Jul 8, 2025
I started a Noir AU for BG3 (with guns and tech, still debating whether or not to keep the magic). Did some sketches a year or so ago to help me write it. 😊
The fic isn't done yet but I have a good idea of where I want it to go...
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Nigeria
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from Russia
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Colombia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from T1
seen from Russia
seen from Ukraine
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
I started a Noir AU for BG3 (with guns and tech, still debating whether or not to keep the magic). Did some sketches a year or so ago to help me write it. 😊
The fic isn't done yet but I have a good idea of where I want it to go...
Sir Kyle Garrick walks into a brothel.
pairing: Human!Kyle Garrick x Half-Nymph!fem!Reader
warnings/info: Baldur’s Gate AU | 18+ | Universe typical violence and magic; unprotected sex; fluff; loss of virginity; open ending
wc: 5.6k
This is for meu anjo @girlfromflor 🩷 Wish you the happiest of Birthdays, baby 💐🥂 I hope you'll like it. (Also, I proofread in a hurry, so finders keepers for errors! Heh)
It’s been a rough week for all soldiers serving in the Flaming Fists.
Keeping right and order in the Lower City has been hard enough as more refugees are seeking out shelter within Baldur’s Gate lately, but the battle against a whole squadron of Gnolls, Goblins, and their bloody Wargs, on a patrol just outside the city’s territory has been the cherry on top of the whole mess.
They didn’t lose anyone in the fight, but two good friends and comrades have been heavily injured. One lost an eye; the other got hit by a splash of acid, leaving his skin badly etched where it managed to burn through his armour.
Meanwhile, Kyle got off lightly—a cut on his forehead that nicked his right eyebrow and some nasty bruises on his torso caused by mediocre crafted clubs. Nothing a well-placed healing spell or potion won’t heal again.
When Kyle and his fellow soldiers finally return to headquarters within the city walls, his lieutenant, a Half-Elf named Darrin Deepwood, approaches him in the armoury with a firm clap on his shoulder and his helmet tucked casually under his other arm.
“You need a woman, Sergeant,” he announces, only half-joking. “Nothing better than havin’ a woman after a battle well fought.”
And Kyle can merely laugh out of respect and politeness towards his leader, still amid taking off his heavy armour, even though the thought alone makes his stomach coil and cringe internally.
“Aye, I’ll think about it, sir,” he replies as he puts his breastplate on the table where his claymore is resting out of its sheath, coagulating blood dripping and slowly staining the wood.
“Atta boy.” Another firm clap to his bruised back makes Kyle wince in pain, but he refuses to show weakness to anyone. “Sharess’ Caress, that’s where ya need to go tonight. And that’s an order.”
Darrin winks at him before his lean yet tall figure disappears into the crowd of fellow soldiers, most likely making his rounds to check on other comrades who’ve been shaken up by the bloodshed.
Kyle’s jaw ticks as it clenches tightly while he ponders Darrin’s words; grabbing a nearby cloth and his sword to start cleaning. The foul stench of Gnoll and Goblin blood is starting to burn his nose and the adrenaline ebbing away in his veins causes his chest to feel heavy with fatigue and sullenness.
He’s got a family to worry about—a house that needs constant fixing, whose rent keeps increasing, and his widowed mother to take care of, along with four younger siblings to watch out for.
Not one of them is a child anymore. The second oldest, his brother, is but two years younger than Kyle himself, and yet Kyle still feels responsible for all of them. He wants to see them happy in their marriages, wants them to care properly for his nephews and nieces, keeping their jobs, moving up in society, improving themselves.
There is no time nor nerves left for a woman in his life. Not with his responsibilities and the dangers of his job. He could never forgive himself if he left his wife behind like his father left his mother.
Bleeding out on a battlefield, three arrows piercing his chest while mother bled in their marital bed, birthing his littlest sister.
He still remembers all too vividly his mother’s loud wails of sorrow when father’s captain at the time brought the bad tidings home to them. And the moment Kyle was told that he’s the man of the house now. The patriarch of House Garrick.
Kyle keeps his expression neutral as he cleans his weapon methodically; slowly dragging the damp cloth along its sharp blade until the beige fabric is soaked with enemy blood and the steel gleams silver in the candlelight once more, but inside—inside his own blood is simmering with a dangerous myriad of emotions, worries and concerns that threaten to start bubbling over like a massive pot of hearty stew.
It leaves him feeling frustrated, neglected, and angry—like an empty and useless shell, a mere weapon without any purpose, even though he very well has a purpose. He does good daily by serving as a Manip, a sergeant, in the Flaming Fists. Does he not? It should be enough.
His brows crease, his hand gripping the sodden cloth slows as it glides down lengthwise. The hubbub around him has long faded into the background as he loses himself in his thoughts.
Does he not?
He risks his life every day when he puts on his uniform and armour. Does his best saving people, keeping peace in the city, follows and gives orders like a good soldier should.
To the public, around his fellow soldiers, Kyle is keeping up the stoic facade he’d crafted since his father’s passing while fighting the urges that have been festering inside him; urges and hormones he has been ignoring and neglecting for far too long.
And now the Lieutenant had to come and make it worse—offering him a simple solution.
“You need a woman, Sergeant.”
Kyle doesn’t stay home for too long after changing out of his uniform and into something more casual yet proper. He eats the supper his mother prepared, checks if any chore is left for him to attend to, before slipping out of the house at nightfall.
And he manoeuvres himself through the alleys and streets like a shadow, knowing the Lower City better than the back of his hand. A small satchel full of coins tucked into his pants pocket and with a vigilant eye, Kyle doesn’t pay his feet much mind until he finds himself strolling along the bustling main street of Wyrm’s Crossing.
Or so he keeps telling himself that this is coincidence, that he’s not curious about the pleasure house that his lieutenant mentioned earlier.
Stone and pebble crunches beneath his leather boots as he slows down his steps and straightens his posture as a patrol of two lower-ranking Flaming Fists passes by him, saluting him briefly before carrying on, though not before throwing a curious glance at the sergeant.
Kyle clenches his teeth, gives them an affirming nod, and tries to ignore the sudden hot flush creeping up the collar of his white tunic and up his cheeks while he steers east, trying his best to stay in the shadows of the establishments lining up the streets before the crowd begins to thicken in front of one particular building.
Then, he stops in his tracks, shoves his hands into his pants pockets as honeylike eyes observe the surroundings like he’s on some personal recon mission, and he quickly notices that the crowd in front of and inside Sharess’ Caress is a concoction of colours, races, and classes. Women, men, and in-betweens or nothings alike.
