just let me take care of you…”, You tried, stepping closer.
“No need. I swear. I love you, have a lovely day.” he would say in a rush, going to “work”, not even stopping to kiss you goodbye.
But you weren't scared; not at all. You knew he would never hurt you, it didn’t matter what he was; Joshua was your husband, after all. And you would have lived your life pretending you didn't know a thing, if it weren’t for one particular night that he spent almost two hours in the shower. Worried, you decided to open the bathroom’s door, and everything was a mess.
He was inside the bathtub, completely submerged, the shower still running and making the tub overflow onto the floor. The bathroom looked more like a pool now. You rushed forward, almost panicking and pulled his body out of the water.
“Love, what are you-” Fucking burning. The water was freezing, but his body was so hot you couldn’t hold onto him. A pained, choked moan slipped from your mouth as you tried to understand how the hell his skin could be at that temperature.
How long had he been submerged like that? Was he dead?
With terrified eyes, as if he were still half-awake from a trance, he looks at you, then down at your hands. They’re red now, still stinging slightly from the shock of touching his skin.
He lifts his hands, instinctively trying to reach for you, but stops halfway through the motion, slowly processing what just happened.
“Was it me?” he asks. His pupils dilate, his voice rough, weak, almost gone. “Did I hurt you?”.
Still shaken, you can only manage a few broken murmurs, too worried to form real words.
“You were in there for so long… I thought you had- I thought…”
He understands what you were about to say and shakes his head immediately.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, I promise.”
He definitely wasn’t okay, even as he tried his best to calm you down. The freezing water hit his body and evaporated almost instantly. Inside the bathtub, the water began to bubble. The running shower echoed loudly, the bathroom growing more and more soaked by the second.
Joshua slowly gets to his feet, still dizzy, taking a deep breath. You almost reach out to steady him, but he lifts a hand and gives a soft warning “ah-ah,” motioning for you to stay back so you won’t get hurt again.
“I need you to leave. Go, get out of here. Please. Can you do that for me? M’love, here, pay attention to me.” He says, trying to pull your attention back to his face as he turns the shower off, away from the sight of his chest skin flushing red.
You shake your head. You’ve seen his skin turn that color before — and every time, he ran.
“I’m not leaving you,” you say, your voice still trembling, but firm.
“I can’t do this in front of you. I can’t. Please, sweetheart, I—”
His sentence breaks off halfway as his body falters, and he drops to his knees on the floor. One hand presses against his chest as he starts coughing, still trying to force words past his lips, but he’s far too weak for that now.
Moving quickly, you grab the bathrobe, the thick fabric of the towel giving you just enough protection to touch his back. Carefully, you drape it over his shoulders, holding his body as gently as you can.
“I’m not leaving. Stop holding back. Do whatever you have to do, don’t hide from me. Let me help you.”
At your final plea, he finally gives in to the pain. His skin begins to heat up again, even more than before, steam rising from his pores. You drop the robe immediately, watching the redness spread across him until the vapor darkens — thick, black, like smoke.
It doesn’t smell burned.
Sitting on the floor not too far from him, but not close enough to get hurt, you watch your husband, your partner of years, completely change his skin. A dark being, entirely black like the night, strong-bodied and hairless, takes his place.
His breathing slows. His body relaxes, as if he’s no longer fighting an unbearable strain. Finally at ease, nearly drained, he leans his back against the wall and lets his head rest against the tiles, fogged over by steam.
He lifts his gaze to you. His eyes are completely white, hollow, like a void. Nothing like the calm green you’re used to.
“It’s me,” he says, his voice very, very weak. “I swear it is. Please don’t be scared. I swear I’m-” he coughs softly, exhausted, his eyes fluttering, heavy with sleep.
“I know, my love. I know. It’s okay.” you move closer, slowly, crawling toward him until you’re close enough. “I’m going to take care of you. Let me take care of you, okay?”.
You reach out and touch his face, now warm again, brushing your thumb gently over his cheek before whispering once more: “I’ll take care of you. You can rest now.”
