#bg3 writing

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Durge: *Slams a cultist up against a wall, holding them by the throat.* I'm going to enjoy skinning you alive. I'll make it slow, so that by the time it's done your throat will have bled raw from your agonized screams.

Astarion: Darling, I'm hurt. I thought that sort of talk you only reserved for me in the fervor of our bedroom?

*Collective groans of exasperation and disgust.*

Lae'zel: Kainyank! Put gold into the Jack's Ass jar.

Gale: *Holds up jar.* Jackass jar. We've gone over this.

Lae'zel: As I have said before, this term 'jackass' is illogical. Who is this Jack and why is it an insult to call somebody his ass?

Gale: And as I have said before, there is no Jack! That's just what the word is! It doesn't have to be logical!

Lae'zel: You humans are tiresomely vexing. I propose we call it the Galeass jar. Then, at least, the insult will have weight.

Astarion: *Drops a gold into the Galeass jar.* Worth it.

- - - -

BG3 Incorrect Quotes Masterlist.

[thedevilssinner]

I wanna share something because I don't want to suffer alone with my thoughts 😅

It's one of the scenarios where Tav knew Astarion before he was turned, but I've never read anything where it played out like this.

I apologize if something is wrong, English is not my native language.

Imagine that Tav is an elf and Astarion's lover before he was turned.

They're devastated when they finds out that Astarion has been killed. Mourning his death for a very long time and even moving away from Baldur's gate because everything reminds them too much of Astarion.

They know that all their happiness and love are gone. No one can fill the void that Astarion's death has brought them.

And now, two hundred years later, they stand on the beach, the sun beating down on their head, the burning Nautiloid at their back and before them... Astarion?

Only it's all wrong, his eyes are red and he's pale... paler than he's ever been.

Anger rises up in Tav. How dare some shapeshifter even take on Astarion's form after their beloved has been dead for 200 years?

And do a bad job at it!

Before the pale creature could even call for help again, Tav lunged at him with an angry cry, surprising the imitation and truckling it to the ground, dagger pressed to it's throat while they straddled his body. "How dare you?! How dare you to take his form?! Show me who you really are... now!" They command, surprising even themselves with their actions. But they couldn't stop... not when someone is using Astarion's face for gods knows what.

"Darling, there seems to have been a little misunderstanding. I don't know what you're talking about, and I'd appreciate it if you'd remove the dagger from my neck." The shapeshifter replies, his voice smooth and flirtatious and so unmistakably Astarion's that it hurts, and Tav presses the dagger a little harder against his neck.

"Shut up, shapeshifter!" Tav shouts at him, gaze anchored on that so familiar yet different face. "Where did you even get his face?! His voice?!" They ask angrily, the hand holding the dagger starting to shake. "You have no rights to pretend you're Astarion when he's... when he's gone. And to do it badly!" They continue, still angry but deep seated sadness linger behind.

The shapeshifter's eyes widen, opening his mouth as if he wants to say something, Tav noticing the fangs there and even worse idea that him being a shapeshifter, starts to creep into their mind.

"Tav?" Fake Astarion finally speaks, saying their name as if he were saying it for the first time in a long time, tasting it on his lips. The previous flirting gone. Instead he looked confused and as if just now he remembered something that was hidden in his mind. "You are them, aren't you? Gods, how could I forget... so beautiful." His red eyes glide along Tav's face, his voice nothing than a whisper. He's clearly lost in his head and Tav swallows thickly, realisation slowly grasping their mind but they fight against it.

"No, stop! Stop it! You can't be him. You can't... he's dead and your eyes are wrong. You're wrong." Tav says, their body starting to shake all over, threatening to cut him by mistake with the dagger still against his neck.

But now it's easy for 'the shapeshifter' to take Tav's wrist and move their hand away from his neck, easily wrenching the dagger from their fingers and tossing it aside. His lips stretch into a sad smile.