And somehow, that manages to put him at ease.
The hubbub and chatter become louder as Kyle keeps approaching, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as insecurities start pestering his mind. He can’t help but feel like everyone is watching him.
What if someone sees and recognizes him? What if they judge him? They’ll certainly know what he’s up to coming here, no matter if he goes through with it or not.
His stomach tightens; cold sweat breaks out at the nape of his neck, his heart thuds violently against his ribcage, hands balling into fists inside his pockets as he climbs the short flight of stairs before slipping past the entrance, holding his breath like he’s jumping headfirst into unknown waters.
The smell hits him first—a mixture of cheap and less cheap perfumes, food and drink, sweat and arousal. He huffs, stumbles into the hustle and bustle until he manages to squeeze his way towards the next wall to get out of the centre and acquire a much-needed overview.
“You there! Hey, you! Pretty boy!”
Arching an eyebrow, Kyle glances over his shoulder and notices that he’s leaning against a counter. Then his eyes flit up to meet a tall, slim woman’s gaze.
With her face heavily made-up, her long, ash blond curls are put up in a pompous ponytail, her head adorned with a silver tiara, long fingers decorated with matching rings. Clad in a tight ruby-red dress, she makes quite the figure, oozing confidence and sin.
“Yes, you.” She smiles boldly, lets her light tawny eyes roam over his body as she scrutinizes him. “I can smell a virgin a mile away.”
Kyle stutters, feels his eyes nearly budge out in shock at her audacity—and skill.
She cackles at his reaction while Kyle wishes for a sinkhole to break open and swallow him down to let him hide in one of the Nine Hells. “So, you’ve come to Mamzell Amira’s fine establishment to change that, huh? Fine choice. Good boy.”
There is a moment where Kyle nearly wants to deny it, but another look at the whoremistress tell him that it would be of no use.
“Go on then,” she makes a vague gesture with her hand, “sow your wild oats.”
And Kyle knows better than to object, to try and tell her that this really isn’t why he’s here tonight, but he simply scatters like a shrew mouse, desperate to find a spot to hide.
However, it doesn’t take long for him to spot you among the crowd, sticking out like a rare red rose in a field of garden weeds. Your beauty is ethereal, but it’s your aura that draws him in so mercilessly.
Soft and feminine yet confident and mischievous, your lovely eyes twinkle like you know everyone’s secrets here (which you might very well do), like you can hold a deep conversation, all while your bewitching smile makes his heart jolt in his chest in a strangely comfortable way.
Before he knows it, Kyle’s feet are carrying him through the crowd as if under a spell. The thought that someone might swoop in any second to steal you away throws him into a sudden panic that makes him act completely out of character.
He’s never approached a woman like this.
Your long, feathery lashes flutter as you notice his presence and Kyle is already swooning before you flash a smile just for him, showing teeth.
“Good evening, sir,” you greet politely before he can change his mind and flee again, and then you eye him up so openly lasciviously and obvious that his usually steady hands become clammy.
“And who might you be, handsome?”
Handsome? Kyle swallows dryly, clears his throat in hopes his voice won’t crack.
“Kyle Garrick... is my name.” And I sound like an absolute buffoon right now, he thinks and clears his throat again, awkwardly this time, before extending his hand in greeting, stammering: “And–And you are?”
The soft giggle that leaves you before shaking his hand and revealing your name in return, makes Kyle’s heart flutter so badly, he fears he might faint then and there.
“Your hand is quite sweaty, Kyle Garrick,” you remark playfully, turning his hand in yours and inspecting his palm like a curious Tressym kitten. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
His hand twitches in your grasp; an unfamiliar shudder runs down his spine as your nimble fingers trace the lines of his palm almost absentmindedly, seemingly blissfully unaware of the effect you already have on him.
Nodding raggedly, Kyle takes a deep breath through his nose. “Yes, of course.” It’s a pathetic lie. One you can most likely see through, judging how your beautiful eyes soften as if feeling pity for his awkwardness.
You’re still holding onto his hand as your gaze leaves him to observe the room briefly, before your eyes lock with his again and you surprise him once more:
“Would you like to have a drink with me?” you ask eloquently, though you’re already tugging and leading him towards one of the empty lounges in the corner, more secluded from other guests and dimly lit by chandelier candles.
Kyle doesn’t resist at all, merely sinks into the soft red velvet cushions of the loveseat as in a trance while you take a seat next to him. Knees touching, your floral yet earthy perfume lingering in the air; other patrons easily forgotten.
And he knows, he doesn’t stand a chance against your charms.
Not when he gets an even better look at you like this. Not when he can openly admire the greenish golden hue shimmering through your natural skin colour under the warm candlelight. And not when you willingly gift him with your undivided attention like this.
“You’re so beautiful,” he utters aloud—involuntarily, and his eyes widen a fraction. “I–I mean–” But you merely smile at his helpless stammering and order wine as one of the waitresses passes by your corner.
Once the waitress has left, Kyle leans in some but keeps a respectable distance, his cheeks warmed by ongoing embarrassment.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to be so forward.”
Shifting in your seat, you cross your legs and get more comfortable as you sit sideways facing him, eyes flickering as you drink in his features bluntly.
“No need to apologise. You were simply speaking the truth,” you quip, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Besides, you’re a handsome lad yourself. There is no shame in speaking those thoughts out loud, especially here.”
Kyle exhales a soft breath of relief, shoulders relaxing. “Hm, ‘suppose you’re right,” he mutters, rubbing his sweaty hands over his knees, desperate to dry them off on the cloth of his pants.
The wine is served in a delicate glass carafe and poured into matching glasses on the table in front of the loveseat before the waitress leaves once more.
You reach for both glasses and offer Kyle one, taking a sip of your own while Kyle swirls the rick red liquid in his. Barrel-aged Blingdenstone Blush—judging by the strong hints of currant and cherry.
“What brings you to Sharess’ Caress? You certainly don’t look like you need to seek out an establishment such as this one.” Kyle’s gaze snaps up to catch the faint impish smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth before you take another sip.
He follows the curve of your neck, how your throat bobs as you swallow slowly, relishing the taste of fruity wine. His own throat feels terribly parched all of a sudden; the desire to taste something else entirely than wine on his tongue now urgent.
“My–” His voice cracks and he clears his throat swiftly. “My lieutenant he–” Kyle stops himself, momentarily blinded by your beauty, those sparkling doe-eyes blinking slowly as you hang on his every word.
“Uh... orders.” It’s a curt answer—and not quite a lie this time. He takes a large drink of his wine, desperate to calm his nerves as he averts his eyes awkwardly, letting his gaze wander around the bustling room as if he’d care about anyone else but you right now.
