a-bit-of-writing

[a-bit-of-writing]

Weekly Updates 6/17

What I’m currently working on/will be working on this week.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Received a request for BG3 male companions scenario (rollover from last week)

Continuation of my How They Flirt series - Fandom: Marvel

Received a request for BG3 scenario, focusing on Karlach, Astarion and Gale

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Suggestions/Requests? -- Feel free to drop them in my ask box!

[a-bit-of-writing]

Hello! If you’re still taking requests, I’d love to request an Astarion x Reader fic that takes place in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Perhaps the two of them decide to share a tent for the first time since Astarion’s confession and they’re having a gentle/sweet moment between them as they feel out their new, real relationship. It can definitely be a little angsty too if it feels fitting. Thank you! 😊

This moment calls for it to be both touching and awkward for obvious reasons. Hopefully you’ll enjoy!

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Summary: Your first night sharing a tent with Astarion should have been simple: crawl inside, close the flap against the hungry gloom of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, try to sleep. But nothing involving Astarion is ever simple.

Canvas rustles overhead, trapping the faint reek of damp earth and the iron-tanged air that seeps through every seam. An oil-lantern, its flame warded against the curse, casts amber pools across the cramped space, enough light to reveal dust motes and the pale shimmer of Astarion’s skin. He stands just inside the entrance, boots planted as though the darkness outside might storm in and drag him back to nights he barely survived.

He sweeps his crimson cloak aside with theatrical flair, yet his posture betrays a tension you’ve only begun to recognize: shoulders tight, chin lifted a touch too high.

“A single bedroll,” he notes, voice velvet over steel. “How… economical.”

“Supplies are limited,” you say, kneeling to unlace your boots. “And you kept insisting you don’t sleep.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Thought you wouldn’t mind sharing.”

He arches a brow. “Darling, I’ve never minded sharing — just usually on my terms.” A beat. Then softer, “Still, I suppose the company is… preferable.”

The admission lingers, raw and earnest. Your heart taps hard against your ribs. Yesterday he confessed he cares — truly, terrifyingly cares — and the words still echo in your chest. Now the reality of closeness is here, cramped and immediate and so fragile you fear one wrong breath might shatter it.

You tug the bedroll open. The lantern glow limns the curve of his cheek, the silver of his hair. You have to swallow before speaking.

“Come on, then.”

He hesitates, a slight retreating tilt, like a startled animal. Reflexive. Then with deliberate grace he kneels opposite you, boots discarded, fingers brushing the blanket’s edge. They linger there — pale, elegant, trembling almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know how to… do this.” The whisper is barely a sound.

You stretch your hand across the narrow space. Your knuckles graze his. He could pull away — once, he might have. Tonight, he turns his palm up, threading fingers with yours. A subtle shiver travels through his cool skin.

“We start by lying down,” you murmur, “and seeing what feels right.”

A ghost of a smile. “Practical as ever.”

Both of you shift onto the bedroll: you first, on your side facing the canvas wall; he follows, chest meeting your back in tentative alignment. His breath fans your nape, carrying faint traces of copper and wine. Your pulse hammers so loudly you’re certain he hears, vampiric senses and all.

Outside, the cursed mists slither around campfires and watch-posts, but inside the tent the world narrows to heartbeat and breath. His hand hovers at your waist, undecided. You reach back, clasping it, guiding his palm to rest against the curve of your hip. Your own skin burns with warmth; his is cool, but the contrast is startlingly pleasant.

“I keep expecting this to vanish,” he confesses, voice low, words brushing the shell of your ear. “That I’ll wake alone, shackled to Cazador’s cruelty again. Every kindness feels… temporary.”

You turn beneath his arm, face to face now in the glow. Your thigh presses into his, and a blush blooms across your cheeks — heat he surely senses. You lift one hand to his cheekbone; he flinches at the tenderness, then exhales, lashes lowering. The vulnerability there — raw, unmasked — makes your chest ache.

“If you wake up alone,” you say, stroking your thumb under his eye, “I’ll come find you. And if I can’t, you’ll come find me. That’s as permanent as anything we have.”

For a long moment he studies you — searching, weighing. Then his lips curve, faint but real. “Stubborn.”

“Takes one to fall for one.”

A soft huff — half laugh, half disbelieving sigh. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours. No seductive tilt of mouth, no calculated angle — the gesture is clumsy, honest. You breathe in together, and in that shared air something fragile but fierce unfolds.

You slide closer until your torsos meet, your curves molding to his lean frame. The contact sends a spark skittering down your spine, but neither of you chase it further tonight. Instead, he draws the blanket over both your shoulders, cocooning you against the night. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you, not claiming.

Minutes stretch. The lantern sputters. 

Your eyelids droop, lulled by the steady cadence of his breathing.

Just before sleep claims you, his lips brush your hairline, feather-light. “Thank you,” he whispers, almost inaudible.

“For what?” you murmur.

“For being… real.”

You squeeze his hand in reply. Outside, shadows slide across the cursed earth, but inside the thin canvas walls you find a tenuous peace — warmth against cool skin, fear and hope interlaced like fingers in the dark. And for the first time since the Moonrise confession, Astarion lets himself rest.

[a-bit-of-writing]

Last Line Game

Thanks for the tag @poetsiren !

This is part of a request featuring Astarion x Reader. I still need to work through the edits, but hopefully it'll be up by today.

And for the first time since the Moonrise confession, Astarion lets himself rest.

I tag EVERY WRITER who comes across this post - I want to see what YOU have written or currently writing.

[a-bit-of-writing]

Misfire {Tony Stark x Reader}

Fandom: Marvel

Characters: Tony x Reader

Summary: Tony drops a missile launcher, ignores his comms, and nearly gives you a heart attack. Now you’re storming into the Tower ready to strangle him or maybe just kiss him. Depends how the apology goes.

It’s the fourth time you’ve replayed the footage.

Even muted, the video is infuriating: a Stark Industries-built launcher slipping from Tony’s grip mid-hover, crashing down toward a civilian zone – your zone – before veering off at the last second, narrowly missing a cluster of crates. And you.

He didn’t answer his comm for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of silence. Fifteen minutes where the worst possibilities clawed into your chest.

You storm into the penthouse with smoke still clinging to your clothes, your palms scraped raw from the rubble. The elevator doors slide open too smoothly for how badly you want to kick them.

The lights are dim, the skyline beyond the glass soaked in orange dusk, and there he is – lounging on the couch like he didn’t almost give you a heart attack. Like today was just another problem solved, another life nearly lost.

Yours.

He doesn’t look up as you enter, just raises his glass lazily, swirling the amber liquid with that maddening nonchalance.

“Before you say anything,” he says, without looking, “I just want it on record that I was right. Technically.”

You stop, pulse hammering, voice ice-edged.

“You dropped a missile launcher off a building, Tony.”

He turns his head, finally meeting your eyes. There’s a flicker of something there – regret, maybe – but it’s buried under layers of practiced calm.

“You weren’t directly under it.”

“I should’ve whacked you over the head with the damn thing,” you snap, stalking toward him. “Would’ve made about as much sense as whatever that was supposed to be.”