Almost immediately, his eyes fell shut. Joshua slips into a deep sleep, anesthetized by the pain he endured for so long.
Once he’s asleep, you try to lift him somehow, to get him off the wet floor — but he’s far too heavy. So you grab the bathrobe and spread it out on the ground, and with a lot of effort, you manage to lay his body down on it, dragging him out of the bathroom.
Knowing you won’t be able to carry him all the way to the bed, you improvise instead. You set up the camping mattress you used to take on trips, piling it with the softest blankets you can find, and then push yourself even harder just to roll him onto it.
When Joshua wakes up, he knows something is wrong.
He feels as though he’s recovered months’ worth of energy. His body doesn’t ache, doesn’t protest after spending so long in a form that isn’t his natural one. He also knows he’s not in bed, but he can smell you.
He looks around and finds you lying on a rug beside the camping mattress where he’s resting. You’re asleep, peaceful. And then he remembers.
The heat building in his body. Trying to drown it out with cold showers, hoping to suppress the pull back to his original form. Sometimes, he couldn’t go out to hunt without distracting you first. And so he stayed the same, in the shape of the man you fell in love with, for days.
When he pushed past his limit, his body gave up on holding it in and transformed on its own. There was no temperature cold enough to stop it.
Joshua knew he had gone too far this time.
He swallows hard, his throat aching. He hasn’t been asleep for long. You’re not wearing the same clothes either, and from what he can see of the en-suite bathroom, everything is dry and clean now.
But you’re here.
By his side.
While he’s in his original form.
A monster.
When he starts to stir, pushing at the sheets, already preparing to force himself back into his human shape, he feels a warm hand press firmly against his chest.
“You can stop right there,” you order, your voice still rough with sleep. “If you change forms again knowing it’s going to hurt you, I’ll kill you myself.”
“I don’t want to scare you.”
“I’m not scared, I’m pissed,” you snap. “Never hide anything from me again. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” He holds back a smile, already knowing you’re not going anywhere. “I hear you. I am so sorry, my dear. I am so sorry.”
He pulls you closer, his massive form, still larger than his human one, carefully settling you on top of him, one hand stroking your hair as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
Of course, there’s still so much to discover. So much about him to understand. So much he still needs to tell you. But for now, resting your head against your husband’s chest, knowing he’s no longer hiding anything that could hurt either of you, feels like enough.
I feel like I’m cheating on the bsd fandom not being able to use the anon…
I’m new to your blog so if I’m gonna against any rules ignore this but could I request Giyu after the Muzan battle when he loses his right arm and cuts his hair short and STILL looks so FINE but where he gets married to reader whos having his baby
If the anon being off means your request are closed PLEASE ignore this
𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽!
My Asks are still open by the time you requested @blu3chuubliss soooo, lemme give you a short glimpse on this scene. 💓
The wedding was small and peaceful, just as Giyu had intended it to be. Peace was the only thing that could be found after the battle, after the blood and the long night that had almost engulfed the entire world.
His haori hung nicely around his shoulders as he stood in front of the shrine. As a subtle reminder of the cost he had incurred in the fight against Muzan, his right sleeve was pinned flat against the cloth, now empty. Once long enough to cascade about his face, his hair had been chopped off. The sharpness of his jawline and the serene intensity of his stare were exposed by the minimalist style, which strangely made him appear even more striking.
And still, he looked uneasy.
Even when no one mentioned it, he could sense the silent pity and the way people's gazes lingered on his missing arm, which bothered him. A part of him feared that you might view him differently on this day of all days, even though he had never given any thought to appearance before.
Then he heard the sound of your footsteps approaching, soft but steady, and everything else faded.
Your hands trembled a little as you approached him in your bridal kimono, the silk glinting in the sunlight. The warmth in your eyes, more than the clothing or the well-groomed hair, was what made you so beautiful. Eyes that stared at him, at him alone, as if no one else in the world had ever been worthy of such a look.
His throat tightened.
When you stopped in front of him, he lowered his head slightly and murmured, low enough for only you to hear.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that. Not when I’m… like this.”