“Orders?” you repeat with a small laugh, intrigued. “You’re a soldier? Or perhaps a knight?”
Kyle looks back at you, brows raised as he hears your assumptions. Does he look like he could be a knight? He certainly dreamed of becoming one as a wee lad.
“A sergeant serving in the Flaming Fists,” he answers, chest puffing with pride as he lifts his glass up to his lips while your eyes light up. “Oh. A mercenary, then? That certainly explains the bruises on your face, though they make you feel more ruggedly handsome.”
“What?” He nearly sputters and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, his tone perplexed. “Mercenary? N-No–I–I mean... I guess, but–”
You’re giggling now, thoroughly amused by his flustered behaviour.
“I’m not judging or calling you a murderer, Kyle Garrick.” Reaching out, you pat his knee reassuringly, and you leave your hand there to linger. Kyle stiffens, shifts on the plush cushions, but doesn’t dare to pull away.
“So, your leader sent you here tonight,” you remark, taking another sip and licking your lips as you survey him with sultry eyes, “but what does your wife say about it all?”
Kyle chuckles bashfully, scratching the back of his head. That was certainly smooth of you, he gives you that.
“I wouldn’t be here if I had a woman in my life,” he admits eventually, not questioning himself why he wants a whore to know that he would be a loyal and devoted man in a relationship. “I’d be at home, letting her tend to my wounds and fall asleep in her arms if I’m lucky enough.”
“Hm,” you hum, still rubbing his knee as you process his answer for a moment. A moment when Kyle hopes that didn’t make him sound too bloody sappy. Hells, you’re doing so very little yet you’re driving him mad. It’s like you’ve bewitched him.
Eventually, you speak up again, your voice a quiet purr that makes his breath hitch in his lungs and his cock twitch in his pants as you lean in to speak directly into his ear:
“I believe I can work with that, sir.”
The private room you lead him to is the first on the left when ascending to the Upper Floor, its entrance overgrown with foliage, the sign reading Nymph’s Grotto in elegant letters. The thing Kyle immediately notices as you usher him inside, is the interior—designed to resemble a forest thicket, in green and arboreal hues, with abundant flora, hanging clay pots and a small pool with a beautiful nymph-faced bas-relief.
It’s warm, almost humid.
Humid enough to make the fabric of his tunic stick to his skin within a few minutes. The lit candles around the room don’t help the temperature but do add to the intimate atmosphere.
“It’s... nice,” Kyle remarks eventually, though it comes out as awkward as he’s currently feeling. This is a room people come to fuck, after all. A room you take your punters to daily. “Cosy.” He clears his throat while his stomach drops into his pants. He still hasn’t moved away from the now closed door.
“You’re nervous, and–” you take a step towards him, reaching for his hand once more, peering up at him with concern, “dare I say, afraid?”
Kyle glances down as you intertwine your fingers with his. His jaw clenches with tension before nodding slowly, admitting his failure.
“I am,” he caresses his thumb over your knuckles, enjoying the simple contact and feeling of your supple skin. “I just... I don’t want to disappoint you.”
You tut, clicking your tongue. “You won’t. Don’t even think like that, it will only ruin your whole experience.”
Experience? He lifts his gaze, meets your beautiful eyes, and curses the universe for not bringing you together sooner. Perhaps then he could’ve saved you from all of this. Perhaps then this could have happened naturally.
“Aye,” he sighs heavily, “I guess you’re right. It’s not easy for me to turn my mind off and just... live my life and... enjoy things.”
“Let me help you, then,” you croon eventually, giving his hand a squeeze in return before tugging him along towards the large king-sized bed located against the wall, to the right of the pool. “Let me help you turn your mind off for a while.”
When Kyle doesn’t object and nods tersely, his jaw clenches with tension—and nervousness.
Then you’re on him.
You kiss him slow, tenderly. Supple lips moulding to his while Kyle grasps your shoulders to steady himself as you steal his breath away with the mere brush of your mouth. When you cup his jaw to coax his lips apart and your silken tongue licks into his mouth, his eyes shut with a breathy moan.
The way your hands start trailing and wandering over his torso and muscular arms, makes his chest deflate, and shoulders sag as he exhales shakily, peering down at you in soft surrender as you break the kiss, pulling back with a smile.
He allows you to peel his tunic off all while your hands keep caressing and exploring him, knuckles brushing over the dark bruises on his skin, muttering foreign words under your breath until the pain disappears, leaving but a dull pulsing in his muscles as if your touch alone can heal him—and perhaps it can. When you reach for the leather straps of his breeches, he swiftly snatches your wrist instinctively, chest heaving, blood rushing.
His cock is already painfully hard, bulging and straining tightly against leather and cloth.
“W-Wait–”
Your eyebrow quirks curiously as if this is merely a game to you, anything but special—which it very well is. The thought makes Kyle hesitate and wonder if this is how he should be doing it. A deep crease appears between his furrowed brows as his thoughts begin to spiral.
“You’re thinking too much, sweetheart,” you chirp playfully, already reaching up to smooth the crease on his forehead with your thumb, “and it doesn’t suit you too well.”
When you nod your chin towards the bed, you nudge his chest a little, urging him to lie down.
“I’ll go first. Just watch and relax.”
And Kyle does as he is told, like the good soldier he believes he is.
Propped up on his elbows, he watches with half-lidded eyes as you strip out of your outfit; shedding the layers of your dress with practiced ease and letting the cottony fabrics pool at your feet until you stand before him like the gods themselves have created you.
“Bloody h-hell,” he gulps, suppressing the terrible urge to rub his throbbing bulge and ease some of the tension as you finally crawl onto the mattress and towards him. “You’re not shy at all, huh?” He chuckles breathlessly, practically shrinking into the plush pillows underneath you.
Never in his life has Kyle felt intimidated like this. Not even when he first faced a feral Bugbear in his early career.
“You’ve seen a woman like this before?” There is no judgment in your melodic voice, just raw curiosity and benevolence. Kyle shakes his head slowly, eyes roaming over your luscious curves, from the curls of hair between your legs up to the swell of your gorgeous tits.
His mouth begins to water at the sinful sight. You look so radiant, so utterly perfect in these surroundings, like you do belong in an abundant grotto and nowhere else—which makes something click in his brain, like he finally connected the dots.
“You... You really are a Nymph, aren’t you?”
The smile you flash is telling enough. “Only half,” you croon as you slowly sink down on his crotch, supple thighs bracketing his hips while you reach for his hands to guide them to your waist. “Touch me.”