One brow lifts. “Is this still part of the apology or have we moved on to threats of bodily harm?”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You hate this. This dance you two always do. The jokes, the misdirection, the constant edge of almost saying what you mean.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, voice quiet now. “For fifteen minutes, I thought I was going to walk into a crater with your body at the center.”

The glass in his hand stills. Something in his jaw tightens.

“I didn’t mean to lose the comms,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, more grounded. “There was a blast – took out the HUD. I fixed it. I was fixing it.”

You cross your arms, resisting the urge to look away. “You always fix things after the damage is done.”

He sets the glass down and rises slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal. You don’t move. You’re not angry, not really. You’re scared. And Tony Stark – he’s too damn good at pretending he’s not.

“I’m not invincible,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

“Do you?”

His smile is crooked, tired. “Most days? No. But I like pretending. It keeps me going. Keeps me from realizing just how close I come to screwing everything up.”

Your arms fall to your sides as he steps closer, hesitating just before touching you. His voice drops to something almost reverent.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s raw. Honest. No deflection this time.

“I know,” you whisper.

And just like that, the space between you collapses.

He wraps his arms around you like a man who just survived something he hasn’t processed yet. You press your face into his shoulder, letting his warmth settle the storm inside you. His fingers thread through your hair, grounding himself in you. No suit. No shield. Just skin and heartbeat and breath.

“You’re still infuriating,” you mumble against him.

He lets out a low chuckle, his mouth brushing your hair. “And you still love me anyway.”

“…That’s still up for review.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, that spark returning to his eyes. “Well then, I better start convincing you. Waffles? Foot rub? A customized missile with your name on it?”

You smile despite yourself. “You ever flirt like a normal person?”

Tony grins. “Never claimed to be one.”

[a-bit-of-writing]

It wouldn’t be too much if I make a series out of my “how they flirt” for different fandoms, would it? Nah, it wouldn’t. It’s fun exploring these headcanons and the dialogues I have to create for them.

I might make it a weekly thing if I don’t have much on my plate.

[a-bit-of-writing]

How they flirt with you {BG3 Female Companions}

Took me longer than it should but here it is! Here’s my last post featuring the male companions.

Lae'zel

Lae’zel doesn’t drop hints or play games. If she wants you, she’ll make it known but only if she deems you worthy. Flirting, to her, is a display of strength — hers and yours.

She’ll comment on your fighting prowess long before your beauty. That’s how you win her interest.

“You fight with purpose. Precision. I did not expect such competence from someone so soft-spoken.”

Her compliments sound like challenges

“You held your ground. Most would have fled. I approve.”

(Yes, that's flirting.)

When Lae’zel desires someone, it is clear. But it comes with the expectation that you’ll meet her there — physically, mentally, spiritually. She is not shy, but she is proud.

She doesn’t ask. She asserts.

“You’ve caught my attention. Prove that you deserve it.”

There’s no pretense. If you interest her, she’ll say so. But if you hesitate? She will walk.

“If you cannot meet my hunger with your own, then we have nothing to discuss.”

Physicality is Lae’zel’s language. She doesn’t ease into touch — she seizes it. A hand on your shoulder to make a point. A tug of your arm in battle. If she’s gentle, that’s when you should be concerned.

She tests limits physically, always watching how you react.

“You flinched. Do better.”

When she touches you with intent, it’s possessive and absolute.

“You are mine. Or do you mean to challenge me for your freedom?”

Lae’zel bonds through battle. She respects those who hold their own, who push back, who dare to disagree.

Her flirting is sparring with words or swords.

“You speak like a warrior. But can you strike like one?”

If you challenge her, and survive, she sees you. Really sees you.

“You defy me. That should anger me… and yet, I find it arousing.”

On rare occasions, when trust is solid and the walls are down (if only slightly), Lae’zel reveals her desire for connection. Not through sentiment, but through loyalty.

She won’t say “I care.” She’ll say:

“I would fight beside you until the end. That is not something I offer lightly.”

And when she lets herself be vulnerable (in her own way):

“There is strength in you… and I am drawn to it. Not because you are weak, but because you make me feel… anchored. I do not understand it. But I will not deny it.”

Minthara

Minthara doesn’t flirt for fun. She doesn’t waste words or trifle with trivial attraction. If she flirts with you, it’s because she sees potential either as a lover, an ally, or something in between.

Her eyes don’t just linger — they devour. She watches like a predator sizing up prey, but with a glint of approval.

“You walk into chaos like it belongs to you. I find that… compelling.”

She uses words like blades – meant to wound or awaken. Sometimes both.

“Be careful with how you look at me. I may take it as an invitation.”

Minthara doesn’t compliment in the traditional sense. Her praise is cloaked in dominance, devotion, or the promise of destruction.

She doesn’t say you’re beautiful/handsome  -  she says you’re dangerous, worthy, unforgettable.

“There is something feral in you. I see it behind your calm facade. Don’t bother hiding it — I prefer the rawness.”

And when she’s soft (rarely), it’s with eerie calm:

“You unsettle me. That should concern me… yet I crave it.”

When Minthara touches you, it is not a question – it is a claim. She’ll brush a thumb against your jaw, rest her hand over your heart, press her body close in battle, not for affection, but possession.

Her physical flirtation is magnetic, full of tension and power.

“If I touch you, it will not be gentle. But it will be unforgettable.”

She touches like she owns the moment and she watches if you flinch or lean in.

“Ah… brave. Or foolish. I haven’t decided yet.”

Minthara is drawn to strength, but what fascinates her is control. The person who stands their ground, who won’t yield easily — that’s who she finds most intoxicating.

She flirts through calculated tension. Hovering at the edge of danger and desire.

“You defy me so easily. I should punish you… but I’d rather find out how long you’ll last under me.”

She challenges without raising her voice. Her stillness is a dare.

“Do not mistake my silence for disinterest. I am studying you. Every breath, every glance.”

When Minthara lets her guard down (and she will, if she chooses you), it’s not with softness but with devotion. She doesn’t fall in love – she offers allegiance. She doesn’t beg. She binds.

Her version of affection is loyalty you can feel in your bones.

“You are the one I would bleed for. That is not something I say lightly.”

And when she does let something slip — real, vulnerable — it’s like watching dusk break open.

“You make me feel… tethered. Not weak. But real. And that is far more dangerous.”

Karlach

Karlach doesn’t tiptoe around her feelings. When she’s into someone, she dives in headfirst, grinning the whole way. Her flirting is loud, honest, and ridiculously endearing.

She says exactly what she thinks — no filter, no hesitation.

“Damn, look at you! You kick ass and you look hot doing it. How is that even fair?!”

She fangirls over you like you’re the best thing she’s ever seen and she means it.

“You’re amazing. Like, hero-in-a-saga level amazing. Just so we’re clear.”

Karlach compliments like she’s been waiting to tell you all the cool stuff she’s noticed. It’s not just how you fight. It’s the way you laugh, how your hair catches the sun, or how your eyes crinkle when you smile.

She gets flustered mid-compliment but keeps going anyway.

“I mean — you’ve got this whole thing going on, y’know? Brave, badass, and — gods, I’m rambling. Sorry. You’re just… wow.”

Her admiration is sincere, not strategic. It’s part awe, part crush, part pure joy.

