the bg3 community in general does NOT talk enough about how ludicrously OP gale was pre-folly and pre-tadpole.
- archmage. not an arbitrary title - awarded to 18+ level wizards. meaning he could cast spells through 9th level.
- chosen of mystra. akin to demigod-level status. slowed aging, chosen-specific abilities, direct access to the depths of the Weave, plus more.
- lover of mystra AND protégé of Elminster Aumar. privy to the most advanced Weave manipulation and magical tutelage.
imagine a situation where tav/his partner falls in battle and gale loses it. magic explodes out of him in raw waves. his grief/rage calls on the Weave without verbal control. he reduces the battlefield to cinders. blood pours out of his nose as he casts far more than his body can currently handle. his eyes glow. runes appear and disappear across his skin.
and the party remembers that oh shit. this wizard who cooked them stew and rambled about planar theory used to be a living magical weapon. and still has the capacity to be.
The boys reacting to reader collapsing from exhaustion please?
Gale:
The stars had just begun to glimmer overhead, the velvet sky above the Shadow-Cursed Lands dimming into the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. The campfires crackled gently, casting flickering halos of warmth against the long stretch of gloom, but you were still going. Still walking. Still sorting. Still preparing.
You hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that last fight, not since the argument with the goblins in the pass, not since the near ambush from twisted shadows. You’d kept your pace steady, your shoulders square, pushing through the weight in your limbs and the ache behind your eyes. You thought if you just did one more thing, the tension would stop building in your chest.
But your body had other plans.
You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—
Blackness.
A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.
Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear:
“Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”
You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.
His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.
“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”
You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”
“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”
You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”
His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”
You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.
But Gale wasn’t done.
“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”
Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”
He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.
“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.
“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”
“…Agreed.”
And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.
Astarion:
The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.
You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.
And then, quite simply—your body gave out.
Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:
“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”
You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:
“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”
Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.
“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”
You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”
“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”
Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.
He froze.
And then something shifted.
Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.
“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”
You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”
His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.
“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”
He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”
You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”
“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”
You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”
“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”
And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.
Furious, indeed.
Wyll:
The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.
“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.
He did not move.
Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.
“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.
“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.
Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.
“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”
“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”
“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”
You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.
“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”
“Wyll—”
“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.
“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”
He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”
Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.
You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.
“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.
You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”
“Yes.”
“You weigh a thousand pounds.”
“I will increase it if I have to.”
You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”
There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.
“Fine. I’ll rest.”
Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Halsin:
The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.
The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.
You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.
And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.
A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.
You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—
“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”
You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.
And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.
“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”
Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.
“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”
“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”
He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.
He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”
You blinked. “Halsin, I—”
“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.
You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.
Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.
“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”
“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”
You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.
“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”
And this time, you listened.
IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
What do they act like when they are utterly in love and yearning for you?
Pairing: Astarion, Gale, Zevlor, Rolan, x gn!Tav!reader
Summary: During the early stages of your misadventure, he cannot help himself but never stop yearning for you.
Genre: Fluff, lime (does anyone use lime and lemons anymore?)
Words: 2.3k
Note: I’m hosting a small event over at my blog. Check it out if you’re interested <3 I’m choosing four participating users at random to receive a personalised letter from their fav char<33 All of this is happening in act 1 btw.
Astarion Ancunín // The Pale Elf
Yearning scale: 8/10
He denied himself the pleasure of thinking about you in a romantic way other than to use you to get protection, power and a willing source of absolutely delicious blood. Really falling for you would be very stupid and have no benefit, really. Astarion never viewed himself as someone who deserved love, especially yours.
But during every battle Astarion’s concentration began to waver more and more. His eyes scan the area in panic until he finally spots you somewhere, being very occupied by trying to finish off the gnoll growling at you. He knows you’re capable defending yourself and finishing off some enemies and it is a delight to watch you fight, but that caused him to miss more and more, with both daggers and his crossbow.
You notice how his whole face lights up whenever you saunter over to him to do some small talk after a long day. His eyes look much softer and his smile becomes less guarded, less planned. It was adorable but you never mentioned it to him, or else you might never see that off-guard smile again.
At first you were adorned by Astarion and showered in flirts and compliments to love-bomb you and bind you to him, something he has done wo many countless times, but slowly he feels himself regretting playing up his flirtatious persona. He thinks you might not like him anymore when he stops with the over-the-top flirts, the nightly trysts and most importantly, the sex.
But deep down he was hoping and praying you’ll still like him for him.
Slowly, Astarion will insist on staying close with you no matter what. The group splits up to explore a cave efficiently? He is definitely sticking by your side. You’re heading to the Emerald Grove to stock on some food for tonight? Don’t mind him tagging along, he just needs a couple of healing potions. You’re injured and need healing? Out of the way Shadowheart, he got this with some alcohol and bandages.
“I’m sure you wont mind taking me with you to that grove again, I wanted to talk to that Tiefling by the forge. I’m thinking about asking very nicely to have a little taste of his blood… But I won’t if you get jealous easily, my darling.”