Kyle’s fingers flex and dig into your giving flesh as his head tips back; the feeling of your weight on top of him, the heat of your bare cunt seeping through his trousers, enough to make his eyes roll back. He bites his bottom lip. It’s already too much.
“Still a full-blooded vixen,” he groans roughly, trying to keep up with his wit.
You giggle, slowly rolling and grinding your hips over his clothed bulge.
It doesn’t take long until Kyle feels that familiar heat and tightness in his gut, low at the base of his spine, that funny tingling in his balls that always happens right before he spurts his thick seed into his fist.
“Wait–Wait–Wait–” His eyes fly open as he grabs your waist tighter, desperate to make you still atop him. “I’m–I’m c-close already,” he stutters between deep breaths, gazing up at you with wide, pleading eyes. His face feels even hotter now after admitting his predicament.
Meanwhile, your bottom lip juts out in a slight pout while your eyes flicker between his face and his crotch.
“I can help make you feel even better if you’d only let me.”
Kyle blinks at you slowly, doe-eyed and innocent, wondering—isn’t he supposed to be on top of you for that?
Eventually, he nods jaggedly, breathes through his nose so as not to hyperventilate, and you immediately beam before reaching for the straps of his breeches again; swiftly untying the front without hesitation until his cock comes free.
It slaps against his lower tummy obscenely, reaching below his bellybutton, veins throbbing, the exposed tip of his cockhead flushed a deep mauve while his foreskin has pulled taut over the length of his thick shaft.
And Kyle doesn’t know if he should feel flustered or proud about how your beautiful eyes widen in what he hopes is awe.
“Is it–”
“Beautiful,” you chip in, hands caressing his bare thighs after tugging his pants down. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
His mind spins at your praise for his most intimate body part. He never thought something like a compliment could affect him like this.
Opening his mouth to speak, his words then get caught in his throat, breath hitching into a rough groan when you start stroking him from root to tip, squeezing a droplet of his sticky precum from his piss hole.
“So sensitive,” you coo, twisting your wrist as you massage his shaft, swiping the pad of your thumb over his hole while gripping his squirming hip with your free hand, keeping him steady. “So, so pretty.”
He feels feverish, dazed, light-headed as his blood keeps rushing south.
When the time comes and you guide his cock between your thighs, rubbing his weeping tip through the slick warmth of your folds, Kyle can barely keep himself from crumbling underneath you.
Drops of sweat are dripping down his temples, salt burning as it drips into the cut on his forehead. Strong hands are fisting the sheets while he desperately tries to keep his hips from bucking up into you like a mindless fool. Between this sweet torture, he barely registers his own voice as he pleads with you.
And when you finally sink down on his aching cock and the muscles in your thighs flex as you lower yourself in a squat above him, soft hands planted on his buff chest while blunt nails dig into his skin, his eyes roll back so far, he believes he’s seeing the Holy Gates.
“F-Fuckin’ hells–” He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, curls his toes against the mattress as his balls draw up tightly.
Your cunt swallows him up with ease, like Silvanus himself has made you just for him. He can feel every clench and ripple of your inner walls with each movement above him, and when your own wanton sounds reach his ears, Kyle can’t hold back anymore.
His back arches, his abs clench, and he comes inside you with a whiny cry of your name.
It’s a lot, pathetically so—and you take it all without a fuss or snarky remark, sitting prettily on his prick, bottomed out, coarse pubes tickling your swollen clit as you simply watch him fall apart with doe-eyes sparkling like a million stars.
“I’m so, so bloody sorry,” he groans eventually, unable to even look at you yet while his face burns up. “I should have warned you–”
“Don’t be,” you chirp, giggling softly. “It just means you like me a lot.”
It’s such a soft-spoken statement, but Kyle couldn’t agree more, and he nods, head still swimming with mind-numbing pleasure.
“Aye... it–it really does.”
The night progresses, filled with nothing but passion and lust—sharing the provided meal of bread, cheese, and grapes in between, then going another round, before bathing in the warm pool, washing each other with gentle hands and sweet spoken words, only to ravish each other once more.
Kyle takes you on all fours, back arched and your arse presenting so prettily for him. He takes you on your back, folds your legs up until your ankles are bracketing your head, and you're exposed to him wholly. While he listens to your salacious sounds, he acts accordingly, follows your instructions. It’s instinct, nature.
He spills his load into your cunt after asking permission and receiving it; paints your face with his spunk, your arse, your tits, your stomach, and marks you thoroughly like a man possessed by carnality. A feeling he’s never known before. No one can blame him.
And by the end, he feels insatiable, now that you let him have a taste of your flesh. You let his cock find home inside your warm, saccharine cunt, and he will never be the same man again.
When both of you are tangled up in silky sheets on the bed, he whispers into the darkness:
“Would you marry me one day if I asked, love?”
Love. He’s surprised how easy the pet name spills from his lips at this point. How incredibly right it feels. He very well means it and the thought doesn’t even scare him.
There is a pause, a lingering tension in the air that makes his skin prickle despite the humid warmth inside the room, then:
“Go to sleep, Kyle Garrick.”
As you coo at him so softly, Kyle can’t stop his lashes from fluttering with exhaustion as you start scratching your nails over his scalp where his hair has been cropped shortest, gently coaxing him into a deep, blissful slumber with his head resting on your supple chest, arms wrapped around each other in a way lovers fall asleep.
Just how he’s always pictured it.
When Kyle wakes up but a few hours later—you’re gone without a trace, and some tiny part in the back of his mind is more than disappointed. Saddened, even.
The promising words he’d spoken, no, whispered to you in his lustful frenzy, merely a bad taste in his mouth now, like vinegar trickled on raw meat.
Yet now that his hormones have levelled out, sitting up in bed and sheets pooling around his naked hips, he can only scoff about his own naiveté.
You’re a fancy woman, a coin lass, meant to make him, and many other men, feel special for a night full of passion and adventure—away from ordinary life.
And so, Kyle peels himself out of the tangled sheets, ignores the heavenly ghost of your scent still lingering in the lightly humid air, and gathers his clothes before dressing himself in a daze.
The satchel of coins jingles in his pants as he pulls them back up again and the sound makes his stomach swoops with the knowledge that he still must pay for your... services.
“Hells.” Rubbing a hand over his tired face, Kyle winces as his palm brushes over bruised skin and the cut on his forehead.
He doesn’t turn around as he leaves the pleasure room. The door clicks shut with the same finality as the memories he pushes into the deepest corner of his mind—for keepsake, he assures himself. It wasn’t a bad experience per se, just an unfortunate ending.