You blinked, then reached out, placing your hand over his chest where his heart beat steady and strong. “Like what? Alive? Breathing? Mine?”
At your words, a dam that had been held in place for years began to loosen. His scarred and calloused fingers curled softly around yours as if they were terrified of breaking something valuable.
The ceremony flowed in slow, thoughtful steps. Promises made without haste but with a weight that is rooted in your bones, and vows made in silence. Grand speeches and an audience limited to surviving close friends were absent. Simply two individuals connecting their lives in the most profound and basic way.
Giyu leaned down and kissed your forehead as the priest pronounced you husband and wife. It contained everything he had never been able to express out loud, but it was not a spectacular kiss or the kiss of storybooks. A promise to keep you safe. a promise to stick around. A promise to love.
The reception was subdued but warm, filled with laughter from those who remained. All the shadows seemed to vanish from the shrine as Tanjiro's smile illuminated it. As she shouted for you both, Nezuko nearly lit up as she clasped her hands in joy. Meanwhile, Zenitsu sobbed uncontrollably and babbled about how lovely everything was. Inosuke simply yelled that there wasn't enough food and asked for seconds, but his big smile made it clear.
With a shy bow, Kanao approached in silence, holding a delicate bouquet of wisteria. Her gaze lingered on you with a soft tenderness, then shifted momentarily to Giyu, who bowed his head in silent appreciation.
Even Sanemi, gruff and scowling, lifted his cup in acknowledgement. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Tomioka,” he muttered, though there was no real bite behind the words.
Later, however, when the food had been eaten and the guests had started to disperse, you discovered Giyu sitting outside, away from the commotion. The cicadas in the trees were singing sweetly in the cold evening air. He sat looking up at the twilight sky while his haori was slung over his shoulders.
You lowered yourself next to him and rested your head lightly on his shoulder. He remained where he was and did not stiffen as he occasionally did. Instead, his cheek caressed your hair as he cocked his head slightly.
“You left the party early,” you teased softly.
“I don’t belong in crowds,” he murmured, but his voice lacked its usual heaviness. There was a gentleness there, an ease that hadn’t existed months ago.
Your hand drifted down almost effortlessly, resting on your stomach. The gesture was not evident, but he noticed. He never failed to notice.
His gaze followed, resting on the curvature of your hand against your belly. His single hand rose slowly and gently, as if he was scared of breaching a barrier. When you turned your palm forward to meet his, he sighed, a subtle tremor going through his body as his palm rubbed against yours over the delicate bulge in your tummy.
“It still doesn’t feel real,” he said, voice low and rough. “That I get this. That you’re carrying my child.”
You shifted closer, threading your fingers through his. “Then let me remind you as often as I need to. You deserve this happiness, Giyu. We both do.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. Then, quietly:
“I’ll protect you both. With everything I have left.”
Your throat tightened at the weight in his voice. “I know you will.”
And for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, you noticed it: the smallest smile tugging on his lips. It was little, ephemeral, and real. Enough to get your heart racing.
The war had taken away so much from him: his arm, his colleagues, and his peace of mind. But when the night fell over you both, you realised it had also given him something. The future. A family. An opportunity to be loved completely, just as he was.
“Giyu,” you interrupted gently, “trust yourself. Our baby deserves to know their father’s arms.”
You moved cautiously, guiding the little bundle towards him. His palm trembled as he stretched it, slipping under the baby's weight with unexpected ease. The infant moved, letting out a little whimper before settling back against his chest.
Giyu froze. Then he looked down.
Everything changed.
His eyes softened in a way you'd never seen before, and a peaceful wonder enveloped every shade in him. He bowed his head slightly, his black hair brushing against the baby's tiny forehead, and for a brief time, he didn't resemble the Water Hashira or the man who had carried generations of pain. He seemed like a father.
“Hello,” he whispered, his voice breaking as though the word itself carried more weight than he could bear. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
Tears ran down your cheeks at the sight and sound. He looked at you, and for once, there was no obstacle between you—only raw, unrestrained love.
For the first time, Giyu smiled fully and honestly, as if the universe had finally allowed him to.