"That's what vampirism do to you, my love." Astarion says ever so softly, the deepest pain and sadness etched in his voice and Tav knows, feels it in their soul, that he is telling the truth.

So that's how Tav meets Astarion again, this encounter more painful and bittersweet than anything else.

They stay on the beach for a little while, Tav crying their heart out and Astarion trying to hold back his own tears. Both of them not expecting something like this to happen.

(Sorry if Astarion seems ooc.)

[starlettechild]

𝒜 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁’𝓈 𝒮𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉-𝓉𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽

তততততততততততত

CONTENT: NSFW! 18+ only please! Smut involving reader with an implied female anatomy, but they/them pronouns are used through out.

⚠️TW⚠️: NSFW content, obsessive Raphael.

INTRO: After receiving a taste of Tav from Haarlep abusing their form, Raphael can’t get enough. His sweet-tooth begins to crave the real thing.

A/N: I just know Raphael lives in between Tavs thighs. You’ll have to pull that man by the HORNS to get him to stop.

Haarlep begins to wonder if Raphael has gone into some sort of infernal rut. Ever since his favorite adventurer broke into his home and indulged with Haarlep, Raphael has been attached to them. Their form has been Tav for days, and they wonder if the mouse will march to this cursed manor and kill the two of them on the spot for those constant ghost touches. Haarlep knows Tav must be clenching every muscle in their body now, as Raphael buries his head between their thighs. It’s been hours, and Raphael is still licking, sucking, kissing, and biting. It’s enough to make a being as experienced as Haarlep overstimulated. They ball their fists into the sheets. It’s been centuries since Raphael indulged like this. They’ve never seen the devil make such a mess of himself between the thighs of their favorite adventurer.

The first time, Raphael finished untouched just at the mere taste of them! And it’s not even the real thing! But hells, how he groaned, tensed, and gripped their thighs as he finished untouched. If Haarlep didn’t hate him so much, they could almost be aroused by his desperation. The indents of his fingerprints lasted days, and they hoped Tav could see the devils face as he drank them like an exotic whiskey. As if he had been starved - on the brink of death - but the mere taste of Tav on his tongue brought him back to life.

Haarlep bites the hand they use to cover the noises they make as yet another orgasm washes over their illusion body. Raphael insisted Haarlep kept quiet, saying he wouldn’t hear a sound from them, not if it wasn’t the real Tav crying out. But the incubus can see the tent in his pants at the muffled noises, and he’s never stopped them from making those choked cries. Poor Tav, they must be absolutely exhausted with the devils constant feasting.

Raphaels head lifts from in between their legs, loose strands of the usually perfect hair fall stray in-front of his face, the brown eyes burn with pure hunger into the fake face of Tav. Their juices gleam on the devils managed stubble, highlighted by the dim candlelight. Raphael uses his hand to clean his chin and mouth, licking his fingers clean. “Our Tav must be tired. They may not survive if you start feasting again.” Haarlep says to the heavy-breathing devil, and he sees Raphael’s eyes darken at the reminder Tav can feel every single one of his touches. Those dark eyes narrow slightly in consideration. “Perhaps they will make their way to this refuge then, and seek the real thing for relief.” The devils warm breath fans over their entrance, and it makes them want to close their thighs in sensitivity. The corners of Raphaels mouth twitch up. He longs to see Tav this sensitive from his tongue, for his scalp to be sore from how hard they pulled on the strands.

But Haarlep knows the devil better than that. His statement may be coy and teasing, but they can see the true desperation in his brown eyes. How badly he wants them to come to him, to allow him to taste them in their true form. The incubus worries that Raphael wouldn’t let them go after they allowed him to feast. They also worry about Raphael’s humility. Who knows how fast that devil will finish untouched if it was truly the real Tav? He had to bite the inside of their thighs to stop himself from moaning into their entrance as he came undone while tasting them. The mark stayed there for days, adorned by his fingerprints.