Descending the stairs to the lower levels of the brothel, he is met by the same hubbub from a few hours ago, despite the late hour. At least it will make it easier for him to get swallowed up by the crowd, perhaps unnoticed, before making his way back home.
Keeping his eyes locked on the hardwood floor, now less clean and stickier with spilled drink and food than it was when he arrived, Kyle makes his way over to the counter where the establishments owner is keeping an eye on her business, sipping on a fancy goblet full of wine.
“Well, look who’s still here,” she remarks with an exaggerated smile. “Did no one catch your eye yet, handsome?”
Kyle cringes internally, suddenly sick of sugary words and compliments thrown his way.
“Someone did,” he admits reluctantly. That catches the Mamzell’s attention. “Oh? Who?”
She takes a sip as Kyle grits his teeth before giving your name. A name that is most likely fake anyway. And when Mamzell’s perfectly plucked eyebrows furrow as she repeats your name in confusion, Kyle nearly bristles.
“No one with that name works for me.”
That makes him perk up, eyes lighting up with a kind of hope he shouldn’t allow himself to feel right now.
“Pardon me? She–She’s a Half-Nymph. Took me upstairs to–” His jaw clenches, he swallows hard, forces those hopeful feelings away. “Anyway. I’m here to pay.”
Mamzell quirks an eyebrow, scoffing softly. “Pay for what exactly?” Then a small smile graces her red-painted lips. “You had sex with a regular lady in one of my pleasure rooms that wasn’t needed during your time together. Lucky you.”
The crease between his brows reappears when the madam flicks her wrist dismissively before focusing her attention somewhere else as if nothing happened. Meanwhile, Kyle’s thoughts are racing, his skin hot under his collar.
“So, you mean–”
“As long as if nothing needs fixing...” She shrugs, side-eyes him. “You have a good evening, sir.”
A tentative tap on his shoulder makes Kyle jolt and he swiftly steps aside as a timid Tiefling woman excuses herself to step up to the madam’s counter next, a fiery Dwarven lass in an emerald leather corset by her side.
Stuffing his palm full of coins back into his pocket, Kyle leaves the establishment in stupor, mind racing as he makes his way back home, not paying anyone else mind. Not the patrol crossing his path, nor the drunkards staggering along the badly lit street.
You’re not a whore, then.
The realization makes his heart jolt in his chest while the corner of his mouth lifts into a dopey smile; his shoulders square, his chest puffs out. There’s a sudden pep in his step.
It was real.
And now?
Now he must find you. Simple as that.
Not the common needle in a haystack, but his darling flower in a bed full of weeds.
@goatgoesmbe 🩷
Somebody play “I’ll Believe in Anything” by Wolf Parade.
Also Happy Pride month to these idiots
Office Hours - Chapter Six
Summary:
Astarion surprises you with a night at the theatre that doesn't go quite according to your plan.
Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4.7k Tags/Warnings: rough/angry sex, hair pulling, emotional manipulation, dubcon, bad BDSM practices, angst, daddy kink, reminiscent of Ascended!Astarion, discussions of domestic abuse (in Taming of the Shrew)
Hi. Hello. My sweets. My darlings. This is it. The chapter where you absolutely must mind the tags. Just know that I won't take you anywhere that we won't be able to come back from. Know that I, too, am an absolute baby when it comes to intense subject matter in fics. But I want you to take care of yourselves and your hearts. As always, shoot me a message if you'd like more specifics.
Photo credits: Zaria for Green Pussy Suit Astarion and Nephi Garcia for the incredible dress.
Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist
“In the library? Babes, are you insane?” Shadowheart's voice reaches a pitch you’re fairly sure only dogs can hear. You curl your knees into your chest and cover your face in your hands, feeling the exact appropriate amount of shame.
“I know, I know. All logic goes out the fucking window around him. All I can think is ‘mm, good dick makes brain go brr.’” You let out a frustrated sigh into your hands.
“Do you want to get fired?” She pulls your hand from your face so you can't hide from her pointed stare.
“Oh trust me, I ran about forty different scenarios of that happening through my head on the drive home.”
“Did you, now? And in how many of these did he also get fired?” Shadowheart presses, knowing how your anxiety can get out of hand.
“Like, two,” you groan and drop your head back onto the couch cushions. “I don't know what comes over me. I feel like I can't tell him no.”
“Wait, wait.” Shadowheart grips your knee, suddenly worried. “You can't tell him no as in it feels too good to stop? Or as in it doesn't feel safe to say no?”
“Nine hells, no, the first one!” you respond, horrified. She squints at you and you squirm under her gaze until you’re finally more truthful, both with her and yourself. “Well, I mean, mostly. Like it's not like that. But like also not not like that, you know?”
“I can assure you I do not,” she says in a flat voice, not interested in joking around. You sigh dramatically, trying to find the right words to describe how you feel.
“Like. Okay. Am I fully consenting to everything we do? Yes. 100%. Oh gods, yes.” Your cheeks tinge pink even thinking about it. “But like… am I going against my best judgment? Do I feel like I should say no? Does part of me kinda wish I would say no? Like… maybe?”
“Tav, that's not okay. You need to talk to him about this.” Shadowheart’s voice is soft with genuine worry. Which is ridiculous, because she’s focusing on the wrong thing.
“No, see, that's the thing. It's not actually a him issue, it's a me issue. Like there's something wrong with me, I see his most toxic traits and suddenly I'm like a horny teenager!” Your voice increases in pitch as you grow more hysterical. “How am I supposed to call him out on it when the only words that will come out of my mouth are ‘yes daddy, more please’?”
“Is there anything redeemable about him at all? Besides being good in bed?” She leans back, taking a sip of her wine and fixing you with an incredulous look.
“I mean… yeah. He’s witty, and bantering back and forth with him is fun. He’s incredibly smart, as loath as I am to admit it, and I like hearing his ideas on things, especially his interpretation of Shakespeare’s text.” You don't even notice the smile growing on your face, but Shadowheart does. “And he’s got this unexpectedly soft side. Like he seems cold and aloof on the outside, but he cares, deeply. About his students, about his cat, about-”
“About you?” she interjects, and your smile falters.
“I don't know, Shade,” you say quietly, almost ashamed to look her in the eye. “I think so. I hope so. But it's not like we've been seeing each other for that long, he’s under no obligation to feel anything.” You practically swallow the last sentence, a truth you're reticent to voice.
“And you?” she asks softly.
“Man, I don't fucking know. I just want to keep getting laid and not catch feelings, is that so much to ask?” you whine. She laughs, but you can tell that she's only humoring you.