𝓞𝓜𝓖! 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓣__𝓣
Thank you again for your request, dearieeee! I loved how this flowed and yes, this is so lovely cause I want my boy, Giyu, to be happyyyy!
Thank you once again for your support everyone! I really appreciate you all!
Feel free to reblog, comment, and like! Would appreciate youuuur love!
ive been reading your stuff more recently and i just love the way you write could you maybe write something for giyuu and sanemi with a reader who is shy during sex and is constantly putting their face in their neck and chest to like hide their face and noises?
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : You keep hiding your face, too shy to meet their eyes… but they’re not having it. Two very different men, one same goal : make you realize you don’t need to hide from love.
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : OHH MY GAHHHHHH that is SOOO CUTEE !!! Although I have to say, I don’t write NSWF often, so it’s going to be very light and not too detailed !! I'll leave the rest to y’all imagination lol ! However, since it’s still light nswf, I'd ADVISE minors to DNI ! But it’s quite comical and a bit dumb I think, (since I am one myself 😭). But anyway haha, I shall serve so….
Here we go….
𝐆𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐎𝐊𝐀 ༄ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
NOTICES RIGHT AWAY
He'd gently stop any movement when he notices you hiding .
He'd kiss your hands away when you try to hide
Not forcing just gentle.
Always giving you the time to stop him or push him away if it makes you uncomfortable.
Unsurprisingly that bby would think your shyness has to do with him.
"Am I unpleasant to look at...?" (THIS BBY OMGG kiss him)
When you tell him that it's not that, you don't miss how his whole body seems to sag in relief.
"Don't muffle your sounds please...You sound pretty, really pretty."
He'd blush himself all the way through that baby making session (iykwim...)
Would plant gentle kisses on your shoulder to gently coax you out of hiding in his neck.
When honestly he doesn't mind that much.
If you're more comfortable like this, it's YOUR comfort above anything else.
But a part of him also genuinely just wants to see you completely.
To see how you react to his touches, kisses and more...
"I love hearing you...I really do."
Peppers your body with kisses, starting from your belly to your top until you feel comfy again. (AGHHH I'm screaming at my own writing!!)
He'll mutter through kisses how much you're doing well and that there's nothing to be embarrassed abt !
𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀 ⋆.˙༄.°
Also notices right away!
His movements stilling almost abruptly, but careful not to hurt you.
"HEY, why are you hidin' for…?"
He'd never admit it but he does find it really cute.
When he sees how embarrassed you are, his eyes instantly softens.
"Y..You can stay like that if you want, but at least let me hear you..."
He'd say with a faint blush ardoring his face, looking away as if trying to hide it. (he's a tsundere idc what anyone says)
He resorts to gentle caresses, trying to shift your focus to his touch rather than your embarrassment.
"You don’t have to be embarrassed y'know…not when we’re like this."
I can picture him teasingly pinching you whenever he feels you hiding back in his chest/neck (very lightly no worries lol not hard enough to hurt)
A gentle sign to remind you that there’s no need to hide…not with him.
He'd eventually just want you to look in his eyes and not break eye contact.
His gaze tender and loving, nothing close to the hothead Hashira everyone knows
⋆˚✿˖° Hiiii !!! How are u all ? That was the sweetest request I've ever worked on !! While I'm not fully comfortable writing NSWF, I genuinely impressed myself with this one !! No roughness or crazy topics ik, it's all softness here lol. And if you're still wondering → NO, you'll never see rough or degrading NSWF (even kinky) posts on my page ! All softness, always ! Hope you guys liked this one !!! Sending lots of love, xoxo ⋆˚✿˖°
This one is soft, indulgent, and sensual—reader is playful, infatuated, a little shameless with her affection, and each man reacts in his own way. The focus is on fluff because the last headcanon was a little rough. Featuring: Kokushibō, Akaza, Giyū Tomioka, Gyōmei Himejima, Uzui Tengen, Haganezuka Hotaru, and Sanemi Shinazugawa.