The devil, still painfully hard, curls up next to Haarlep. They’ve offered several times to relieve him, but he surprised the incubus when he ripped their hand away, refusing to finish until it was the true Tav he had. A masochistic characteristic, but Haarlep was none to question him. Raphael shuts his eyes tightly, his breathing still heavy and needy against Tavs neck. It takes him awhile to simmer down after these long feasts, and sometimes he gives up in a fit of rage, starting all over again.

Raphael’s mind is filled with thoughts of Tav. Their scent on every inch of his body. His mouth tasting of them. And he fantasized about his long wait finally over, wondering when Tav will visit the den of the lion, willingly heading into its jaws.

তততততততততততত

[ellnick]

"I wish someone would write a fic where-"

Gimme. I'll do it. Send me asks. I want your headcanons. I want so badly to write and my brain is so fuzzy that I can't think of anywhere to start.

[littlejuicebox]

LittleJuicebox Masterlist

Click here for my AO3 account. (Converting is a WiP).

If you’d like to be added to a tag list, please DM me and I can send you the google doc link. I have decided to keep tag lists for each individual series so you only get tagged in the ones you want.

My personal favorites are denoted by a +.

GN reader is denoted by a * otherwise assume Fem reader/OC.

Titles colored red are smut or other mature themes, 18+ only.

AstarionxWren Series:

This is a canon-adjacent passion project which focuses on Astarion and Wren, a ranger half-elf with her own backstory. She is based off my first Tav. Do you like angsty slow burns where two broken people find one another and learn to love again? Then this one is for you.

Chapter 1 / Chasing birds to get high (PG) + Chapter 2 / Between comfort and chaos (PG) Chapter 3 / Sunshine and midnight rain (PG13) + Chapter 4 / Protect the flames (M/Gore) Chapter 5 / Blue and silver bonded (PG13) Chapter 6 / Remember how it feels to have a heartbeat (PG13) Chapter 7 / Give peace a chance (M/Smut) + Chapter 8 / Dancing in a burning room (M/Gore) Chapter 9 / Lavender haze (PG-PG13?) Chapter 10 / I want to hold your hand (PG13)

Midnight Chimes Series:

Your parents own a tavern in Baldur’s Gate, and Astarion was somewhat of a regular when you worked at the bar in your younger years. You don’t exactly trust him. Now you’re an apothecary owner based in Waterdeep, and when the two of you crash on the beach, you aren’t exactly thrilled to see him there, too. But things aren’t always what they seem.

1 / The Prologue +

2 / Three years

3 / Luck +

4/ Ringleader

Midwinter Carol Series:

Eirianwen and Astarion were in love before the Ascension ritual changed his behavior toward her. She refused to become a spawn, and they went their separate ways. The story starts when they run into one another fifteen years later; Eirianwen returned to the city to deliver some news to the pale elf. Meanwhile, the Ascendant had a night time visitor that convinced him to change his ways, and he believes his ex-lover might be the key. Will he be able to change after fifteen years of living life as a debauched degenerate?

1 / The Prologue +

2 / The Barrier

3 / The Carriage

4 / The Auction +

5/ The Repeat

6/ The Affliction

7/ The Interrogation

8/ The Scheme

9/ The Snake

AstarionxReader One Shots and Mini-Stories:

Mini-Stories are grouped together in order and denoted by a “Part X” in sequential order after the title. These are in general "timeline" order and follow my (admittedly self-indulgent) headcanon for Spawn Astarion x Tav but can definitely be read as OneShots. All stories are AstarionxReader, some allusions to reader having spellcaster ability but otherwise no real description apart from being female in about 3/4 of the fics.

Act 1-2:

The little things.

Before someone steals your queen

Act 3:

Drunken nights*+

The nail salon

You'll stay still, won't you, little love? +

Post-BG3:

Mermaid whiskey+

Baking Cookies*

Astarion talks in his sleep Part 1*+

My Sun, My Moon Part 2+

Glowing in the Underdark+

Reflections on one year of marriage

Highharvestide Part 1

Highharvestide Part 2

Handmade+

Dadstarion:

The wish spell worked.+

Daddy?