“For you? Probably.”
***
It's been several days and your busy schedules have kept you and Astarion apart for most of it. Save the occasional tension-filled passing in the hall, you've barely interacted at all. You're almost beginning to believe that your whirlwind affair has come to an end when you find a mystery package at your apartment door.
It's made out to you with no discernable return address. You bring the box into your apartment while examining it, trying to ascertain its origin. It doesn't even really look like it was sent through the mail, it looks like it was dropped off.
You take out your phone and call down to the front desk. It rings a few times, then a somber voice answers.
“What dost thou require?” His voice is deep and crackled, like some ancient eternal being.
“Hi Withers, it's Tav in 3C. Do you know anything about this package that was left at my door?”
“I have inspected it, and determined it safe for you to open. It was brought by someone claiming to be a friend.”
“Can you tell me anything about this someone?”
“No.”
And the line goes dead. You laugh and shake your head. If Withers says it's safe, then it probably is. You’d trust that wrinkly old man with your life, honestly. You cut open the tape sealing the box shut and lift off the top.
Inside is something wrapped in tissue paper with a note stuck to it in Astarion's immaculate handwriting.
Tomorrow evening The Rosewood Seven o’clock Wear nothing underneath
You let out a small involuntary moan when you read the last three words. You carefully unwrap the tissue paper to find a fabric that looks like it's made of starlight. You pull out the midnight black dress and go slightly breathless when you get a good look at it.
It’s a backless dress with a sweetheart neckline and intricate gold embellishments that almost make it look like armor. It has a lavish gold neck piece attached by several gold chains that drip over the skin. The skirt is made of a weightless black fabric that shimmers with gold as you move it in the light. It almost appears to be cut into two panels with dual hip-high slits.
With a dress cut like this, you wouldn't be able to wear undergarments even if you wanted to.
Your heart hammers in your chest as you think about what he might have in store for you. You're not even sure what's running at the Rosewood right now, but it could be complete trash and you wouldn't even care. You probably won't even be able to pay attention, too distracted by Astarion sitting next to you for two hours.
You feel a pulsing between your legs at the thought. You think of his hand sliding up your knee while you struggle to keep a straight face. Or him reaching an arm around you, gently sliding his fingers into your hair before giving it a sharp tug.
Another moan works its way out of your throat and you follow it up with an annoyed groan. You can really get swept up at the most inconvenient times. It’s not like you don’t have any work you need to do or anything. You roll your eyes as you stalk off to draw a bath.
***
Waiting in the lobby of the theater, you’re feeling surprisingly nervous. The dress, though beautiful, is not particularly comfortable. With all of its various chains and pieces, you needed Shadowheart’s help just to put it on. It helps that she’s also incredibly talented when it comes to hair and makeup, so in truth you feel positively glamorous.
When you see Astarion, however, everything goes silent. You’re certain that he’s posing for you the way he’s stopped to adjust his cuff. The cut of the suit he’s wearing is exceptionally flattering and you imagine running your hands all over the emerald velvet. His crisp white button down is almost sheer and you desperately want to pull him into you by that forest green silk tie.
But you can’t tear your eyes away from his face. This is the first time you've seen him wear makeup, and the simple smokey eyeliner look makes his red irises pop. He’s decided to forgo his glasses, presumably opting for contacts instead to show off the makeup. He’s also swapped out his standard silver hoops for little daggers with a red rhinestone glimmering at the hilt.
He looks up at you the moment you lay eyes on him, or more specifically, the moment your heart starts to beat out of your chest. He flashes you a devastating smile before striding up to you and pulling you into a deep kiss. You can’t even be bothered to care that the other patrons are probably staring as he slides his hand onto your bare lower back, his cool touch sending a shiver up your spine.
He pulls away from you just enough to breathlessly ask, “Are you ready to sit down?”
“Huh?” You’re distracted, too busy plotting a mental path to the bathrooms to fuck him. He lets out a winded chuckle.
“The play. House is open, would you care to find our seats?” His palm is still pressed against your back and you can barely form coherent thoughts. You still don’t even know what play you’re here to see. You just want—no, need—to be near him.
“Um, yeah,” you respond, still trying to get your bearings and remind yourself how to be a person. You let him lead you into the theater, and only once you're in your seats do you realize that neither of you grabbed a program. You pull out your phone to see if you can look it up, but service in the Rosewood is notoriously bad. Instead you just need to sit still next to Astarion, who looks like a dream and smells even better.
He glances at you as your heart quickens again and his lips curl into a smile. He slips his hand behind your neck and lightly runs his finger along the seam between the golden collar of the dress and your flesh, sending goosebumps down your arms. He leans toward you until his lips are almost brushing your ear.
“You look absolutely ravishing, my dear,” he whispers, his breath tickling your earlobe. You turn your face toward him on instinct, your chest heaving as you try to steady your breathing. Your lips hover inches apart, anticipating the kiss, when suddenly a throng of noisy actors come barreling down the aisles. You snap away from Astarion as the cacophony of their shrieks of laughter, calls across the audience to one another, and drunken banter fill the house.
One of them clambors onto the stage and shouts, “For God’s sake, a pot of small ale!” He’s dressed in rags and appears by far to be the drunkest of them all. Three servingmen swarm him with various shouts of, “Will’t please your honor?” He shoves them all away and proudly takes up space center stage.
“I am Christophero Sly! Call not me ‘Honor’ nor ‘Lordship,’” he bellows as the rest of the players make their way onto the stage.
Christopher Sly… you’re wracking your brain to remember which play he serves as a framing device for. Most productions cut this scene because it’s long and completely irrelevant. You just can’t for the life of you remember which play he appears in.
The scene continues with their drunken antics and slapstick comedy as the players address Sly as “my noble lord,” making him believe he’s a king that they’re about to perform for. Eventually they carry Sly out on a makeshift palanquin as the “play within the play” begins. Two handsome young men in preppy clothes enter, holding a book and wearing glasses that aren’t too dissimilar from Astarion’s round metal ones. The one without the glasses speaks first.
“Tranio, since for the great desire I had to see fair Padua…”
Tranio? Isn’t he one of the characters in Taming of the Shrew?
He knows you don’t like this play.
Well, if it’s all that’s playing at the Rosewood right now…
But if that’s the case why not just, like, see a movie?
You shift uncomfortably in your dress and cast your gaze towards Astarion. He smiles, taking your fingers and placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles before turning back to the stage. He keeps your hand in his, absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.
You can feel your heart pounding in your ears and you find yourself wondering what’s running through his head. Just when you think you have him figured out, he does something to surprise you. And honestly, not always in a good way.
Maybe it won’t be so bad. You know the creative team at the Rosewood wouldn’t pick this show if they weren’t going to try to do something with it.
But even still… is this text even redeemable?
You sit through the entirety of the show cringing as the audience around you laughs at flagrant displays of domestic abuse. The actors, several of whom you’ve worked with before, are trying their hardest to make the lines playful, but some things just can’t be recovered. Between the forced starvation, physical intimidation, and gaslighting, you wonder why companies even bother performing this play anymore. No matter how witty the writing is, it’s just too out of date to be a good season choice.
When the time comes for Kate’s final monologue, you watch in pain as the actress tries to wink-wink-nudge-nudge her way through lines like “place your hands below your husband’s foot.” She’s young, and you wonder if this is one of her first professional gigs. You get a little sad knowing that she’s probably just desperate to do anything, even if it’s trash.
Maybe you’re being a little harsh. All of the individual elements of the show—the acting, set, costumes, direction, lighting—were quite good. You just can’t get over how irredeemable this text is. Worth teaching, yes, and maybe even taking Act II out of context just for the fun banter and clever wordplay. But professional theatre companies should really just retire this one.
In the Lyft back to your apartment, you decide to get Astarion’s take on the matter.
“Do you think it’s possible to redeem a text like Taming in a modern age?”
He pauses for a moment, continuing to look away from you and out the window.
“I do, yes,” he finally answers. “I think it takes a skilled hand, but it can be successful when done well.”
You sit on his response, chewing it over. You decide to take a different route.
“I guess a better question is do you think it’s worth trying to? Like, what are we getting out of it anymore?”
“Is entertainment not enough?” he says with a laugh. You wrinkle your nose at him.
“Sure, if you’re a basic ass bitch. But I want my art to mean something. And I can’t think of what this play can possibly mean if it’s not ‘shrill women are annoying and should learn their place.’” You cross and uncross your legs, trying to keep yourself decent.
“Last I checked, you enjoy being put in your place,” he says in a low hum and your pussy betrays you with a clench.
“Shut up,” you grumble, and you’re grateful that the dark car hides your reddening cheeks. “It’s different.”
“Is it, though? Ultimately it is a text about two dysfunctional people finding comfort in one another.” His sincerity catches you off guard, and almost makes you angry that he’s been taken in by the propaganda.
“That’s only a valid interpretation if you ignore half of what happens in the play. They’re not equally dysfunctional, Kate literally gets beaten into submission and pretends to be happy about it. Petruchio is exactly the same from the start to the finish, he has no fucking character arc.” Your hands start to shake as you try to keep your cool. You’ve had this conversation far too many times with men who think they can interpret out the sexism by simply glossing over Kate’s abuse.
The Lyft stops in front of your building and you thank the driver as you get out. Astarion follows you, and you’re not even sure if you want him to accompany you upstairs. But you remain silent as you walk past Withers and into the elevator.
“You’re overreacting,” Astarion says once the elevator doors close. “People are drawn to this play for a reason. The text is excellent, and no one truly thinks of Petruchio as an abuser.”
“Are you joking?” Your voice gets shrill and the similarity to Kate isn’t lost on you. “The whole thing normalizes his abuse. The fact that people don’t think of him as an abuser is the problem.”
“It’s a slapstick comedy,” he snaps, his voice growing stern. “Are you going to tell me that we need to cancel the Three Stooges because it promotes violence?”
“Don’t be fucking condescending,” you spit. “It’s not the same and you know it.”
“How is it not the same? Suddenly because it’s a woman in the role it no longer counts? Are you implying that women should be barred from certain types of performance because of their gender?” He walks past you into your apartment and you throw your keys and bag on the counter, not even bothering to see where they land.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying, now you’re just twisting my words,” you grumble, more frustrated than ever by your inability to match his eloquence.
“So use your own words,” he sneers, whirling around to face you. “How is it not the same?”
“It’s because- well, I- It’s different, just- argh!” Your head is clouded by your attraction to him, which has annoyingly only grown over the past few minutes of shouting. You’re suddenly reminded of the smug arrogant bastard that you first met. He lets out a jeering laugh.
“See? You can’t even defend your own point.”
His sardonic cruelty sets something off in you and you angrily grab the lapel of his green suit. Your intentions are a complete mystery even to you, because as soon as you’re within inches of one another, instincts take over. You crush his lips into yours and pull him backwards until you thump against the door behind you. He paws hungrily at the dress, sliding his hand under the slit and around to grab your bare ass. You gasp into his touch, feeling equally frustrated and aroused that he even controlled what you wore tonight.
Your fingers make their way into his hair and you pull hard, breaking the kiss and leaving his mouth open, panting. His eyes are sparkling with a fire that you haven’t seen yet and a low growl manifests in your throat. He smirks and buries his teeth into your shoulder, something he usually asks bespoke permission for. You cry out in response, twisting your hands tighter into his silvery locks.
He unlatches from your shoulder and pushes his knee past the front of your skirt and up onto your bare cunt. You grind wantonly against the velvet as he kisses you with bloody lips. He grabs hold of the delicate chains of the dress and yanks, detaching them from the collar and making the entire bodice crumple and pool around your waist. Your nipples immediately harden at the sudden exposure to cold air and he pinches one sharply between his fingers. Your hips roll into his leg as you groan, fully ruining his pants. He continues to bite around your neck and shoulders, placing little puncture wounds in his path, marking you as his.
You grab onto his tie and push him away so you can shimmy out of the rest of the dress. You’re now down to just the gold collar of the dress and your heels, a look you wish you could hate but don’t. You pull him across your living area and toward your bedroom, shoving him down onto the edge of the bed.
“Thou hast hit it, come, sit on me,” he says, quoting Petruchio with a sinister grin. Kate’s retort falls out of your mouth reflexively.
“Asses are made to bear, and so are you,” you hiss as you straddle his hips, wrapping his tie around your hand until you’ve gripped it up to the knot. Your other hand violently unbuckles his belt, yanking it through the loops with a snap.
“Women are made to bear, and so are you,” he says with a caustic laugh, digging his nails into your ass cheeks. You tug sharply on his tie, bringing his lips close to yours.
“No such jade as you, if me you mean,” you snarl and silence him with an angry kiss. You don’t want to encourage his idiotic behavior, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said this wasn’t a fantasy you’ve had before. You fumble with the buttons of his suit jacket, trying to get him undressed as quickly as possible. You’re not sure if you feel more vulnerable or more powerful being undressed while he’s still fully clothed, but either way you want him naked, now. You get about three buttons into his shirt before you grow impatient, ripping it the rest of the way open and sending buttons flying.