❤︎18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ❤︎
Kokushibō
You love touching him. Every scar, every stretch of muscle under his pale skin. He doesn’t stop you when you press your palms to his arms, stroking up and down like he’s carved stone. He only watches, quiet, while you kiss his eyelids—tender, reverent. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Strange girl,” he murmurs.
You grin, kiss his forehead, trace down his jaw. He feels worshipped. And he allows it. For someone who’s lived centuries drowning in silence, in blood, the press of your warm mouth against his ruined body feels…dangerous. Like hope.
When you crawl into his lap and nuzzle at the lines of his ribs, he exhales a low sound, hand brushing the back of your head. He doesn’t understand why you’d want him like this. He only knows he won’t tell you no.
ᰔᩚ⋆.˚
Akaza
You get obsessed with his tattoos. You kiss them, lick along the curling marks like they’re sacred lines. Sometimes you take his wrist, tongue tracing the veins in his hand until he shudders and grips your thigh too hard.
“Little thing…” His voice is rough, shaky.
You smile against his skin, teeth scraping over the swell of his bicep. He loves how shameless you are, how greedy. Loves the way you don’t flinch from him. When you drag your mouth down his chest and whisper, “Pretty,” he almost laughs.
Pretty? A monster like him. But he lets you say it. Lets you claim every inch of him with lips and hands, even when it makes him ache with something unfamiliar.
ᰔᩚ⋆.˚
Giyū Tomioka
You leave hickeys everywhere. His throat, collarbone, shoulder. Each bruise dark on pale skin, like you’re marking him. Giyū never stops you—he just blushes and stiffens, ears pink, mouth set.
“Enough,” he mutters sometimes.
But he doesn’t push you away. He sits there, jaw tilted, while you press another bite into his neck. He swallows hard when you murmur, “Want everyone to see.”
Your soft little grind into his lap makes him shiver. He won’t admit it, but he likes being claimed, liked by someone who sees him as more than a quiet shadow. He likes the way you won’t let him fade.
ᰔᩚ⋆.˚
Gyōmei Himejima
You climb into his lap at random, grinding over his thigh or print like it’s instinct. He’s huge under you, warm, unmoving at first. Then his big hands settle gently at your waist, steadying you.
“Child,” he rumbles, embarrassed.
You only moan softly, rubbing harder. He feels your heartbeat racing against him, your body so small against his massive frame. His cheeks heat, but he lets you do it. Lets you use him as if he were yours.
When you bury your face against his chest, whispering sweet things—how safe he makes you feel, how much you adore him—Gyōmei trembles. That never ending flood of tears start. He’s not used to indulgence. To being touched with such eagerness. But he holds you tighter, rocking you slowly, giving you what you need.
ᰔᩚ⋆.˚
Uzui Tengen
You’re fascinated with his jewelry. Fingers always tugging at chains, rings, tugging his earrings into your mouth just to bite. He laughs, indulgent.
“You’re a menace,” he teases.
But when your teeth sink into his neck, leaving a sharp bite over his pulse, his breath stutters. You grin up at him, eyes wicked, and he just cups your chin with jeweled fingers. “Brat.” His voice is warm, amused. He lets you gnaw and mark, lets you glitter yourself with him.
You’re his favorite kind of chaos—bright, greedy, affectionate. He wouldn’t have you any other way.
ᰔᩚ⋆.˚
Haganezuka Hotaru
You play with his swords, fingers gliding along the hilt while he glares. But he doesn’t snatch it away. He only mutters, “Careful.”
Sometimes you sneak up behind him while he forges, pressing your naked body against his sweaty back. He freezes, tools clattering. “What the hell—”
You laugh, arms circling his waist. “Keep working.”
He growls, flustered, but he doesn’t throw you off. The heat from the forge mixes with your warmth, your skin against him. It’s distracting, maddening. But he secretly loves it—loves that you want to cling to him even when he’s at his most unlovable.
ᰔᩚ⋆.˚
Sanemi Shinazugawa
You get hooked on his scars. The pale lines that drag across his chest and face, the jagged grooves on his arms. You run your fingertips over each one like you’re memorizing them, like they’re holy scripture. He stiffens every time, jaw tight, eyes darting away.