Little bump.

Labor and joy

Skin to skin.

Milk.+

Little lockpick.

Beach babies.+

A growing brood.

Puppy love.

Stuck.

Pre-BG3 / Random / Ascended Astarion OneShots

Midnight chimes / The Original One Shot

Pre-BG3. You’ve known Astarion for years… or at least, you’ve known of him. You think he’s a rake, but one night he changes your mind. The series "Midnight Chimes" started based off this "prologue."

A Midwinter Carol / The Original One Shot

“A Christmas Carol” but Ascended Astarion is Scrooge. He sees you after your break up 15 years ago, and then has an unexpected nighttime visitor showing him past, present, and future. Will he be convinced to change his ways? The series "Midwinter Carol" started based off this "prologue."

Naughty or Nice?

You’re Ascended Astarion’s little toy in the middle of a party. TLDR; he’s tease and a BDSM dom.

Dancing on my own

[gale-dekarios]

gortash (lowkey forcing) a marriage to one of the upper city nobels to further solidify his push for total control of baldurs gate. he's at the alter with his spouse-to-be when all of a sudden they're pinned to the dias by a spear hit directly through their head, piercing through their open mouth, their "i do" dying with them. there's chaos, screaming, crying all around him, but as he looks towards the bottom of the aisle, shaking with rage and covered in blood, the dark urge, the person he thought was lost to him forever, returns home. he hopes he can survive their wrath long enough to reunite properly.

[sadcambion]

Frustration

R-18 Haarlep x f!Tav x Raphaël

A little angst at the end but not TW I guess ?

(No I didn't have a better idea for a title.)

You swing fervently over Haarlep, his cock buried deep inside you. Your moaning and heavy breath break the silence of the room and Haarlep’s claws are half-buried in your hips. He gives pelvic strokes in sync with your movements and he looks at you in a dominant way, lustful. The boudoir is full of your sounds and the sound of skin that collides.

Raphael stands there, sitting in a sofa, in front of the bed, a glass of wine in his hand, sipping it gently and seems to enjoy the show. He doesn’t take his eyes off you while you get hammered by his incubus. He doesn't touch himself but his erection through the fabric of his pants is obvious.

He watches your breasts bounce. Your hips bleed out because of the claws of the incubus. He looks at how Haarlep’s cock stretches your mistreated hole. You’re a complete mess. Haarlep gently growls with pleasure under you.

In a way, Haarlep’s pushes are gentle, deep, he strikes specific points in you, those that make you throw your head back and make you scream. You hear vaguely Haarlep talking while you are lost in pleasure.

"Master, I need to cum."

He asks permission to fill you. And you know that Raphael will refuse. Raphael’s index finger plays with the edge of his glass lasciviously, he looks at the incubus with a cold air.

"No."

"But master…"

The voice of the incubus is strangled by pleasure and has the way you feel it pulsating in your hot and wet walls he is close, really very close. The half-devil looks at you, and speaks directly to you.

"Back off."

Raphael’s voice is cold and without appeal, he will not let Haalep end up in you. You reluctantly withdraw. Your body is sweaty and panting, your breath is heavy. Haarlep obviously looks disappointed and frustrated but you don’t want to be the target of Raphael’s anger. You drop carelessly into the bed next to the incubus, its erection is covered with your juice, and you have never seen its length be so painfully tense. Raphael has been playing this little game of frustration with him for long, very long minutes. This is his punishment for finished up inside you without his permission while he was busy with mortals on the material plane. When he came back and found you intertwined together, your thighs and your sticky entry of his seed he was mad with rage. That you fucked together could still pass, that him finished in you, he definitely did not accept it.

He wanted to frustrate the incubus to the max. Drive him crazy. The idea of Haarlep filling you with his semen and getting you pregnant disgusted him. He wanted to be the only one, the only one who would have this privilege and this power over you.