Astarion quietly yearns for you. He knows how to (mostly) control himself and his tongue around you to not accidentally start coughing up the butterflies terrorising his stomach by praising, flirting, teasing you, doing everything to try and make you like him by any means, even if he has to play a persona.
He has to let out this pent up love for you somewhere, so in the evenings he’ll retreat and quietly stich up his clothes that were torn during the day, check his daggers for sharpness but then also open up the hidden notebook he stashed away under his pillow and sketch a little. Mostly you, really, in all kinds of poses and situations.
He never sexualised you in any way, simply sketching you in almost domestic situations from his view; the way your face lights up in delight when Scratch brings you another drool-drenched sandal, your face scrunched together in disgust after tasting one of Auntie Ethel’s mold pies on accident or you just relaxing after a hard day. Astarion quietly admired you from his tent as his pen works against the paper. He’s not really talented in it but it’s a nice way to unwind. He is praying though that the dog never gets the bright idea to steal his notebook and drop it into your lap or he will beg Shadowheart to cast moonbeam and incinerate him.
Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep
Yearning scale: The ultimate yearner ™/10
Let’s be honest, Gale is not very subtle with his yearning although the wizard thinks he is being very smooth with it.
Before having the moment with you in the weave where your minds interlinked, where you imagined kissing him, first carefully, then passionately and with vigour so shamelessly while he stands there rooted in place, trying not to explode (literally), Gale has been dreamily watching you.
He wasn’t even sure why he fell in love with you or how exactly it happened, Gale had a dream about you with him in his wizard tower in Waterdeep, not exactly using his desk the way it is intended to be used. He woke up with the orb flickering in his chest and a all too familiar warmth spreading through his lower abdomen.
With every artefact you sacrifice to him and with every minute you listen to his boasting and rambling, Gale stopped fighting the feelings that were growing inside him every day and accepted that yes, he did just fall in love with the stranger that pulled him through a portal, fed him boots without hesitating and never seriously judged him for his poor decisions. He hasn’t met anyone besides Tara that was very judging.
He can’t act on his feelings yet, though. Gale can’t even let his mind slip for a moment and let the sweet, sweet thought of your lips pressed against his, your tongues dancing with each other, his hands feeling up your waist to pull you closer and closer as if trying to absorb you. He gets ripped out of these fantasies by a sharp pain in his chest and the all too familiar feeling of the orb becoming restless.
It physically hurts him to yearn for you. The orb is like a handcrafted punishment by his goddess Mystra, which it is, but not in the way she probably intended.
His way to painlessly express his admiration for you is mostly by talking; he rants and over-explains the littlest things that can sometimes accidentally come off as condescending, but you were always interested for whatever reason, even if he just listed all the different types of elementals and all the kinds he has met himself before.
But Gale also very openly expresses how highly he thinks of you. You always heard cheers like “A perfect hit!” or “You are doing absolutely amazing!” from the half dead and bloodied wizard that is surrounded by goblins but still thought about praising your skills. Sometimes his mouth worker faster than his brain and he’d accidentally compliment your very natural musk or point out how beautifully shiny your unwashed hair has gotten. It was probably meant to be a compliment.
Oh, it was starting to become a torture. Gale wakes up in the middle of the night after a blissful dream of strolling through the markets of Waterdeep together, playfully arguing who gets to cool what tonight, worrying about nothing other than to remember get Tara’s favourite treat. Rolling over in his bed he could feel his chest tighten, his hand instinctively gripping his nightshirt, trying to soothe the orb by touching it. He tried to take a deep breath, his fingers spreading out over his chest slowly.
His eyes fluttered shut and his lip quivered slightly as his other arm began to move to wrap around his own body. The wizard rolled over onto his side to stare at the tent wall, his own arms hugging himself, trying to make a fraction of his fantasies about you come true. But Gale would never allow to even properly think about asking to spend the night with him; it would be selfish to do so.
Zevlor // Leader of the Tieflings // Exiled Hellrider
Yearning scale: 6/10
It was probably wrong to feel the way he was feeling. You defended the grove and the refugees against goblins without questions and weren’t even disappointed about not getting a reward. You walked around and talked to the Tieflings, setting some dispute between three siblings, saved Arabella from the mad druid and offered to kill the goblin leaders for them.
Zevlor tried to push away the racing heart that seemed to flare up every time you showed more and more simple kindness for his people and others. He justified it to himself that the fluttery feeling in his chest and the warmth spreading embarrassingly fast on his face is just his gratitude manifesting in other ways, but during the small celebrating party you allowed to be held at your camp and after too many cups of vinegar for wine, it all dawned on him.
“Go, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. Don’t spend all your time on me, I’m sure many here would want to have a word with you instead.”
He admires your courage and selflessness, but his feelings reach far beyond that. To be able to share a cup with you was incredibly flattering but also a little selfish, he thought. You are quite popular in camp and Zevlor can’t deny the looks the other companions give you, so he tries to shoo you away and enjoy yourself. Having your attention all to himself, somewhere in private and in a situation that isn’t stressed by looming fights and threats would be an absolute dream.
A dream he didn’t allow himself to realise.
Besides, he’s an older, Hellrider-exiled Tiefling and an Oathbreaker Paladin with a group of refugee kin to look after and lead to Baldur’s Gate. Zevlor is barely able to love himself, how in the world are you supposed to be able to love him? Surely you deserve to be with someone more deserving of your love and devotion.
Even despite barely interacting with you, it was difficult for him to part from you and your troupe but there was a city for him to safely escort the refugees to. Duty calls and so does the road.
For now, Zevlor will just silently dream about you at night and think about your whereabouts during the day. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted too easily but during every small moment of respite his eyes would briefly close and his mind slowly travelled to you. He always wondered where you are right now, what you are doing. How far along have you come in your journey? Last he heard Halsin joined you on your quest for a cure against a tadpole.
He secretly wonders if you are still wearing the Hellrider Gloves he had given you as a thanks after redeeming Kagha and buying them more time to pack in the druid grove. It’s a childish thought but Zevlor really hoped that they serve you as well as they once served him and keep you safe. And maybe you think of him when you look at them.
For now, Zevlor has to focus on getting his caravan to Baldur’s Gate safely. The apparently cursed and so called “Shadow Lands” are the only way. Hopefully he can get them through in one piece.
Rolan // Wizard’s apprentice
Yearning scale: 8/10
Oh he has got a big, fat crush. Or at least that is what Cal and Lia have been teasing him about for the past days, hours and minutes. Ever since you stepped into the dispute the three had about whether they should leave the grove or not, Rolan has been more squishy and distracted.
He keeps seeing you around the grove, talking the Tieflings there and listening to what they have to say, trade with that druid merchant before heading over to Dammon to buy some new armour for you or your companions after the plates broke down. Rolan’s eyes would be scanning your whole body from the position he was standing, trying to see through your clothes and armour to check for injuries.
He knew you are an adventurer of some sort, talking to Ethel about something in your head and stocking up on a lot of healing potions. If not for you fighting through goblins Rolan would’ve used Thunderwave to send those scum to the afterlife. So he greatly appreciates your efforts and all it must take to finish them off.
His eyes would sparkle every time you even briefly passed him. You didn’t even had to look at him and he would feel his tail wagging embarrassingly fast behind himself as he tried to avoid his sibling’s knowing glances and how they 100% know what was going on.
Rolan doesn’t really understand himself and why his brilliant mind decided to choose you to pine on. You, someone he will leave behind and probably never see again. You, who only interacted with him a few fleeting times. You, with that heroic attitude and need to fix everything, you with that stupid smile you gave that woman Ethel, you simply existing. He felt childish for feeling like this.
He knew you’d make short work of the goblins and their leaders but his heart still managed to flutter in admiration after finding out what you managed to do. The wizard prepared his stupid party-trick spell until you got back to the grove, trying to cast the beautiful spell he had been casting since childhood over and over until it was perfect. Performing it in front of you asked for a bottle of wine or three to get some courage.
After bowing and getting some applause from you, Rolan’s eyes still stuck to you well after you gave your compliments and departed. He couldn’t help himself but feel jealous of that vampire in the corner, the purple wizard in the other and literally everyone else that breathed near you. Everyone wanted to have a piece of you— of course. You’re the hero of the party.
Rolan wanted to hog your time and attention to himself, though. He wants to sit down with you and for once just listen to you talk instead of him doing some boasting. It doesn’t matter what you were talking about, he wants to listen and watch your lips move, maybe fantasise about leaning in closer and sharing a kiss.
But alas, there’s an apprenticeship for him to attend in Baldur’s Gate. The road was calling and he had to move on with his travels. It doesn’t mean you left his mind though, every moment he did not spend checking up on Lia or Cal, getting into an argument with one of the kids or whatever, he spend daydreaming about you.
Maybe you’ll see each other again under better circumstances. He really hopes so.
💠
Author’s note. Thank you for reading!
I wanted to write a request I swear but my hands moved on their own and wrote something that has been on my brain for like a week or so :,) Forgive me lmao. I’ll be answering asks and requests soon tho!
am i the only one who likes when bold buffed dudes are subbing and when shy lanky dudes are domming? i enjoy the contrast in general. like yes, let me dom this man in an authority position who has a very deep voice and is conventionally masculine, but let me be dom by the nerdy guy who's overlooked by everyone
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."
I've been thinking about Gale’s whole "I like your musk" thing cause like I feel like most people write it off as sort of awkward flirting.
But if you think about it, he's only really ever known Mystra that intimately, and he's been locked away from the world ever since the whole orb thing
I don't think Mystra, a goddess, would ever let herself be less than perfect, I don't think she'd sweat or even have to worry about body odor, in my mind she probably just smells like something, like magic, and while that sounds nice I also think it's distant
Maybe Gale likes Tav's musk because it reminds him that they are flesh and blood, maybe it comforts him to smell their sweat, and perfume and soap, because it's everything but that perfect, placid, unchanging smell Mystra had
Maybe he likes it because it feels mortal, or human, and above all else REAL and all that he wants is to have something REAL