“Quit starin’,” he mutters.
But you don’t quit. You kiss each scar, soft and stubborn, until his breathing turns uneven. When you lick along the ridge of one across his ribs, he curses under his breath, hand fisting in the sheets.
“Why do you… why do you look at me like that?” he asks, but it breaks, softer than he means it to.
You grin against his skin, whispering, “Because you’re beautiful.”
That word knocks the air out of him. Beautiful. He pretends to hate it. Pretends you’re annoying. But when you smile up at him like he hung the moon, Sanemi’s heart stutters, and he knows he’ll never tell you no.
husband!giyu is secretly a softie (but just for you ᨳଓ࿔)
most people think your husband is an... odd man. stoic at best, aloof at worse.
they all thought it was weird when the pretty new hashira started dating such a man, surely you could have whoever you want. imagine their surprise when you actually got engaged – who could imagine the stern water hashira getting on one knee?!
but they had it all wrong, you see, because with you? giyu was as soft as could be.
there was rarely a morning you didn't wake up all wrapped up in his arms, face squished against his chest. oh, were you cold? don't worry, giyu was pulling you in tight without a word, rubbing his hands all over your back and making sure the blanket was tucked just under your chin. he didn't care if it meant his feet were uncovered, at least you were nice and warm!
meals were always made by him, complete with breakfast in bed when you both happened to have more free time. giyu loved making you his favourites, bonding over food always a big thing for him, but the most important thing for him was learning your favourites
whenever you came home after a particularly tough training session, giyu was always ready for you. "you worked too hard again" he'd say in his monotone, pulling your tired feet onto his lap. "stop making me worry about you" he complains with a barely concealed pout, rubbing your soles with skiller fingers
but of course he'd never stop worrying about you. you were the most important person in giyu's life, and maybe he wasn't the best with words – but he made it damn sure to show you with actions every single hour of the day
giyuu is not jealous. no, seriously, he's not! he might have been glaring daggers at you all morning, but he's not blaming you – he knows you're a hashira, and that sometimes that means training with, well... other hashira.
it's only natural, of course. giyuu knows you wouldn't improve if you only trained with him 100% of the time. best to hone all your skills, learn a bit from everyone. it was safer that way.
and giyuu wanted you to be safe.
but did it have to be tengen?!
that huge muscly bastard who looked at you like he was shopping for a fourth wife. giyuu hated it, it made his blood boil – and he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it from where he stood just far enough away, with his arms crossed and serene eyes that hid a turbulence of emotions.
"what's the matter with him?" tengen teased, clearly way too aware of what he was doing. it was no mistake that he decided to train shirtless this morning.
and you followed his gaze, finally turning around to see what he meant.
giyuu almost flinched when he saw you look his way, curious. he wanted to be seen, but also he didn't, and – ugh, it was complicated.
he didn't want you to think he was jealous. he was just protective.
obviously.
but like you knew you had him completely under a spell, you lifted your hand to wave at him. a soft smile adorned your lips. and finally, for what felt like hours, giyuu finally exhaled.
how could he worry about anyone else when you looked so happy to see him?
acidentally snooping on bf! katsuki's phone and seeing something... kinky.
you were just on katsuki’s phone, playing subway surfers. you honestly didn’t even remember because the moment you accidentally swiped to his notes app, your eyes landed on a particular note titled “shit to try w/ her” and curiosity got the best of you.
at first, you thought it was something mundane—maybe new date ideas, training routines, or even a new recipes. but as soon as you opened it, your face went hot.
because it was a list. a very detailed list of all the filthy things katsuki wanted to do to you. some of it was stuff you’d already done—rougher, filthier things that had you squeezing your thighs together just remembering them. but then there were the others. the things he clearly hadn’t brought up yet.
shit to try w/ her
- overstimulating her (worse than usual. she looks so pretty when she cries on my dick)
- mirror sex while making her watch (want her to see how fuckin’ pretty she looks fallin’ apart.)
- recording it (for us only).