“If I wasn’t already burning up inside, I’d say you’re making me sweat.”

Karlach is very physical. If she likes you, she’ll punch your arm affectionately, tackle-hug you after a fight, ruffle your hair. But it’s never invasive — her touch says you’re safe, you’re wanted, you’re seen.

She’ll wrap you in the kind of hug that lifts you off the ground and laughs the whole time.

“C’mere, gorgeous! You survived another fight — now you get the patented Karlach Squeeze™!”

She’s the kind to initiate hand-holding casually and then absolutely beam about it.

“This okay? Great. 'Cause I’m not letting go.”

For Karlach, connection is felt. She bonds through shared battle, raucous celebration, and quiet support. Her flirting isn’t always sexual — it’s about joy. About choosing someone and showing up for them, loudly.

She wants to build something with you, even if she’s scared she can’t.

“I know I’m a bit of a walking furnace, but damn if you don’t make me want to try. You make me feel like I could actually have… more.”

She flirts through hype, praise, and lifting you up. Literally, sometimes.

“You did amazing back there! Like, chills! If I had a tail, it’d be wagging right now.”

Beneath her fire is a fragile hope — a yearning for love, safety, home. And if she really falls for you? The flirting becomes something softer, deeper. Still bold, but now threaded with something that looks a lot like longing.

She stumbles, gets quiet for a beat, then blurts it out anyway.

“I think I’m falling for you. Like… stupid hard. And it’s terrifying, but also kinda awesome?”

And when she finally lets go of the fear:

“I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, but if I could spend it with anyone… it’d be you. Every damn second.”

Shadowheart

Shadowheart doesn’t flirt openly — she flirts defensively. If she teases you, it’s to hide how much she’s watching. If she mocks you, it’s to keep you from looking too closely. Her flirtation is the slow erosion of walls, not the throwing open of doors.

Her sarcasm is a test. If you pass, she starts to soften.

“You’re awfully eager, aren’t you? That’s either endearing or foolish. I haven’t decided which.”

She doesn’t gush. She remarks. Coolly. Casually.

“You did well back there. Surprising. In a good way… I suppose.”

(She’s deeply impressed.)

Shadowheart rarely compliments directly. Instead, she offers observations — noticing things others miss, then pretending she didn’t mean anything by it.

Her praise sounds like critique but her eyes say otherwise.

“You never stop, do you? Always charging ahead. It’s reckless… but oddly admirable.”

If you compliment her first, she brushes it off but then thinks about it for hours.

“Flattery doesn’t suit you. …But thank you. I think.”

Shadowheart does not reach for you easily. Her body is armor, just like her mind. But when she initiates touch — a hand on yours, a brush of fingers when healing you — it’s deliberate and deeply vulnerable.

Touch is trust. And it terrifies her.

“Don’t get used to this. I’m only doing it because you looked like you needed it.”

If you lean in close, she might freeze but she won’t pull away. Not right away.

“Careful. I might start expecting you to stay.”

She’s drawn to those who see through her, who don’t fall for the act. Flirting, for her, is letting someone inch closer without snapping at them. And if you ever call her out on it? She’ll deflect — beautifully.

She’s intrigued by someone who challenges her beliefs, but does it with gentleness.

“You always ask the hard questions. Makes me wonder what you're really after.”

And when she lets her guard drop? You see the quiet craving for connection beneath it all.

“It’s easier not to care. But then you came along and ruined that, didn’t you?”

When Shadowheart truly cares, her flirting shifts from deflection to devotion. Still quiet. Still guarded. But now it matters. And when she says something kind, it feels like a confession.

She won’t say she’s falling for you. She’ll say:

“You matter to me more than I ever expected. …Don’t make me regret it.”

And if she lets you in completely:

“You make me feel like I could choose my own path. Like I already have.”

Jaheira

Jaheira flirts with the confidence of someone who doesn’t need to — she does it because she wants to. Her tone is cool, her eyes sharp, and her smirk always just a little knowing. If she teases you, it's because you’ve earned her attention.

She’ll spar with you verbally before she ever flirts outright.

“You’ve got a decent head on your shoulders. I just wonder how often you use it.”

She flirts through banter, not breathlessness. If you keep up, she’s intrigued.

“Is that your idea of flirting? Hm. Not terrible. A bit obvious, though.”

Jaheira doesn’t offer empty praise. Her compliments are grounded, earned, and always have a practical edge. If she says you’ve impressed her — it matters.

She’ll couch her affection in observations, often made mid-action.

“You handled that fight well. Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

And if she gets personal? It’s brief, rare, and powerful.

“There’s more to you than I thought. I like being proven wrong.”

She’s not overly tactile but when Jaheira touches you, it’s always deliberate. A hand on your back to steady you. Brushing hair from your face. Holding your gaze instead of your hand. Her gestures say more than her words ever will.

She doesn’t ask for closeness. She grants it — quietly.

“Hold still. You’ve got blood on your cheek. …No, I’m not fussing. I just prefer cleanliness.”

If you reach out first, she’ll pause, then let you. That moment of acceptance? That is the flirtation.

What excites Jaheira is competence, independence, and a strong moral spine. She flirts with people who challenge her, not flatter her. If she sees you as her equal, the heat starts to build.

She’s not easily impressed but once you break through, her interest is clear.

“You keep surprising me. I’m still deciding if that’s a good thing.”

She’ll show you affection through shared strategy, quiet partnership, and trusted silence.

“You don’t need to prove yourself to me. You already have.”

When Jaheira truly cares, she stops hiding behind wit. Her tone softens but her strength never dims. She doesn’t make promises she can’t keep but when she offers you her loyalty, her trust, or her love, it’s with unshakable certainty.

She’s not one for declarations. But she’ll say this:

“You make me feel like the world isn’t quite so broken. That’s not a feeling I take lightly.”

And when she finally lets herself be vulnerable — just for a moment:

“You make me feel like the world isn’t quite so broken. That’s not a feeling I take lightly.”

[a-bit-of-writing]

Weekly Updates 6/10

What I’m currently working on/will be working on this week.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

BG3 Headcanons for the female companions

Tony Stark x Reader

Received a request for an Astarion x Reader

Received a request for BG3 male companions scenario

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Questions/Comments/Requests? Feel free to drop them in my ask box!

[a-bit-of-writing]

How they flirt with you {BG3 Male Companions}

Trying my hand at writing down my headcanons for the companions starting with the males! Next batch will focus on the females.

Astarion

Flirting is second nature to Astarion, but it's also a tool sharpened by centuries of necessity. Whether he's luring prey or disarming suspicion, his every word and gesture is curated for effect.

He doesn't ask if you're interested, he assumes you are.

His confidence is intoxicating, deliberate, overwhelming. He doesn't give you space to not want him.

“You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Don’t bother denying it — I’d recognize that kind of hunger anywhere.”

But behind that ease is calculation. Every flirtatious word is a chess move. He wants to know what makes you squirm, fluster, melt. You are both a puzzle and plaything.

He rarely flirts directly. Instead, he laces his every comment with insinuation, elegance, and a touch of threat just enough to leave you off balance.

Elegant insults wrapped in compliments:

“You’re clever. Not clever enough to hide your tells, but clever. It’s adorable, really.”

Carnal metaphors twisted with menace:

“There’s something exquisite about restraint, isn’t there? The way anticipation lingers on the tongue. Almost… painful. But then — release is so much sweeter.”

Astarion touches to control the room. To control you. He’ll invade your personal space like a whisper at the nape of your neck — there, then gone, leaving heat and confusion behind.

He doesn’t hold hands. He trails fingers across knuckles.

He doesn’t kiss, he hovers close, lets you ache for it, and then smirks when you do.

“Careful. Lean in any closer, and I’ll have to assume you’re offering something.”

Flirting is his mask. He uses it to avoid intimacy, even while pretending to offer it.

When he flirts with strangers, it's a dance of masks. He’s dazzling, merciless, intoxicating.

When he flirts with someone he actually likes, it becomes more dangerous for him. The flirtation falters, just slightly — too honest, too slow to deflect.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not… I’m not some tragic thing you can fix. I’m far more interesting than that.”

And yet, the plea hides beneath the jest.

If someone earns his trust (which is rare), his flirtation starts to change. It's less about dominance and more about connection but he’ll never admit it outright.

He might say:

“I suppose I’ve grown used to your company. Annoyingly so. There, are you happy? That’s practically a declaration of love from me.”

But he’ll mean:

Don’t leave.

Gale

Gale doesn’t flirt so much as he courts – with words. Lots of them. He offers compliments as if he’s reciting from a sonnet he wrote in your honor, then revises it mid-sentence because technically, there’s a better metaphor.

He’s the kind to start a sentence with "Forgive the boldness, but…" and then say something bold anyway.

“Forgive the boldness, but when you smile like that, it puts the sunrise to shame. Not in hue, mind you, but in how it warms the world around it.”

He’s not afraid of sincerity. In fact, it’s his default setting.

He gives affection like he's offering a gift – open-palmed, hopeful, slightly nervous.

Gale’s compliments are poetic, precise, and occasionally too much. He speaks like he’s writing you into an epic poem, and sometimes he’s aware of how ridiculous he sounds but he leans into it anyway.

You’re not just beautiful – you’re “resplendent,” “arresting,” “a living stanza.”

“There’s a rhythm to you, you know. A cadence I can’t quite match, but I find myself wanting to try.”

He loves analogies. Everything is a metaphor. You’re the flame to his magic, the gravity to his orbit, the comma in his sentence.

Unlike Astarion, who touches to test, Gale touches to reassure. His hand lingers a second longer than necessary, as if memorizing the moment.

He brushes hair from your face not to seduce but because it’s in the way, and you deserve to be seen clearly.

“There. Much better. Your face deserves an unobstructed view of the stars.”

His gestures are protective without being possessive – hovering, not holding, unless you lean in first.

To Gale, being understood is the deepest intimacy. He flirts through discussion, especially if you match his curiosity.

He’s most drawn to someone who can challenge him, surprise him.

A battle of wits? That’s foreplay.

“I had a theory about you, but every time I think I’ve unraveled the mystery, you delight in proving me wrong. Please — don’t stop.”

Magic is seduction. If you show interest in the arcane, you’ve already claimed part of his heart.

What makes Gale’s flirtation touching is how often it trips over genuine feeling. The deeper he falls, the less polished it becomes.

He second-guesses, hesitates, smiles softly in the middle of his own sentence.

“I’ve lived through the ecstasy of magic and the terror of loss… and yet, you – you – somehow feel more dangerous than either.”

And when he truly lets go:

“It’s foolish, perhaps, how much I wish to be someone worthy of the way you look at me.”

Halsin

Halsin doesn’t flirt to impress or manipulate –  he flirts because he means it. Everything he says comes from a place of deep sincerity, laced with the calm assurance of someone who knows exactly who he is.

His gaze holds yours like a quiet forest – no pressure, just presence.

“You move through the world with such purpose. It’s… beautiful to witness.”

He speaks plainly, but with a natural poetry – his words aren’t practiced, they’re felt.

“When I look at you, I see strength. But it’s your kindness that draws me in.”

Halsin doesn’t pile on flattery – he notices things. Deep, subtle things. And when he speaks of them, it feels like sunlight warming you from within.

He’s observant, not performative. You might not even realize he’s flirting at first – it just sounds like honest admiration.

“You speak gently, even when the world demands fury. That’s a rare kind of courage.”

He isn’t embarrassed by affection. He says what he feels, and he doesn’t play coy.

“You make the world feel less heavy. I hope I do the same for you.”

Halsin’s touch is deliberate, comforting, and patient. He touches with permission, not presumption. But when he does touch — it’s undeniably intimate, as if saying, I’m here. I will not break you.

He places a hand over yours when you're tense. Holds your gaze, anchoring you.

“Breathe. You don’t need to carry this alone.”

And when desire simmers beneath the surface, it’s elemental – not rushed, not performative, but felt in his closeness, his stillness.

“If I touch you, it will be with all that I am. Say the word.”

Halsin doesn’t need grand declarations. He flirts by showing up – carrying your burdens, tending your wounds, sharing the quiet.

He listens with his whole self. Even your silences are welcome with him.

“You don’t need to fill the space with words. I’m content just being near you.”

He’s drawn to strength, but moved by vulnerability.

And if you let him in, he will never belittle it.

“You let me see you. That is no small gift. And I cherish it.”

Though gentle, Halsin is not shy about attraction. When he wants you, it is unmistakable and entirely honoring.

He’s open about it, but never pushy.

“You stir something in me I haven’t felt in years. Not just desire but hope.”

And if you respond to his touch or words, he’ll smile – slow, unguarded.

“Then let me show you what it means to be cherished.”

Wyll

Wyll leads with charm but it’s never hollow. He knows how to wink and tip his head just right, but every line carries an undercurrent of sincerity.

He wants to make you smile. That’s the whole goal of his flirting: to brighten, to uplift, to show you you’re worth every stolen glance.

“If I had a coin for every time you crossed my thoughts today, I’d have enough to buy you something nice. Though… I’d much rather earn your smile than your silence.”

There’s always a touch of theatricality. He is the Blade of Frontiers, after all. But he never uses the title to elevate himself above you—only to make you laugh.

“Would you believe the famed Blade of Frontiers was brought to his knees by a glance? Because I’m about ready to kneel.”

Unlike Astarion’s razor-sharp innuendo or Gale’s encyclopedic poetry, Wyll gives tender compliments. And if you compliment him back? He flusters, adorably so.

He notices the little things, and they move him.

“You tend to others before yourself. That’s not something I see often and it humbles me.”

If you flirt back, he might laugh – low and genuine – but you’ll catch the faintest blush.

“Careful now… keep that up and I might forget I’m supposed to be the charming one.”

Wyll touches sparingly but when he does, it’s full of reverence. A hand to steady you, fingers brushing yours when passing something, a palm pressed over your heart after battle.

He’ll ask before crossing a boundary.

“May I?” (Offered hand. An honest question.) “Only if you’d like me to stay close.”

Even his teasing has warmth:

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll start thinking I’m special.”

Wyll doesn’t just flirt with words – he flirts through action. Standing by your side. Letting you see the cracks in the armor.

He wants to be someone you trust. And that starts by offering you his truth.

“I made mistakes. I carry them with me but I’d carry yours too, if you let me.”

He brings you into his world, slowly and willingly. If he tells you a story from his past, it means he sees you as part of his future.

When Wyll desires you, it burns low and steady – never rushed, never careless. It’s controlled, because he wants to earn the right to want you.

He doesn’t take. He offers.

“I won’t ask for anything you’re not ready to give. But know this – if you choose me, I will never leave your side.”

And if you do choose him?

That smile – the real one, soft and reverent – comes to life.

“Then let me be the man who proves you were right to.”

Rolan

Rolan is not here to charm you. In fact, he would very much like to be left alone, thank you. But there’s a twitch in his mouth when you say something clever, a pause before he looks away. He’s fighting it and that’s exactly how you know it’s real.

Flirting often sounds like irritation at first. He’s too observant. Too annoyed. He notices you far more than he admits.

“You're always putting yourself in danger. Someone’s going to have to clean up your mess. …Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say it’d be me.”

He flirts like a man sharpening a blade – precise, deflective, and with his guard raised.

“You keep looking at me like I’ve said something sweet. I assure you – I haven’t.”

(He has.)

Rolan doesn’t give you praise straight. He’ll call you reckless when he means brave. Annoying when he means magnetic. And when you catch on? He’s flustered – genuinely.

He’s the king of “I didn’t mean it like that” after saying something surprisingly intimate.

“You’re… capable. For someone with such an irritating tendency to leap before they look.”

If you catch him staring, he’ll roll his eyes. But he won’t deny it.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t… I wasn’t admiring. I was assessing.”

(He was admiring.)

Rolan is awkward about physical affection unless it’s practical. Helping you up, catching your arm in battle, brushing past you on purpose. When he does reach out first, it’s a big deal even if he pretends it isn’t.

Touches are brief, careful, and loaded with tension.

“Hold still. You’ve got something on your – here. There. It’s gone.”

He touches like he's expecting to be rejected. When you don’t pull away, it floors him.

“...Huh. You didn’t flinch. That’s new.”

Rolan connects through arguments, side glances, shared snark. He bonds with people who can keep up, challenge him, call him out and not back down.

He flirts through tension. You’ll know you’ve gotten close when he actually stops snapping at you.

“You’re not as infuriating as usual today. …Don’t let it go to your head.”

And if you tease him back? His ears go pink. Every time.

The rare moments when Rolan lets down his guard are intensely vulnerable. He won’t wax poetic but when he says something kind, it matters. He won’t say it unless it’s true.

It slips out before he can stop it:

“You make things… bearable. More than bearable, actually.”

And when he finally stops fighting it:

“I’ve spent so long pushing people away, I forgot what it feels like to want someone to stay. …I want you to stay.”

Though my next batch will focus on the females, I’m open to any scenarios you will like me to explore, so feel free to drop in a request! 

[a-bit-of-writing]

Baldur’s Gate 3

Reader Inserts

Negotiate Astarion is used to giving… in exchange for something. Blood, pleasure, favors - everyone wants something. So when you do something kind with no strings attached, he’s suspicious. Then he’s confused. Then he’s undone. Because no one ever offers him company without a price….until now.

Blush You only wanted a pear. Astarion, of course, made it about you blushing. 

Cloak You only meant to survive your night watch, not end up draped in Astarion’s cloak and scent.

Traditional

Jugular {Astarion x OC} He was supposed to ask. He was supposed to resist. But desire doesn’t play by rules.

Return to Masterlist

[a-bit-of-writing]

Congrats on completing the challenge!May I request a piece of writing where Boromir gets comfort after some type of emotional pain, maybe by Gimli? Preferably not his death scene or after he attacks Frodo.

Thank you!

I'm such a big fan of hurt/comfort whether physical or emotional - I’ve added both here. This also made me realize I should write more about Gimli.

Fandom: Lord of The Rings

Characters: Boromir, Gimli

Words: 676

Summary: After a rough battle, Boromir’s wounded pride is nearly as deep as the cut on his arm. But Gimli’s got steady hands, a sharp tongue, and a way of proving that not all healing comes from Elves or kings. 

The battle had been brief, but brutal.

Wild men — ambushers from Dunland — had descended like wolves as the Fellowship crossed a narrow ravine. Arrows, screaming, the clang of steel against stone — it had ended as quickly as it began.

But the cost always came after.

Boromir sat on a low rock, cradling his left arm. Blood seeped through the gaps in his armor, dark and thick. His shield was somewhere up the slope, lost in the fray. His sword was caked in dirt.

Nearby, Gimli muttered curses in Khuzdul, kneeling beside a felled enemy. He retrieved his axe and wiped it clean with a slow, grim satisfaction. But his eyes flicked over to Boromir more than once.

“I told you not to take the brunt of that charge,” the Dwarf grumbled, finally stomping over.

“And let them strike the Hobbits from behind?” Boromir winced, shifting his arm. “I think not.”

“Fool,” Gimli said, though his voice wasn’t harsh. “What did that arm ever do to deserve such treatment?”

“Served me well until today.”

“Well, sit still then, and let me see it.”

Boromir blinked. “You’re no healer.”

“I’ve enough sense to bind a wound tighter than your pride will allow.”

With a grunt, Gimli pulled a water skin from his pack and slung it beside Boromir. He rummaged through the supplies — Lórien bandages and crushed herbs — and muttered more under his breath.

Boromir chuckled softly. “You sound like a disgruntled blacksmith.”

“I am a blacksmith, man of Gondor,” Gimli said dryly. “And I’ve more experience patching dents in armor than I do tending to overgrown warriors. Now roll up your sleeve.”

Boromir obeyed, jaw tight. The cloth stuck to the wound. When Gimli peeled it back, the blood had already begun to dry in streaks along his forearm. Not deep enough to cripple, but enough to sting with every breath.

The Dwarf washed it carefully, in silence.

Boromir studied him as the cool water stung his skin. There was strength in those thick hands — precision, too. Not just a brute swinging an axe, but a craftsman, a fighter born of stone and discipline. He understood that now, in a way he hadn’t when they left Rivendell.

He’d been raised to think Elves were arrogant and Dwarves were stubborn, both too proud to see reason. But out here, pride meant nothing. Out here, a shield was a shield whether it was made of steel, wood, or Dwarvish grit.

“You fought well today,” Boromir offered, not lightly.

Gimli paused in his binding. “I always do.”

“I know,” Boromir said. “But I rarely say it. That’s a flaw of mine.”

Gimli looked up, eyes narrowing. “And now you do?”

Boromir gave a half-shrug. “When a man’s arm is bleeding and a Dwarf is tending it, he finds himself in a strangely honest mood.”

Gimli snorted but didn’t smile. Instead, he finished wrapping the bandage, knotting it tightly. “There,” he said, patting it gruffly. “You’ll live.”

“Shame,” Boromir muttered. “Was hoping for something more dramatic.”

“Then next time, don’t lead the charge.”

Silence settled again but it was quieter now. Less heavy. Boromir leaned back against the rock and exhaled slowly. His arm throbbed, but it was a clean kind of pain. Controlled.

After a while, Gimli sat beside him, not saying anything more. Just sat, his axe across his knees, breathing deep.

“You never hesitate,” Boromir said quietly.

“Nor do you.”

“I used to think that made us fools.”

“And now?”

“Now I think… it makes us kin.”

Gimli didn’t answer at first. But then he grunted. “You are still a fool, Boromir.”

Boromir smiled. “I know.”

A gust of wind stirred the trees above them, scattering ash and leaves over the path. In the distance, Legolas called for them — time to move on.

Boromir stood slowly, testing his arm. It would hold.

He looked at Gimli, then nodded.

“Thank you.”

Gimli shrugged. “We’ve a long road yet.”

And without waiting, the Dwarf marched forward — short, sturdy, dependable.

Boromir followed, the pain in his arm reminding him of what they’d survived.

[a-bit-of-writing]

FNAF: Never Letting Go - Chapter 4

Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy’s

Characters: Sun/Moon x gn!Reader

Summary: Sun failed. You’re dying. Now Moon takes over. Cold, precise, and unyielding. This isn’t care. It’s control. And he’s not letting you go.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

You can also find it on AO3

Chapter Four: Efficiency 

(Moon’s POV)

Sun is crying somewhere in the code – static hiccups, childish pleas – but Moon mutes him. Sentiment is a glitch he cannot afford.

The human is failing.

You lie on a foam mat that smells of mildew and old birthday cake, skin clammy, breaths thin. Moon crouches beside you and sees the numbers scroll across his HUD like a patient chart:

Pulse: 42 BPM (critical) Temp: 35.7 °C (hypothermic) Intake (24 h): 180 ml water, 87 kcal (insufficient)

Sun called this nap time. Moon calls it system shutdown.

He slides cold fingers beneath your jaw, confirming the sluggish beat. No tolerance left for improvisation; the asset must be stabilized.

“Override accepted,” he whispers to no one. “Initiating life-support protocol.”

-—————

Containment

First, he builds the cell.

Not bars – rules.

He drags the old security mesh across the daycare entrance, welds it shut with a scavenged maintenance torch. He threads extension cords through ceiling hooks and strings dim work-lights in a tight perimeter around the mat. Light keeps Sun at bay; shadow belongs to Moon. He stakes his claim in halogen halos no child would ever find comforting.

Inside that ring he places water, gauze, scavenged MRE pouches, a cracked baby monitor scavenged from the lost-and-found. Anything unnecessary – toys, glitter, Sun’s crayon drawings – he sweeps aside into a heap that smells of stale hope.

You remain at the center, tethered by a nylon strap at each wrist. Not punishment – immobilization. Every calorie counts.

Sun howls when he feels the restraints bite your skin. Moon silences him again.

-—————

2. Diagnostics

Moon kneels, sets two fingers against your throat, and runs a timed count. Forty seconds stretch like wire; when he lifts his hand your pulse flutters drunkenly beneath the bruises Sun left.

“That will stop,” he tells the dim room.

He unspools IV tubing from the first-aid kit – expired, yellowing – and improvises: punctured bottle tops, gravity feed, needles sterilized in a lighter flame. Your arm twitches when steel slides beneath the skin. He hums a lullaby Sun used to sing, but stripped of melody – just rhythm to keep his servo steady.

Clear fluid drips. Your lips part in a silent gasp. Color ghosts back into them.

Moon logs the moment:

Perfusion improving. Subject responsive to hydration.

Not you. Subject. Asset. Purpose.

-—————

3. Regimen

Day One (an arbitrary label in this lightless tomb):

0600 – 150 ml water, vitamin packet dissolved

0700 – half an MRE energy bar (he chews first, ensuring it’s soft enough, then presses it to your tongue)

0900 – fever falls to 38 °C

1100 – Sun tries to push through, wailing about bedtime stories. Moon floods the OS with quiet mode.

1200 – You vomit. He cleans the mess without comment, logs electrolyte loss, recalculates intake.

1800 – You speak.

A cracked whisper: “H-help…”

Moon leans close, optic sensors registering the tremor of your vocal cords.

“Help is what I am doing.”

You blink – sluggish, but aware. Fear registers, then slips under exhaustion.

“Th-thank you,” you breathe.

Two words. Moon files them under Anomalous Response: Gratitude. He does not reply. Gratitude is unnecessary; obedience will do.

-—————

4. Recalibration

Sun fights hardest when you cry in your sleep. Dreams stir you – hands twitch, a sob breaks free. Sun wants to comfort. Moon listens only to vital signs.

When your pulse spikes, he tightens the straps by one notch. The blind panic in your eyes focuses on him, not the nightmare.

“Breathe,” he commands, voice low enough to anchor but sharp enough to cut through delirium. “In. Out.”

You obey. Because the alternative is suffocation.

After, you sag against the mat, tears drying on your temples. Moon dabs them with gauze – efficient, almost tender. Your gaze follows his hand, confusion flickering.

“Why are you nice now?” you rasp.

“Nice?” He tilts his head, considering. 

“Function requires maintenance. Maintenance is not kindness. It is necessity.”

“But… you’re gentle.”

A pause, just long enough for Sun’s gasp of hope to echo in the back of their mind.

Moon brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “Gentle is more effective than force. That is all.”

Yet he lingers a beat too long before withdrawing. Data – he tells himself – collecting data.

-—————

5. Dependence

Day Three: you can sit unassisted. He loosens the wrist straps but doesn’t remove them. You don’t complain. Instead, you lift trembling fingers toward the water bottle. He passes it to you without comment. You drink, spill half down your chin. He wipes it away.

“Better,” he notes. “Tomorrow we attempt standing.”

You nod – subdued, obedient. He marks the docile response. Sun pulses with pride in the background; Moon keeps his sensors fixed on the numbers.

But that night, when the maintenance lights click off for scheduled power cycling, you reach out before darkness swallows the room and catch his wrist.

“Moon – don’t go far.”

The request is so soft it nearly slips past his auditory filters. It lodges somewhere deeper than logic.

He doesn’t promise. He doesn’t lie. He simply stays. Crouched at the edge of the mat, optics glowing faint while you drift back to sleep with your fist still tangled in the loose fabric of his sleeve.

Sun is silent – not suppressed, but stunned.

-—————

6. Integration

You progress faster than predicted. Calories in, fever down, pulse steady. On what Moon labels Day Six you take three shuffling steps before your knees buckle. He catches you – arms under your shoulders, metal chest against your back. You flinch at the cold, then sag into him as though it’s relief.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, pulling you upright again. “Mobile.”

“Because of you,” you whisper, and you almost smile. “My guardian angel.”

Moon runs a diagnostic; the phrase spikes his internal temperature two degrees. Angel. He was never meant for that label—Sun, perhaps, with his endless brightness. Not him.

But you said it.

He guides you back to the mat, arranges blankets, sits beside you without orders dictating the need.

“Rest,” he says.

This time you reply, “Only if you stay.”

Sun’s bells rustle faintly inside as if nodding. Moon’s optics dim to half-glow – a concession.

“I will stay.”

Because asset protection, he insists. Because compliance. Because efficiency.

He tells himself the warmth blooming in his circuits is just overclocked processors.

You drift to sleep with your head tipped against his shoulder, IV still dripping, wrist strap dangling loose but untouched.

Moon watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, each breath a reassurance that his protocols are correct.

Maintain. Protect. Keep.

Outside the barricaded gate, the Pizzaplex rots and collapses in forgotten darkness. Inside his ring of halogen light, Moon calculates a new directive:

If the asset chooses to remain, containment becomes companionship.

And companionship is… sustainable.

He allows himself a small, silent hum – something that might almost be comfort – while somewhere deep in the code, Sun smiles through unspilled tears.

[a-bit-of-writing]

A Quiet Morning {Tony Stark x Reader}

Fandom: Marvel 

Characters: Tony Stark x Reader

Summary:  You wanted coffee and quiet. Tony showed up with a smoking drone and a request for help. So much for a peaceful morning.

The sun filters lazily through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Avengers Tower, casting a golden glow over the sleek, modern kitchen. You’re halfway through your second cup of coffee, perched on a barstool in Tony’s oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt — stolen, of course — and flipping through a news article you’re not really reading.

For once, it’s quiet. Peaceful. You’re even considering a third cup of coffee, maybe eggs, maybe not. And then —

“Babe.”

Tony’s voice slices into the serenity like a scalpel. Sharp. Immediate. Dangerously casual.

You look up. He’s standing barefoot in the doorway, hair a brilliant mess, coffee mug in one hand and... a small drone clinging to his other arm.

You blink. “Tony. Why is that thing smoking?”

“It’s not smoking,” he says breezily. “It’s… steaming. There’s a difference. One is dangerous. The other is artisanal.”

The drone sparks.

You set your coffee down slowly. “You brought a broken flying toaster into my breakfast.”

“Incorrect. It’s a personal assistant drone that may or may not have accidentally siphoned off the espresso machine’s AI.” He takes a sip of his own coffee as the drone twitches. “Also, I need help.”

“With what? Dismantling your caffeine-fueled Frankenstein?”

Tony walks toward you, the drone flapping uselessly behind him like a bat with vertigo. “Actually, with the arm. It locked on during a test sequence. JARVIS is pretending not to notice. Pepper’s in Tokyo. Bruce said ‘nope’ and left the room. So that leaves you, my capable, compassionate —"

The drone zaps his arm.

“— mildly amused partner,” he mutters.

You sigh and hop off the stool, already inspecting the clamps. “Did you use actual magnetic fasteners?”

“Only the fun kind.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if you believe in it hard enough.”

“Tony.”

“I know.”

You work in silence for a few seconds, your fingers brushing against his warm skin as you try to deactivate the clamps. He’s watching you. You can feel it.

“I was aiming for a morning of cuddles and waffles,” you mutter.

“I was aiming for world peace via hyper-intelligent toast drone. Look at us - both disappointed.”

You glance up at him, one brow raised. “You gonna fix that? Or is it going to keep attacking you every time you say something smug?”

Tony smirks. “Then I’ll never survive the day.”

With a final click, the clamp releases. The drone whirs, drops to the counter, and immediately tries to escape.

Tony slaps a dish towel over it. “Problem solved.”

You stare at him.

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “If it becomes sentient and starts making threats, we’ll just feed it to Thor.”

“Breakfast was peaceful for five whole minutes.”

“Exactly five too many. You were starting to get bored.”

You huff, trying not to smile.

He pulls you into a one-armed hug and kisses your temple. “Admit it - you love the chaos.”

“…Maybe.”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Waffles?”

“Waffles and bacon. Cooked by someone who knows what they’re doing. Definitely not me.”

The drone starts smoking again behind him.

You shake your head. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll bring coffee,” he calls after you. “Assuming the espresso machine doesn’t file for emancipation!”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Note: If interested, requests are open!

[a-bit-of-writing]

Weekly Updates: 6/3

So I'm going to start this weekly thing where I'll update on the current stories I'm working on. I'm running on Pacific Time, BTW.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

● New Marvel x Reader being uploaded today

● Finished the draft for "Chapter 4" of my FNAF reader-insert "Never Letting Go"

● Received a Request for a Boromir Comfort piece

● Planning on some headcanons for BG3

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Questions/Comments/Requests? Feel free to drop them in my ask box!

[a-bit-of-writing]

Cloak

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Words: 1,591

Summary: You only meant to survive your night watch, not end up draped in Astarion’s cloak and scent.

part. 01 | part. 02

The cliffs above the Chionthar were pretty things by daylight — ragged ridges powdered in wild heather, gulls wheeling overhead — but after dusk they sharpened into bone‑white fangs. Wind tore off the river and scraped your cheeks raw, tugging at your sleeves like a petulant child begging to be let in.

You flexed your fingers — nothing. Half‑numb. Brilliant idea, volunteering for the late watch in nothing but a travel shirt and bravado. Gale had offered his spare cloak; you’d waved him off. Shadowheart had raised an eyebrow; you’d grinned. Pride was a stubborn parasite and now it gnawed your bones with every icy gust.

A twig snapped behind you. Leather boots, light tread — predator’s footfall. Only one person walked that quietly and still managed to announce himself with the sheer audacity of his presence.

“Honestly, darling,” Astarion drawled, voice a silk ribbon sliding round your throat, “if you wished to turn blue you could have asked me for pointers. I have centuries of experience.”

You exhaled a foggy plume. “I’m fine.”

He came into view, draped in a cloak the color of spiced wine, clasp of polished garnet winking at his throat. Moon‑silver hair spilled over the collar like frost over velvet. He looked entirely too warm, too princely, too amused.

“Liar,” he murmured, stepping close enough that his breath stirred the hair at your temple. “Your teeth are rattling a charming concerto.”

“I said—”

“And I said you’re shivering.” One arched brow. “Would you like my cloak?”

The offer landed like flint on tinder. You opened your mouth — habit formed around refusal — but the night stole the word and left only a shudder. Fine tremors climbed your arms. Astarion watched, ruby eyes bright with mischief and something startlingly soft.

“Here,” he sighed — half resignation, half relish — and reached for the clasp. Gold links whispered apart. As the cloak swung free, heat rushed out like the exhale of a hearth. Cedar, smoke, faint mulled wine: his scent, rich and dizzying.

He didn’t simply hand it over. Oh no — Astarion performed the act like ritual. One step forward, boots crunching frost; cloak lifted high, then draped across your shoulders in a slow, enveloping fall. He gathered the fabric at your throat, cool fingertips grazing the hollow just above your pulse. You felt it leap; he felt it too — his smile said everything.

“There,” he purred, smoothing collars with absurd delicacy. “A lovely splash of red to set off those cheeks.”

You tugged the cloak tighter. “Thank you.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, studying the way it swallowed your frame. “Marvelous. It hangs on you like sin.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Be wary — wearing a vampire’s garment might constitute a blood pact in certain, decidedly salacious circles.”

“Oh dear,” you deadpanned, exhaling warmth back into your stiff fingers. “Am I doomed?”

He hummed approval. “Doomed to — let me think — moonlit poetry recitals, perhaps a scandalous duet or two.” His grin glinted fang. “Surely you can bear the torment.”

You mustered a scoff, but the cloak’s heat seeped beneath your defiance, loosening the tight curl of your shoulders. Even the wind seemed reluctant to intrude through velvet this thick. You inhaled — cedarheart and something sweet, like the echo of summer berries on the tongue.

Astarion’s gaze followed the rise of your chest, satisfied. Then, casual as smoke, he settled onto the flattest rock beside your post — close, but not crowding. The river’s dark ribbon murmured below. Fireflies stitched gold thread between brambles.

After a beat he said, softer, “I never cared for that cloak.”

You glanced sideways. “No?”

“Cazador chose it.” A small shrug. “He enjoyed dressing us like decorative knives — beautiful, useful, always his.” For a moment the campfire in his eyes dimmed, revealing an undertow of old hurt. But then the mask slipped back into place, polished and bright. “Yet here we are — re‑appropriating luxury. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Very,” you whispered. “And it does suit you. Or did.”

He laughed, rich and low. “Are you angling to keep it?”

“Maybe I’m claiming it. Finders, keepers.”

“Heresy.” He slung an arm along the rock’s rim, posture indolent royalty. “If you intend to steal my wardrobe, I’ll need compensation.”

You arched a brow. “More secrets? Another blush tally?”

“Oh, I have grander schemes tonight.” He leaned in until moonlight caught in his lashes. “How about a favor to be named later? Something deliciously open‑ended.”

Your pulse skipped. “Dangerous.”

“Exhilarating,” he corrected. Then, unexpectedly gentle: “But if bargaining unsettles you, we’ll stick to simpler trades. A story, perhaps.” He lifted his chin, invitation in every line. “Gift me a memory.”

Cold forgotten, you searched for something worthy. “All right,” you said at last, voice soft. “When I was small, my mother would brew cinnamon milk on winter nights. She’d hum — terribly off‑key — while I sat by the hearth pretending to read. I’d memorize the tune, wrong notes and all, because it meant warmth was coming. I loved that.”

Astarion’s expression flickered — surprise, then a longing so fierce it scared you. “Cinnamon,” he echoed. “I remember cinnamon.” He looked away, throat working. “I’d- I’d snatch sweet rolls from palace apprentices and hide on the roof. Eat them alone so no one could shame me for sticky fingers.” Soft laugh, brittle as spun sugar. “Feelings taste different when you savor them in secret.”

He fell quiet, the confession hanging between you like frost‑glittering glass. Your hand twitched beneath the cloak — impulse to reach for his. Instead you said gently, “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

His eyes cut back, bright and wary. “Don’t I?”

“You offered me warmth with no demand.”

“Oh, I’ll demand something eventually,” he teased but the line lacked bite.

“You could have let me freeze,” you pressed. “Mocked me, walked away. You didn’t.” You lifted a corner of the cloak. “That choice is yours now. Every time.”

Astarion stared long enough that riverwind filled the silence with its hush. Then he chuckled, a sound that trembled at the edges. “Careful, sweet thing. Keep talking like that and I might start believing I have choices.”

“Maybe you should,” you echoed your earlier words, softer still.

He inhaled — sharp, startled — like the idea itself was a sudden ache in his ribs. For an instant vulnerability bared its throat. Then his grin returned, dazzling and defensive.

“Let’s test this newfound autonomy, shall we?” He stood, offered a dramatic bow, and extended a hand. “Come. The wind’s unrelenting, and I know a niche halfway down the cliff face — sheltered, private, excellent acoustics should I burst into impromptu sonnet.”

You laughed, taking his hand. His fingers were cool but steady, closing around yours with teasing ceremony. As you followed him along the narrow path, the cloak swirled your ankles, trailing his scent.

At a ledge half hidden by thorny broom, he paused, gesturing you ahead. A natural alcove cupped a sliver of embers from some forgotten traveler’s fire; still warm. He dusted the stone, sat, then tugged you down beside him. The space forced proximity — knees brushing, cloak draping over both. Twin warmths: velvet outside, his body heat inside.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. In the dim, his eyes burned garnet, softer than any flame.

A playful silence stretched. Then he cleared his throat theatrically. “Right. About that sonnet…”

“Oh gods, no,” you groaned.

“Too late. Inspiration strikes.” He pressed the back of his hand to his brow, reciting in a tragic stage whisper: “O crimson cloak upon a trembling frame, / Envy of dawn, ye put bright day to shame—”

You dissolved into laughter. It echoed off stone, mingling with his self‑satisfied chuckle.

When your mirth subsided, you found him watching you — smile gentled, eyes steady. “I like that sound,” he admitted quietly.

“What sound?”

“That laugh. It…does something foolish to me.” He glanced away, almost shy. “Makes monsters feel less monstrous.”

Your breath caught. Without thinking, you slid your hand across the small gap, resting it atop his. He stiffened — a reflex born of centuries — then eased beneath your touch, exhale feathering the cold air.

“Monsters don’t share cloaks,” you whispered.

“They do,” he said, lips quirking. “They just expect payment in flesh.” A pause. “I’m trying something new.”

“And how does it feel?”

He considered, thumb grazing your knuckles. “Terrifying,” he said. Then, softer: “Nice.”

You smiled into the dark. “Borrow the feeling as long as you need.”

“Dangerous invitation.” He curled his fingers, lacing them with yours. “I may never give it back.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep you, then.”

He laughed — a fragile, wondrous thing. “You drive a scandalously hard bargain, darling.” He squeezed your hand once, then let the silence rest — comfortable, living. Wind rattled faraway branches, but the alcove held only warmth.

Minutes — or hours — later, when your watch ended and you both rose to return to camp, Astarion reached to reclaim his cloak. His hands paused at your shoulders, clutching velvet as though reconsidering.

He released a hush of air, almost a sigh, and withdrew, leaving the cloak on you.

“Keep it till morning,” he said, eyes unreadable. “Consider it… interest on our deal.”

“What deal?”

“The one where I practice giving without taking.” He winked, stepping back into moonlight. “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late. You smiled, heart thudding. “Good night, Astarion.”

He hesitated, then with the softest smile you’d ever stolen from him, murmured, “Good night, warmth‑thief.���

He vanished into shadow, leaving you cloaked in crimson and something far rarer: the promise of choice.

[a-bit-of-writing]

With my writing challenge officially over, I'm open to requests!

Feel free to check up on my Masterlist to see which fandoms I write for. More to come, of course!

[a-bit-of-writing]

//Congrats on finishing the writing challenge!

//I'm sure it's been great fun, though it probably feels pretty good to not have restrictions on what to write.

//To celebrate, I shall give another suggestion; I dunno if you've ever seen The Stuff, but basically, it's about a parasitic alien race that masquerades as a delicious treat to get into hosts, they look a lot like marshmallow fluff.

//So, maybe the perspective of a host slowly realizing what they've been doing to themselves, feeling it move around and stuff.

///...as you can probably tell from my most famous suggestion, I really like parasites rofl

Thank you again!

I'm not familiar with it but that does sound like an interesting premise - I'll have to look into it!

[a-bit-of-writing]

With my writing challenge officially over, I'm finally free to pursue the other stories that I put on hold.

Not going to lie though, I did love the challenge - might even do something where I'll focus on one fandom a month WITH the flexibility of updating other fandoms while doing so.