Good. Let him need to repair his clothes for once.
You push him flat onto his back and descend onto his chest, alternating kisses, licks, and bites. Your dull human teeth don’t have nearly the same effect as his fangs, but it just means you get to bite twice as hard in order to leave a mark. He writhes beneath your touch, and you feel a twisted satisfaction at the quiet little grunts and gasps you’re finally pulling from him. He’s rarely this vocal during sex, and it’s only serving to spur you on more.
His groans build until you capture his nipple in your teeth and bite down, causing him to shout and buck his hips up into you. In a flash he flips you around onto your back and he bears down on you, eyes dangerous.
“Little love, do you think you’re in control?” he asks in a low growl, his hand gripped around your jaw. You sneer and slide your leg against the strained bulge in his pants. He hisses and your smile widens.
“Right now? Yes,” you coo, continuing to press your calf against his velvet-covered cock. You grab the tie still hanging around his neck and pull him close.
“If you want it back, fucking take it.”
If I put my hands around your wrists, would you fight them?
He kisses you roughly, catching your bottom lip in his teeth biting hard enough to puncture the skin. He pulls back slightly, a drop of your blood running down his chin and a snide grin. He makes like he’s about to kiss you again but shoves your face away before your lips make contact.
This is the worst you’ve ever seen him—the most arrogant, the most condescending, borderline cruel even. And you have never been more turned on.
If I put my fingers in your mouth, would you bite them?
“Is that all you’ve got?” you taunt, licking the blood from your lips. “Go ahead, choke me, daddy.”
The feminist in you is horrified, but the little gremlin controlling your libido is having the time of its life. It squeals with delight when his hand closes around your throat, just barely constricting your breathing.
“You insolent little brat,” he breathes into your ear, pulling up on your jaw. “I will absolutely ruin you.”
And there will be no tenderness, no tenderness.
“Do it, coward,” you spit, and he lets go just long enough to finish undressing from the waist down. He grabs your still heeled ankle and presses your leg up by your shoulder, stretching you wide enough to take him without any prep. You gasp as he fills you, the stinging pain outweighed by the gratification of finally feeling him inside you.
The only thing that I ask, love me mercilessly.
He sets a punishing rhythm, one knee on the bed and the other foot still firmly planted on the floor. He bottoms out with each long thrust and you grab hold of his hair to brace yourself. He winces with the pain but doesn’t slow down, and your moans grow high and loud as he continues to furiously pound into you.
“Gods, fuck, Astarion,” you keen, your desire coiling in your belly and threatening to explode. “Keep going, daddy, fuck me please.” He grunts with the effort and your dirty talk seems to be having an effect as his pace falters. You jerk your hips up into him, chasing your orgasm, until finally it barrels through you like a runaway train. You pull on his hair as you come and that sets off his, his pulsing cock pressing against the clenching walls of your cunt.
He stays deep inside you as the aftershocks reverberate through both of you, until the only sound remaining is your heavy panting. He drops his forehead to touch yours, a pleasantly tender moment after some of the roughest sex you can recall having. He starts to giggle and you follow suit, suddenly giddy. He pulls out of you with a squelch and walks to the bathroom to get a towel to clean up the mess you’ve left behind. He wipes you down gently, a surprising bit of aftercare you’re not accustomed to with him. He plants a tender kiss on your lips and you feel dizzy with affection for him.
You settle up against the headboard of your bed, his arm around you and both of you looking at your phones in a companionable silence. After a moment, he lets out a small chuckle.
“What?” you ask, turning your head towards him quizzically.
“I’m just shocked that worked, is all,” he laughs, shaking his head. Your confusion grows and you furrow your brow.
“What worked?” you laugh with him, but something doesn’t feel right.
“The whole night, taking you to see Taming, getting into just enough of a fight to result in,” he vaguely waves his hand, gesturing to the edge of the bed, “all of that.”
“Wait, what? What do you mean?” You pull away from him and your stomach drops. Surely he can’t be suggesting what you think he’s suggesting.
“You get riled up so easily, I thought this might be fun.” He still doesn’t seem to have picked up on your heart pounding in your ears, which is frankly unusual for him.
“Are you saying… Wait, are you saying that you planned that fight? So, what, we’d have angry sex?”
“Of course, you don’t think I actually believe anything that I said, do you? Taming of the Shrew might be well-written, but it’s a rubbish play to produce.” He finally turns to you and sees that you’ve gone white as a sheet. “Oh, darling, don’t take it like that, you’re positively adorable when you’re angry, I couldn’t resist.” He tries putting his hand to your cheek but you flinch away like he’s burned you.
“Get out,” you say in a low voice, unable to even look at him.
“What?” He’s still laughing. He doesn’t get it. “My sweet, didn’t you-”
“GET. OUT.” Your voice has a venom in it that even shocks you. He stares at you in horror until you shoot him an icy glare. “Now.”
Without a word he stands and quickly puts his clothes back on. You stay in your bed, naked and curled under a sheet, until you hear the front door of your apartment slam. With shaking hands, you call Shadowheart.
“Moonmaiden’s delight, did you enjoy yourself? It certainly sounded like you did.” The sound of Shadowheart’s bubbly laugh usually makes you smile, but right now it seeps into your skin like poison.
“Shade, please come over,” you whimper, and the second the words leave your mouth, the tears begin to fall. You don’t hear her hang up, but you do hear a muffled, “I’m going to fucking kill him!” through the wall. You pull your knees further into your chest and sob.
I've been thinking about sugardaddy!AU all day. I was thinking about how Raphael treats his sugarbaby like a pet and he keeps track of his choice of clothes and jewelry I just asldkasj;jf;ldflak ( ; ω ; )
I've thought of an AU where Gale was originally an ordinary street cat who ate something magical (or was in the zone of some ritual) and as a result got human intelligence and consciousness => he became interested in magic, joined Elminster, watched his work, picked up some magic trinkets and even helped the wizard, but Gale had no human speech and couldn't cast spells or craft anything because he had paws.
This situation caught Mystra's attention and she, appreciating the cat's craving for knowledge and especially for magic, appeared to Gale in human form, playing with him and all. After some time she fulfilled his dream and made him human and they later became close friends. Gale (like in the original), wanting to prove to Mystra that he was worthy of being human (though no one gave him any reason to think otherwise lol), did the same shit he did in the game and ended up getting his ass kicked 🤗💙
Astarion Pin Up + shoe thief
Sitting on Professor's Gale lap 🤤