- thigh riding while i just sit back and watch (bet she'd whine so fuckin pretty too)
- more praise. (she likes that. she gets all shy. cute as fuck.)
- see how many times i can make her come in a single night.
your eyes widened at that last one. oh.
you kept scrolling, your thighs pressing together involuntarily. you knew katsuki was a freak, but seeing it written out like this, with all the little notes and thoughts he’d clearly been holding onto—made your breath hitch.
this was… a lot. not that you were opposed to most of it, but the fact that katsuki was sitting on this list, keeping it to himself, planning? that was almost hotter than the list itself.
you were still staring at the screen when you heard the bathroom door open. before you could react, a shadow loomed over you.
“the fuck you doin’?” katsuki’s voice was gruff, but he sounded relaxed—like he was toweling off his hair as he walked into the room.
you scrambled to lock his phone, but it was too late. the second he saw the look on your face, the way you were gripping his phone like you’d just uncovered a government secret, his eyes narrowed.
“…what did you see?” his voice was cautious now, tinged with suspicion.
you slowly turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “me? what are you doing making a list of all the filthy things you wanna do to me?”
katsuki froze .a slow, deep flush crept up his neck, spreading to his ears. his jaw clenched, his hands twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he should snatch his phone away or act like nothing happened.
“…you weren’t supposed to see that.”
your smirk widened. “oh? and when was i supposed to?”
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “dunno. when i fuckin’ brought it up.”
you leaned in, voice teasing. “well, damn. didn’t know you had all these filthy little fantasies about me.”
“shut up,” katsuki sputtered, face burning, his hand swiping for the phone. he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “fuckin’ kill me.”
you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “y’know, all you had to do was ask, baby.”
his fingers dug into your waist, his jaw clenching. “don’t—”
“i can’t believe you wrote it all down,” you teased breathlessly. “you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.”
katsuki groaned, muffled against your neck. “i’m gonna kill you. you keep runnin’ that mouth, and i’ll start checkin’ shit off that list right now."
you bit your lip, feeling bolder. “you know… we could. cross something off the list.”
his eyes snapped to yours, darkening in an instant.
“…get on the bed.”
and then, without another word, he crushed his lips against yours and, well—you did end up checking something off that list that night. particularly, the last one.
you lost count somewhere after the third orgasm, but katsuki didn’t. oh no, he kept track. every time your body seized up, every time you sobbed his name, every time you gasped that you couldn’t take anymore—he whispered the number into your ear like a reminder.
“four,” he’d growled, dragging his thumb over your swollen clit. “look at you, fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”
“five,” he rasped later, his grip on your thighs tightening when you tried to squirm away. “told ya you could give me more.”
by the last one, your body was boneless, your voice gone, and your mind a hazy blur of pleasure. katsuki finally relented, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his chest.
you felt his lips press against your temple, his breathing uneven as he whispered, “fuckin’ champ.”
the morning after, you were sprawled across katsuki’s chest, his arm draped lazily around your waist as the sun peeked through the curtains. your entire body ached in the best way possible.
you groaned softly, shifting to get more comfortable, and his chest rumbled with a low chuckle, his fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back. "you alive?"
"barely," you mumbled into his chest. "my legs hate you."
he chuckled, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek. "told ya you could take it."
you huffed a laugh, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. his crimson eyes were soft in the morning light, the usual sharpness replaced with warmth—and just a hint of smug pride.
“well, i didn’t know you were gonna go for the damn world record,” you teased. “how many times was it?”
his smirk deepened. “seven.”
your jaw dropped. “seven?”
“mhm,” he squeezed your waist. “you were real fuckin’ cute, too. cryin’, beggin’, squeezin’ me like that. thought you were gonna pass out on number six.”
your cheeks burned. “oh my god, stop.”
“why? can’t handle hearin’ how fuckin’ pretty you were last night?”
you covered your face with your hands, groaning. but katsuki was having none of it—he pried your hands away and pinned them to the mattress, leaning down until his lips brushed yours.
“seven,” he repeated against your mouth, grinning when you squirmed beneath him. “and next time? we’re goin’ for eight.”
‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧
