lllumoria

[lllumoria]

Wait are you actually a minor?

Nope! I'm 24 🤓

[lllumoria]

I just realized I had my Ask Box disabled 😅 It’s open now if you’re interested!

Requests are Open!

I don’t have any specific rules at the moment but I’m pretty much open to all — headcanons, fluff, smut and reader-inserts!

[lllumoria]

Scar {Astarion x Reader}

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

・❥・ You hide the scar on your face without thinking until Astarion notices. But instead of flinching, he calls it interesting. 

The others had long since gone to sleep, their bedrolls quiet save for the occasional snore or rustle of cloth. Astarion sat by the dwindling fire, one leg crossed over the other, absently twirling his dagger between his fingers as the flames painted silver highlights across his pale skin.

You stood a short distance away, hesitating. You hadn’t meant to catch his eye. But you had. Of course you had.

“Come to bask in my company?” he drawled, not even looking up. “Or simply admiring me from afar again?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to make it light. “I was getting water.”

“Mm. A convenient excuse. Shall I pretend to believe it?”

You nearly smiled, but it faded quickly. He was looking at you now, those sharp eyes tracking every flicker of expression. You didn’t need to ask to know they’d already landed on it – the scar, the one that marred the side of your face. Jagged and pale now, but still raw in your mind.

You turned slightly, letting your hair fall over it. A practiced motion. Automatic.

Astarion said nothing at first. Just watched. Then, softly – too softly for the usual teasing–

“I noticed you always turn that way when you speak to me.”

You stiffened. “I don’t.”

“Oh, darling, you do.” He sheathed the dagger, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, his voice a velvet murmur. “So tell me. Who convinced you to be ashamed of something that makes you... interesting?”

You hated how your throat tightened. “It’s not – romantic. It’s not a noble battle wound. Just something I got running away.”

“And yet it’s yours.” He stood then, moving with that sinuous grace he always had, and before you could back away, he was already too close. “Do you know how many people I’ve met whose beauty is manufactured? Skin unmarked, eyes empty. You, on the other hand...”

His fingers hovered just beside your face, not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“...you carry a story, whether you speak it or not. There’s something real in that.” His lips curved – not mockingly, but gently. Genuinely.

You swallowed. “Don’t try to charm me. I know what you are.”

A glimmer of amusement lit his gaze. “Do you? Because I think the real question is – do you know what you are?”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Then – carefully, deliberately – he reached up and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, revealing the scar completely.

“There,” he said, voice low and soft as a whisper. “Now I can see all of you.”

And gods help you, you let him.

[lllumoria]

Requests are Open!

I don’t have any specific rules at the moment but I’m pretty much open to all — headcanons, fluff, smut and reader-inserts!

[lllumoria]

How they react to seeing Reader breaking down {Wyll, Astarion, Gale, Lae’zel}

This is a request from my main blog (@a-bit-of-writing ) featuring a reader who’s breaking down from their usual sunny/optimistic self and how the companions react to it.

Wyll

He notices but doesn’t push (at first)

Wyll is perceptive, especially when it comes to people he cares about. He’ll notice the subtle changes first: the forced smiles, the distant gaze, the silence where laughter used to be.

He won’t confront you immediately. He’ll observe — give you space.

“You’ve been quieter lately. Not like you. …Not that I mind a little peace and quiet, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss your laugh.”

He’s gentle about it, not invasive. He’s been taught to lead with kindness, not pressure.

Once he knows it’s serious, he shifts into steady support

When he realizes it’s not just a bad day – that you’re really struggling – his tone becomes steady, his warmth unwavering. He’ll sit with you in it, no grand speeches, no magic fixes. Just presence.

He stops trying to cheer you up and focuses on being there.

“You don’t have to smile for me. You don’t have to say a word. Just… stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hero complex makes him want to fix it, but he reins that in. He understands that this isn’t a battle he can fight for you but he can fight with you.

He shares his own pain — to show you you’re not alone

Wyll doesn’t often speak about his own regrets or loneliness. But your breakdown would open that door. Quietly, hesitantly, he’ll begin to offer pieces of himself—not to shift focus, but to remind you he understands.

He speaks plainly, without dramatics.

“There were days I didn’t believe I deserved anything better. Days I looked in the mirror and only saw what I’d lost… or what I’d become. You ever feel that way?”

He doesn’t pity you. He relates to you. And that matters.

His affection grows deeper, not distant

Some would shy away from the intensity of someone unraveling. Wyll doesn’t. If anything, he draws closer. More careful. More devoted. Not because he sees you as fragile but because he sees your strength even when you can’t.

He flirts less during this time — not because he’s lost interest, but because his love becomes more protective. More reverent.

“You don’t have to be the light all the time, you know. Even the sun rests. I’ll keep the fire burning till you’re ready to rise again.”

Long-term: he’s patient, loyal, and will wait as long as it takes

Wyll isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re struggling. Not when you’re quiet. Not when it’s hard. He will wait. Fight for you. Sit beside you through every storm. Because once he loves — he chooses.

He’ll keep offering small joys — stories, warmth, reminders of who you are.

“You once told me I was a hero. But you — you’re the one who kept hope alive when everything went dark. I haven't forgotten. And I never will.”

Astarion 

His first response is deflection — sharp, defensive, and a bit cruel

Astarion senses the shift. He absolutely notices your sudden quiet, your lack of spark and it scares him. So his first instinct is to mock it, to distance himself emotionally.

He’ll say something sarcastic to cover his panic.

“Well, this is new. Have we given up the role of radiant optimist for something more… dreary?”

There’s venom, but it’s hollow. He’s not being cruel — he’s terrified. This is how he protects himself.

When he realizes it’s not a mood — it’s a descent — his mask slips

Once Astarion really understands what’s happening — that this isn’t passing sadness but something deeper — his tone shifts. Not immediately into comfort, but into a rare, raw honesty.

He’ll sit near you without knowing what to say, awkward and unsure. But he stays. That’s the tell.

“I’m not… good at this. The comforting. The caring. But I notice. You’ve gone quiet. And I hate it.”

He doesn’t ask you to be happy again. He asks you to talk to him. Because he feels helpless otherwise.

He’s afraid you’ll leave — or worse, disappear from the inside out

Astarion has abandonment trauma. Seeing someone he cares about emotionally shut down triggers that fear. He’ll begin clinging in his own way — more teasing, more barbed jokes, more hovering.

He won’t say “I’m scared.” He’ll say things like:

“You don’t get to break now, darling. I’ve only just gotten used to you.”

But there’s a plea underneath. “Please stay. Please don’t fade.”

Small gestures, deep meaning

Once he realizes words won’t fix this, Astarion begins to act in smaller, unexpected ways. He’ll bring you food without fanfare. Offer to clean your gear. Sit closer at night. It’s clumsy affection, but it’s real.

He shows up even when he doesn’t understand what you need.

“I don’t know how to fix you. But I’m here. And I’m… trying, gods help me.”

That’s the greatest intimacy he can offer: effort. Not performance. Real effort.

 If you let him in—even just a little—he breaks first

If you open up to him, if you trust him with your darkness, it breaks something in Astarion. Because someone as good, bright, and lovely as you just let him see what you hide. And to him, that’s sacred.

He’ll try to laugh it off, then go quiet. Too quiet.

“You shouldn’t have told me that. Not because I don’t care but because I do. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

And when he really means it:

“I’ve clawed my way out of darkness. I know what it feels like when it whispers to you. If you’re going to fall, fall toward me. I’ll catch you — clumsily, but… I’ll try.”

Gale

He sees it immediately and treats it like a sacred secret

Gale is perceptive in the way of scholars and poets — he sees subtleties. He’ll recognize the cracks in your smile, the fatigue in your voice, the way you pause too long before answering. But he won’t rush in with questions. He’ll wait, watching with quiet concern until the right moment to speak.

He might approach it gently, over tea, over books, over starlight.

“I notice things. Not just in the stars or in spellwork—but in people. You… aren’t quite yourself lately. Would you like to talk about it?”

He gives you the space to not be okay. No judgment. Just a safe harbor.

His reaction is compassionate, never condescending

Gale would never suggest you “cheer up.” Instead, he’d normalize your pain, offering philosophical reflections that are both grounding and comforting.

He speaks in metaphors — light and shadow, storms and silence — but always with sincerity.

“Even the sun rests, my dear. Even the Weave frays. There is no shame in being… still. In being soft for a while.”

He reassures you that your value does not fade with your smile.

“You, in sorrow, are no less radiant. Only quieter. And I will sit with you in that quiet as long as you need.”

He tries to bring you back gently with joy, not pressure

He doesn’t want to pull you out — he wants to walk with you through it. He might read to you, share arcane stories or magical curiosities just to make you smile. He offers warmth through shared wonder.

His flirting slows, becomes sweeter, less performative.

“I’ve missed your laughter. I don’t expect it but I look forward to its return. Like waiting for the first bloom of spring.”

If you cry in front of him? He won’t rush to fix it. He’ll witness it. That’s love to him.

 He opens up, too — so you know you’re not alone

Gale has his own darkness. And when you begin to break, he shares more of it, not to compare, but to let you know you’re not the only one walking through shadows.

His confessions are quiet, offered like gifts.

“There were days I feared the world would forget me. That all I was, all I am, would disappear. And still, I carried on. And now I see you. And I want to carry with you, if you’ll let me.”

He doesn't see your sadness as fragile. He sees it as real, and real things are worth staying for.

When he says he’s staying, he means it

Gale’s love is intentional, lasting, and utterly faithful. If you break down, he doesn’t waver. He simply settles beside you, hands gentle, voice soft, waiting for you to find your breath again.

He will stay up with you at night. He will keep the silence warm.

“You don’t need to shine to be loved. Sometimes, existing is enough. You are enough.”

And when you’re ready to stand again, even shakily — he’s right there.

“Let’s take one step. Just one. Together.”

Lae’zel 

Initial confusion, followed by frustration

Lae’zel is used to strength. She respects it. When you — someone she likely viewed as emotionally resilient — begin to fade into silence, she notices. And she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Her first response might be sharp. Defensive. Confused.

“You are not yourself. Why? What weakness has taken root in you?”

It’s not cruelty — it’s fear in disguise. You were a constant. Your unraveling threatens her idea of control.

“You do not cry. You fight. What has changed?”

She tries to snap you out of it because that’s what she would want

Lae’zel believes that pain is meant to be crushed, not carried. She doesn’t coddle. Her instinct is to provoke a reaction, to push you back into action.

She gives tough love before she even understands what gentle love looks like.

“Sitting in your sorrow will not serve you. You must move. You must act. That is how we survive.”

It’s not graceful but it’s her version of showing concern.

When you don’t react — that’s when she begins to understand

If you don’t fight back — if your silence lingers — Lae’zel’s armor begins to crack. She realizes this isn’t laziness or weakness. It’s something deeper. And she begins to see you.

That’s when she quiets down. Her tone shifts.

“You are not broken. Just… tired. Worn.”

She sits closer. Doesn’t touch but stays close, ready. Watchful. Protective.

Loyalty becomes her language of comfort

Lae’zel doesn’t know how to say “I love you” or “I’m here.” But she knows how to guard you, how to stand between you and the world while you regain your footing. And that’s what she offers.

She’ll position herself at your back in combat without being asked. Sharpen your blade while you sleep. Watch you out of the corner of her eye.

“Rest, if you must. I will not let anything touch you.”

And if someone else comments on your changed demeanor? She’ll shut them down instantly.

“Her strength has not left her. It is only… hidden. And it will return. You will not question it again.”

If you let her in — even a little — she becomes fiercely protective

If you choose to open up to her — say just a few words about what’s weighing you down — Lae’zel won’t say the perfect thing. But she’ll offer you something far rarer from her: trust.

She might look away while saying it, but it will land like an oath:

“You are strong. Even now. Especially now. You need not prove it to me.”

And in her own hard-edged way:

“You are not alone. Not while I breathe.”

[lllumoria]

Lessons {Astarion x Reader}

Characters: Astarion x Reader 

Summary: You try to flirt. You really do. But when Karlach dares you to sweep someone off their feet, and you choose Astarion of all people, things go exactly how you'd expect: poorly, hilariously, and then… dangerously well. 

Blame the wine, blame the boredom, blame Karlach’s booming dare but mostly blame Astarion’s grin glinting at the edge of the firelight, practically asking to be challenged.

The night had turned companionable after a brutal skirmish with gnolls. Everyone alive, everyone bruised. Wyll poured a celebratory bottle of Dragon’s Crush. Gale lectured on planar theory until even he grew tired of hearing himself. Then Karlach, cheeks flushed bronze with drink, slammed her mug down and declared:

“Right! We’ve exchanged war stories and arcane gobbledygook – time for something fun. Show us your best flirt, bookworm.” She jabbed a thumb at you.

Across the fire, Astarion straightened like a cat scenting cream. “Oh, do include me. I adore games that end with somebody blushing.”

Shadowheart muttered something about children and bedtimes, hiding a smirk behind her cup.

You coughed. “I’m not exactly stage material.”

“Come on!” Karlach insisted, eyes bright. “Pick a target. Sweep them off their feet.”

Your gaze flicked around the circle – Gale, Wyll, Shadowheart. Tempting, but the silver‑haired vampire spawn was already leaning forward, ruby eyes flicking between you and the bottle with predatory anticipation. And frankly, you were tired of being the one who reacted to him. Time to return serve.

You took a steadying breath, stepped toward Astarion, and summoned your sultriest voice – an untested weapon.

“Tell me,” you purred, “do you always wake up this charming, or did you sip a charisma potion in your sleep?”

Silence.

Then: Shadowheart’s snort, Gale’s polite clap, Karlach’s whoop!

And Astarion?

Astarion stared.

A single eyebrow rose, sculpted and deadly. Then laughter welled up – bright, genuine, bubbling out of him like uncorked sparkling wine. He braced a hand on his knee, eyes crinkling. “Oh, my sweet summer star. That was… adorable.”

Heat crashed into your cheeks. He tapped your nose with one cool fingertip, the gesture maddeningly tender.

“Adorably earnest,” he amended, voice dropping half an octave. “Like a kitten trying to roar.”

That stung, but the warmth in his gaze softened the barb – he wasn’t mocking to wound; he was amused. And maybe – just maybe – impressed that you’d dared at all.

Karlach was cackling. “Give her a break – first time’s rough!”

Astarion turned to the group, palms out. “I’m merely appreciating the effort. But…” His eyes slid back to you, dangerous again. “If you’d like a demonstration, kitten, I could show you how it’s actually done.”

You folded arms across your chest. “Enlighten me.”

Murmurs rippled around the circle. Even stoic Shadowheart leaned forward a fraction.

Astarion rose with the grace of spilled silk. “Observe.” His voice smoothed into velvet. “Lesson One: Proximity.”

He didn’t stride – he drifted. One step, two, closing the space until the fire blurred behind his shoulder and his cool scent – cedar, smoke, hint of blood – wrapped around your senses. He stopped just outside touching distance: enough room for heat to pulse between bodies, not enough for breath to settle.

Your pulse skipped. He heard it – judging by the satisfied quirk of his mouth.

“Lesson Two,” he continued, lifting a hand but not quite touching your cheek, letting anticipation thrum, “Intention. Your words fluttered like moths, darling. Pretty, but harmless. Instead” – his knuckles grazed the air beside your jaw – “you speak like every syllable knows where it wants to land.”

Your throat tightened. The camp faded; only him, the flicker of firelight dancing across pale skin, the hush of everyone holding breath.

“Lesson Three: Tone.” His next words fell warm against your ear, lower than laughter, smoother than wine. “Low and languid, like a secret slipping beneath the door.” A chill crawled your spine, chased by a bloom of heat.

He withdrew just enough to let you focus on his eyes – deep garnet, reflecting flame. “Lesson Four,” he whispered, “Eye contact.” He held your gaze, unblinking, unabashed, until the air felt charged enough to spark. “Stare as though you’ve already memorized the color of their last sigh.”

Your knees wobbled. Astarion’s smile flashed fang – dangerous, but the kindness of a hunter granting a fatal thrill to its prey.

Then, masterfully cruel, he stepped away. The cold rush of lost proximity stole your next breath.

He pivoted to the group with a grand flourish. “And that, loves, is how one flirts.”

Silence. Then Karlach let out a war‑whoop that sent embers spiraling skyward. Gale applauded with academic enthusiasm. Wyll whistled low.

Shadowheart merely nodded, impressed despite herself. “Excruciatingly effective.”

You pressed a hand to your flaming cheeks, trying to claw back composure. “Show‑off.”

Astarion bowed. “Only when inspiration strikes.”

Karlach elbowed Gale. “Your turn, wizard!”

But conversation blurred in your ears; your heartbeat drummed too loud. The scent of cedar still clung to your skin like phantom hands. You’d thought his flirtation an act, a weapon. Now you weren’t sure what terrified you more: the idea he’d been performing, or the possibility that he hadn’t.

—————

Most of the camp had retired. Shadowheart took first watch; Karlach slept sprawled by the dying fire like a contented bear. Gale and Wyll snored mutually supportive harmonies.

You lingered at the river’s edge, cold water lapping boots, trying to cool blood still thrumming hot.

“Kitten,” Astarion called softly behind you.

You turned. He strolled closer, but not as a predator – hands tucked behind his back, shoulders loose. “Come to critique my technique?” you asked, aiming for levity.

“On the contrary. I came to apologize, perhaps.” He stopped beside you, gaze tracing the moon’s reflection on the water. “I may have been… heavy‑handed.”

You huffed a laugh. “Was that your polite way of saying ‘cruel’?”

“Cruelty is useful,” he mused. “But only when it serves a purpose. Tonight’s spectacle benefited no one but my ego.” He paused, eyes flicking to you. Something unguarded shimmered. “I forget, sometimes, how… sharp my edges are.”

Wind stirred his hair; the moon painted silver across his cheekbones. Vulnerability suited him – beautiful and unsettling.

You rolled a pebble beneath your boot. “For what it’s worth, I knew it was a performance.”

“Was it?” he asked, voice nearly lost to river rush.

Silence pooled. You risked a glance: his gaze remained on the water, but tension threaded shoulders that usually lounged. The question hung heavier than mere flirtation. Was it just a performance?

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

“Neither do I,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then, with a sigh, he shook off the softness and straightened, renewed mischief in the tilt of his lips. “Regardless, the lesson stands. Would you care to practice? I’m an excellent tutor – patient, hands‑on.”

You barked a surprised laugh. “Hands entirely off, thank you.”

“Tragic.” He clasped dramatic hand to chest. “But I can behave. Sometimes.”

You considered. “Fine. Teach me step one again.”

Astarion brightened. “Proximity. Simple.” He stepped close – then closer – until boot tips nearly brushed. “Now, you try.”

Your pulse fluttered, but you met his gaze and purposefully closed the final inch until your shoulders were almost touching his chest. Heat flared in his eyes – approval, hunger, something softer.

“Lesson two,” you said, lowering your voice just enough that it vibrated between you. “Intention.”

His breath hitched.

Emboldened, you lifted a hand – not to his cheek, but to the collar of his shirt, where one dangling silver clasp glinted. Your knuckles skimmed fabric. “This is crooked,” you murmured, and straightened it with excruciating slowness.

Astarion’s eyelids fluttered. “You’re a quick study.”

“Lesson three,” you continued: “tone.” You let the next words drop – warm, bare truth. “You disarmed me tonight.”

He inhaled sharply, expression caught between grin and awe. “Did I?”

“Lesson four.” You held his gaze, letting him see everything unhidden: the thrill, the fear, the defiance. “Eye contact.”

Seconds stretched, taut as bowstring. Then – you stepped back. The air cooled, but satisfaction bloomed in your chest.

Astarion released a shaky laugh. “Oh, well played, darling.”

You offered a short bow. “I learn fast.”

He regarded you, eyes glimmering. “We may have to call tonight a draw.”

“Wasn’t that the point? Mutual embarrassment?”

“Hardly embarrassing,” he countered, voice velvet again but soft velvet, worn, warm. “Quite… exhilarating.”

He extended his hand – palm up, invitation rather than command. After a heartbeat, you placed yours atop. His grip was cool, steady, strangely gentle.

“For the record,” he said quietly, thumb brushing your knuckles, “no potion could make anyone this charming. It’s all me.”

You laughed. The sound loosened something inside both of you. His shoulders dropped a fraction, yours lifted. The river whispered secrets around your ankles.

“Come,” he said, tugging lightly. “Let’s get you back before the gnolls hear your hammering heart and mistake it for a dinner bell.”

“My heart isn’t hammering.”

He smirked, leading you up the bank. “Lie better, kitten.”

[lllumoria]

Vampire😎

[lllumoria]

How They React to a Shy Reader {Karlach, Astarion & Gale}

This is a reader request featuring these three characters. As the title implies, this is my take how these three would react to a shy reader.

Karlach

When Karlach first meets you, you're quiet, hesitant, unsure where to place yourself in this loud, unpredictable world.

“Hey there, soldier! What’s your name? C’mon, don’t be shy – I don’t bite!”

You mumble your name. Eyes down. She immediately clocks you as someone who’s probably used to being overlooked or overwhelmed.

“Aw, you’re like a little mouse. It’s okay. No pressure! You can talk when you’re ready. I’ll just keep being loud over here until you feel like jumping in!”

She gives you space without leaving you behind. She never forces you to speak, but she makes it very clear you’re welcome.

Karlach’s energy is usually at a 10 but with you? She instinctively dials it back a little.

When the campfire is quiet, she’ll sit beside you without demanding conversation.

“Mind if I hang here? Silence isn’t so bad when you’ve got good company.”

When you flinch at loud arguments or step back from crowded fights, she notices and she subtly positions herself between you and the chaos.

“Hey, I got you. Just stick close to me, yeah? Nobody messes with my crew.”

The first time you voluntarily join a conversation? She beams like you’ve just pulled off a critical hit.

“Oh YEAH! Look who’s chiming in! Get in here!”

She fist bumps you. She ruffles your hair (if you let her). She absolutely makes a huge, joyful deal about it. Not to embarrass you, but because she’s genuinely proud of you.

She sees you becoming more comfortable over time – offering small jokes, shy smiles, maybe even light teasing – and every time, she meets you with big Karlach energy.

“Look at you, being all bold now! I knew you had it in ya!”

Anyone who tries to talk over you? Anyone who dismisses you? Oh, they won’t do it twice.

“Hey! They were talking. You got something to say? Say it to both of us.”

She is ferociously protective of your voice.

She encourages you to speak up but if you’re not ready, she has no problem speaking for you.

“They don’t wanna deal with your crap right now. Move along.”

Karlach knows you’re capable of more – even if you don’t believe it yet. She’ll nudge you toward the front when a situation’s safe, letting you try things first, but she never abandons you.

“Wanna take the lead on this one? I’m right behind you, promise.”

When you succeed? She celebrates like you just won a world championship.

“YES! Look at you GO! You’re a total badass, you know that?”

When you finally initiate a hug, Karlach absolutely freezes for a second, then scoops you up in the warmest, safest bear hug imaginable.

“Aw, come here! Took you long enough!”

“Sorry, sorry – am I crushing you? Nah, you’re fine. I could hold you like this all day.”

You: “I think I finally feel… like I belong here.”

Karlach: visibly choked up, voice softening

“Damn right you do. You’re one of us. You always were.”

“And anyone who says otherwise can go through me.”

Astarion 

When you first meet Astarion, you can barely meet his eyes, your words trailing off whenever he gets too close.

“Oh my. Are you… blushing? How deliciously precious.”

He thrives on your shyness. At first, it’s all a game to him – a new plaything, a puzzle to prod at.

“Do continue – your flustered silence is simply enchanting.”

But the more time he spends with you, the more he realizes:

You’re not just flustered. You’re genuinely shy. And yet… you keep coming back to him.

“So curious. You’re terrified of me, but you never run away.”

Astarion is used to people either fawning over him or shrinking away completely. You? You’re a strange mix of both – interested but hesitant.

He absolutely teases you:

“Careful, darling, you keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you fancy me.”

“I do so love the sound of your stammering. Truly, it soothes me.”

But he’s shockingly attuned to your limits. He pushes, but never to the point of real discomfort.

When you genuinely freeze up? He pulls back immediately, voice softening.

“Oh now, I didn’t mean to scare you, little dove. Take your time. I can be… patient.”

The first time you make a teasing comment back?

He lights up like it’s his birthday.

“Oh! Oh, there you are! Well done, my sweet.”

He starts looking forward to your little victories:

The way you hold eye contact a little longer

The first time you initiate conversation

When you voluntarily sit beside him at camp

Each moment becomes a small treasure for him.

“I must say, watching you come out of your shell is my new favorite form of entertainment.”

But it’s not just entertainment anymore and that’s what rattles him.

Astarion insists he’s just enjoying the game.

But when someone else talks over you? When someone brushes you aside?

Oh, he immediately intervenes with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“How terribly rude. You’ll address them properly, or you won’t speak at all.”

When you wander too far from camp?

“Tch. Honestly, you’re lucky I was nearby. Do try not to get devoured, my sweet.”

When you freeze in battle?

“Stand behind me. Go on. I’ll handle this one.”

The more you open up, the more Astarion finds himself genuinely invested.

He’ll even let his guard down with you:

Casual touches linger a little longer.

His flirtations become less performative, more gently sincere.

He’s still dramatic, of course:

“Careful, darling. I might start thinking you’re actually fond of me.”

But there’s a softness in the way he says it now.

The first time you hold his gaze without flinching?

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? Staring now, are we? My, my. Who taught you such wickedness?”

You: nervous but determined “I guess I’m learning from the best.”

He falters. Just for a moment.

“Tch. Be careful, sweet thing. I might just make you my favorite.”

When you finally initiate contact

Maybe you gently touch his hand. Maybe you lean into his side at the campfire.

He stills – completely.

“Oh. Well… isn’t this lovely.”

“…I suppose I can tolerate this. For a little while longer.”

(He absolutely doesn’t move away.)

Gale

When you first meet Gale, you’re quiet, hesitant, almost visibly folding into yourself.

Gale notices immediately but he doesn’t comment on it. He simply adjusts, lowering his voice, softening his presence.

“Ah, no need to rush, my friend. I shall simply... enjoy the quiet until you’re ready to share more of yourself.”

He offers his hand to help you over rough paths. He gives you the first serving of camp stew. He never pushes.

His patience is genuine – it’s not a tactic. He simply likes your company, even in silence.

Gale has a natural tendency to explain, to elaborate, to narrate but with you?

He watches carefully to make sure you’re not getting overwhelmed.

“If I prattle on too much, you’ll tell me, won’t you? I’d hate to drown out that lovely quiet voice of yours.”

When you offer small contributions, soft jokes, or hesitant opinions, he listens as if you’ve just shared something extraordinary.

“Oh, what a marvelous point. You’re quite sharp, aren’t you?”

“I do hope you’ll share more of those thoughts with me.”

The first time you voluntarily engage in a lively discussion? He beams like you’ve just solved an ancient riddle.

“Oh, splendid! You’re joining in! I was beginning to worry you’d leave me to monologue all by myself.”

Every little step – whether it’s joining camp banter, cracking a small joke, or asking about magic – he celebrates with genuine warmth, but never in a way that draws too much attention to you.

He carefully avoids embarrassing you. His joy is for you to see, not for the crowd.

He finds your shyness endearing, but his curiosity grows the more you reveal.

“You hold back so much, yet what you do share… well, I find myself treasuring it.”

He loves the little things:

The way you fidget with your sleeves when nervous

The way your eyes light up when you do talk about something you love

The soft humor that peeks through when you’re comfortable

He might casually invite you to stargaze, to teach you simple spells, to offer safe spaces where you can open up at your own pace.

“I thought you might enjoy a quieter moment. The world does tend to be a bit… loud, doesn’t it?”

Gale never swoops in to speak for you but he notices when others try to talk over you.

He redirects conversations, clears space for you to speak, and offers gentle encouragement with small nods or phrases like:

“I believe our friend had something to say?”

“Go on, I’m listening.”

In battle, he always keeps an eye on you – positioning himself nearby, subtly adjusting the formation to ensure you’re safe.

“You’re quite capable, but humor me – I prefer to keep you in my line of sight.”

You: softly “Could you… maybe teach me that spell?”

Gale: visibly delighted

“Why, of course! Oh, this will be grand. We’ll make a proper magician of you yet.”

He immediately offers you the safest, most beautiful cantrip because he wants you to feel empowered, not overwhelmed.

You: shy but growing bolder “You do love hearing yourself talk, huh?”

Gale: mock scandalized

“What? Me? Perish the thought! I simply… appreciate a well-spun sentence.”

But oh, he is so proud of you for saying it. He practically radiates joy.

[lllumoria]

Well, hello there! You can call me Alice! I've been writing on and off since I was 12 — that’s 12 years now! So I can safely say I know what I’m doing 🤓

Though my interests vary greatly, I'll solely focus on BG3 content. My main writing blog is @a-bit-of-writing

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"You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have." - Margaret Atwood