And he would have your womb.

Your womb belonged to him. He wanted to fill you with his devil spawns. He already imagined you the round belly of his heir inside.

He puts down his glass of wine and gets up from the couch. Haarlep doesn’t move, and neither do you, you know what’s going to happen now. The half-devil snaps his fingers and he is naked, his erection finally released from his layers of tissue. He gets on the bed and crawls on you, Haarlep starts touching himself, seeking his own release after so much frustration. Raphaël laughs wickedly.

"Forbidden to cum until I have finish."

Haarlep throws an angry look at him but he knows he has no choice, Raphael is the master here, it is him who controls the situation.

You look at Raphael while you are under him, his body overhangs you, his wings outstretched as if to hide you from the incubus. You are shivering and you still feel aftershocks of pleasure because of the blows that Haarlep had given deep inside you. Raphael grabs your thighs and spreads them wide. His smile has something sinister.

"My dear… you should know that no one but me can fill you, right?"

You stammer, you know you should be afraid when he smiles like that. But you feel excited.

"I.. I’m sorry, Raphael, I didn’t…"

You do not have time to finish your sentence that him slips into you, in a fluid and deep way. You moan gently.

He starts to move. His thrusts are hard, deep, so deep that you can feel it against your cervix. His mouth hovers over your neck and his claws dig into your hips, worsening the cuts Haarlep left you. A gasp of pain and pleasure escapes from your throat. You hear Raphael growling faintly at the sensation of your walls. He speaks softly against your neck, his voice is calm, controlled, but you feel a threatening note.

"I hope for your sake that this child will be mine…"

You answer nothing, your mind is clouded by pleasure, Raphael is more brutal and more controlling than Haarlep, but it remains good, you like it. Your hands are firmly gripped in his back.

You hear vaguely the sound of Haarlep jerking next to you while you get fucked by the devil.

Raphael hammers your body mercilessly, he wants to show who you really belong to. He wants to show that he is your master. You feel a warmth in you, the pleasure rises, you head for a new orgasm. You hear Raphael again between two strokes.

"Otherwise, my dear… My dear little mouse…"

A threat. You tense at his words, a dull fear filling you. He smiles mischievously and slyly against your neck. You feel sharp teeth touching the soft skin of your neck. He gives a deep and more brutal thrust. You feel his cock throb and hit your cervix every time. Your moans become more throaty. His claws gently lacerate the bruised skin of your hips. He doesn't finish his sentence yet.

A dull growl escapes from Raphael's chest and at the same time he floods your insides with his demonic seed. Despite the fear building within you you feel your orgasm coming at the same time and your walls contract forcefully around him, pumping out more of his cum. You moaned, exhausted beneath him. He doesn't not whithdrawing yet and seems to be enjoying the situation, he senses your fear. He glances at Haarlep, still nearby, as he finishes, his warm, thick ropes landing on her stomach. He continues to stare at Haarlep, and finally he finishes his sentence.

"Otherwise, I would kill the child."

[sorceresssundries]

A beautiful submission for Gale's Poetry Journal from @mumms-the-word <3

[On a folded scrap of parchment tucked into the far back pages of Gale's journal. The creases look worn, as though this note has been folded and unfolded many times. The handwriting is suspiciously similar to Tav's.]

o to be a book in his hands a page on which he traces his ink-stained finger following the lines down the sheets or idly along the edges his touch a whisper a soft susurrus as his fingers skim the page

to be opened and cradled with one hand watching his eyes travel left to right and slowly down consumed by each penstroke of ink on paper

to witness from below the touch of his tongue to his fingertip which he guides to the corner and slips between the folds and with a practiced flick turns over the leaf and smooths it down with the flat of his palm

[parvulous-writings]

Could I request headcanons for Wyll, Dammon, and Zevlor realising his feelings for his gn crush?

Warnings: They're a little short, but they're sweet! Spoilers for Act 2 with Zevlor's!

Notes:  My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!  Original character list - please request for these too!

Wyll

Wyll has always liked you - he holds respect for most people that he meets, but it's hard to deny that he took a particular shine to you. You had asked him once before why he had taking such a liking to you, of all people. "I'm not sure. But, it is not for us to argue with our hearts..."

It didn't take long for Wyll to fall for you; all he really needed was to see the measure of your character, you will to do good, the joy you get from helping others. One night, whilst you and your companions were sat around the fire, you happily feed Scratch some of the scraps of your meal, joyously chattering to the pup as you did, showering him with praise and compliments.

It was in that moment, your face illuminated by the flickering firelight, that he knew he had fallen for you - head over heels.

Dammon

You often help Dammon around his forge - something that he had always greatly appreciated, especially during his time at the grove. He never really got the hang of the Druid's forge - it was far too flimsy for his liking - so having an extra pair of hands actually helped him a bit. It ensured that if something broke, he wouldn't get entirely overwhelmed trying to fix it and work the forge.

He'd always considered you a great friend, you willingness to always help out was something that absolutely astounded him every day. Of course, he often returned the favour, but he never really felt like it was enough to make up for all the sweet things you had done for him.

He realized he had fallen for you when he and the rest of the Tieflings had to leave the Grove; you helped him pack up his things, and then you insisted on not only coming with the group, but also carrying some of his packs for him. It was then and there that he realised his whole heart was yours, and he'd do almost anything to keep near you.

Zevlor

You turned up at the Grove shortly after Zevlor and the Tieflings. He was initially a little bit nervous of you; getting themselves into the Grove had been lucky enough, but a kind stranger who didn't look upon them as just 'devilspawn'? That seemed near impossible for Zevlor to believe, especially of late. It took him a very long time for him to actually let you in, emotionally. It was when they had started on the road to Baldur's Gate when he truly started to have those deeper conversations with you.

He liked your jokes; sometimes they were amazing, and sometimes they fell flat, but he loved them all the same. They were a little bit of light in the looming darkness ahead in the journey. He admired the way that you tried to keep the children happy, too - they were scared, tired, and teary, but you always met them with such patience. He liked that about you.

After being freed from the pod that was meant to turn him into a mindflayer, he is of course grateful to the adventurers that saved him, but as soon as he was able to get out of the mindflayer colony, he knew he had to find you. You had been on his mind almost the entire time; he had betrayed both his friends, and you, but he wanted to at least try to apologise for what he had done. It was whilst he was trapped in that pod, swimming in his own memories on the verge of ceremorphosis, that he had realised how much you meant to him.

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Shadowheart: You ever wonder about all the people we kill?

Astarion: Wonder how? Like, how they taste?

Lae'zel: I often wonder at the stupidity of the choices they made, and how those choices ended with their inevitable demise at our hands.

Shadowheart: No, I mean, do you ever wonder who they were? Did they have families and friends?

Astarion: And how they might taste...?

Lae'zel: And why their families and friends did not dissuade them from making such stupid choices?

Shadowheart: That's not...no.

Durge: Are you suggesting we kill their families and friends so they don't have to mourn their loss?

Shadowheart: You know what, this is my fault. I should have known better than to try to discuss empathy with the feral and maladjusted members of our group.

Lae'zel: I am impressed, Shadowheart.

Shadowheart: *Cautiously.* Why?

Lae'zel: Most people possess entirely too much self-respect to admit they are the problem.

----

BG3 Incorrect Quotes Masterlist

[p3achysuki]

A/N: hello! This will be my first Baldur’s gate 3 writing and I’m a huge Gortash simp so obviously I needed to write something for Gortash and dark urge.

summary: before the tadpoles you were Bhaal’s favorite child, you worshipped him the way he wished his sired children did. You offered him lords, ladies even champions. Yet Bhaal would feel you slip away from his grasps because of a certain tyrant proposing you an alliance.

Warnings: mentions of murder, blood, manipulation, mentions of pregnancy, angst.

Til death do us part

The first time you killed someone you didn’t have much memories about it, you remembered your dominant hand feeling sore and the warmth on your skin and the smell, most people would find it disgusting yet you found it.. comforting.

When you came back to your senses you felt the bile your stomach turn into knots, “m’lady” you heard a voice behind you say and when you turned around you saw sceleritas for the first time. You desperately tried to explain to him it wasn’t you who did it, but he laughed it off “of course it was you m’lady! Such fine work you did of them, father would be very proud of you.”

After that Sceleritas said he would lead you back home, to your real family every night you thought about that day. It wasn’t until your father fueled the urge for you to kill that you would forget about the people you murdered, the more killings you did for your father the less you started to think about them your victims.

Worshippers at the temple praised you for your work even while you weren’t the main speaker for your father yet, so many people named you the prophet who would set the world on fire for Bhaal. You didn’t realize that your kin was envious of this, Orin thought all of your sacrifices to Bhaal was a disgrace. She deserved every bit of praises that the cultist would shower you in, she’s the only one who’s a pure blood of Bhaal not you.

Orin knew about the plan you had in mind, using the chosen of Bane and Myrkul to gain control of Baldur’s gate to sacrifice all the lives that the mind flyers would take control of. You were an embarrassment to father, no spawn of Bhaal ever needed an alliance with other gods. She desperately wanted to push her knife deep in your skull to show you a lesson, but she knew father wouldn’t allow it. Father only has his eyes on you, he’s favorite child, his prophet.

The first time Orin accompanied you to moonrise towers, she saw the way the tyrant’s eyes never left you, she saw the way his eyes would scan over your figure a smirk resting on his lips when your eyes would meet his. Afterwards when you were meant to go home with her back to Baldur’s gate you would tell her you had something to do, she already knew you were spending time with that little lordling.

She tried getting information out of Ketheric, but he would always deny it. Why did they favor you so much?! You tried hiding the affection you had for Gortash, the first night you spent with him you promised yourself you wouldn’t allow it to happen again. Yet when Gortash runs his thumb against your lower lip calling you his favorite assassin, you can’t help but melt into his touch.

Gortash wasn’t quiet about his admiration for you, even in front of Ketheric he would wrap his arm around your waist “what does my favorite assassin say hm?”

Ketheric either didn’t care about the relationship you two developed or personally wasn’t against it, he would just sigh rubbing his temple before explaining more about his plan.

After a month an unexpected event happened, you haven’t had your period for a full moon cycle. You thought it was the stress from having to commit fear among the streets of Baldur’s gate until later a cleric confirmed it for you, “our lord will be delighted at this news m’lady” no he wouldn’t, he would lash against you for letting it happen, for letting the tyrant seduce you so easily.

Orin overheard what happened and thought father would finally see the truth that you were not deserving of his blessing, but instead he allowed it “while I did not command you to procreate, any offspring you produce will have my blood running in their veins I will make them of use in the future to come” Orin was livid at this, she showed her frustration to her own butler cutting and slicing him every time he would come back.

You told Gortash about the pregnancy, for the first time you were actually worried what he was going to say to you. Instead he pulls you in his arms pressing his forehead against yours, “I’m surprised your father didn’t lash against you for this” he was worried for you, so every night he tried convincing you to stay with him. He knew Orin despised you, anytime he would get near you he would see the way her eyes glared daggers into you. It was only a matter of time before she would break away from her leash and kill you, and he was worried he wouldn’t be there to protect you or his child.

As the months passed by Gortash saw that you struggled to put on your armorer as your belly started to show more, he suggested you wear something more comfortable but you scoffed and denied him each time “what kind of chosen do I look like if I’m wearing something frail?” He rolled his eyes, hells if he thought you were stubborn before you’re even more stubborn now.

Yet nobody disrespected you even while you were carrying his babe, even Ketheric would assign guards to be with you “I’m not worried about you, this child could be a successor for all of us in the future” Gortash saw through his lies though it was obvious he was worried for you, he still remembers when Ketheric sent him a letter and a gift about a metal contraption he found at moonrise.

As your due date was approaching closer you kept traveling to moonrise towers without him, he would get angry telling you that it wasn’t safe to travel “my father demands me of seeing everything at moonrise towers Gortash I can’t just disobey him”

He knew you weren’t wrong, “and what about the babe? will you keep them safe?”

“With my life Gortash, if they’re meant to be a successor for my father then I will not let anyone harm them”

Gortash regretted that day not going with you, but his lord demanded he stay behind at Baldur’s gate to attend a few party gatherings.

“I’ll be safe Gortash Orin will be with me.”

He should’ve told you that he didn’t trust Orin with you, that he would see the hate in her eyes growing each day, each passing month.

A meeting was called for Ketheric and him, and when they arrived they expected to see you and not Orin grinning in pride. “From this fourth I will be the speaker for Bhaal’s temple” Gortash felt Ketheric’s eyes drift over to him almost to see what reaction he had of this, but Gortash couldn’t speak he felt his mouth go dry as he struggled to think about what to say.

“Orin-“

“What is it lordling” she grinned again, she knew she was getting under his skin.

“The babe-“

“At Bhaal’s temple lordling, he’s not yours to keep” with that Orin left leaving only a red dust behind.

Ketheric could see Gortash digging his nails into his palms, “we must continue our plan” was all Ketheric said before leaving Gortash to be alone in his thoughts.

You both had a baby boy, but you two would never get to see him now.

(Not sure if I want to make this into a mini series or not, but I hope you guys enjoyed!)

[starlettechild]

𝒜 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁’𝓈 𝒮𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉-𝓉𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽 (3)

তততততততততততত

CONTENT: The final part of A Devil’s Sweet-tooth is here! This writing contains heavy smut, so 18+ only below the cut. Reader is implied to have FaB anatomy, but they/them pronouns are used throughout the passage. POV switches between the reader and Raphael!

⚠️TW⚠️: NSFW/18+! Obsessive behavior, desperate behavior, biting, Raphael is nuts.

A/N: My requests are opening now! I take them for all characters listed on my profile & request rules have been added. This work is not proofread!

Part 1 , Part 2

The feel of their hand as it closed around his was enough to drive him mad. For all his infernal life, Raphael had only known familiar touches - touches in the form of his own skin. Never had he known how desperately he craved the touch of another, someone other than himself. He can feel ripples of flame burn around his heart as he leads them to the main floor, the space clearing for pairs of dancers joining them. A low and slow note from a violin hangs in the air, before all Raphael can hear is the hypnotic music.

Tav steps in unison with Raphael, the music guiding each of their movements together. Has Raphael always had this look in his eyes? Has he always been this tense? Questions upon questions stack in their mind one after another as they stare into those brown eyes of his. They feel all consuming, as if they were staring into the eyes of a starving animal, prowling towards them. For a moment, his stare becomes too much between the two, and they turn their head towards the musicians. But a firm grasp finds itself on their jaw, their head being jerked back to Raphael, his hand holding their jaw in place as his gaze burns into their own eyes. It leaves Tav breathless, frozen, their feet only moving with his, if only to keep themself from falling.

Raphael is starving. His limbs moving on their own accord to hold Tav’s face in place. He aches to hold their head like this as he enters them, to see each and every wince in their features. His fingers curl around their jaw, tracing the bone, then his fingers move downwards, light touches on their neck. He can feel the goosebumps form, and he wants to sink his teeth into them right there in the middle of this crowded hall. The thought, the hunger, the pure and primal need to have them sends blood rushing down below his waistband, and his control slips with each moment that passes as he holds them like this.

The feel of Raphaels hand resting so near their neck has Tavs heartbeat quicken, a fire igniting in their body. His fingers twitch there, and they can tell the devil is restraining himself on a leash that’s about to snap. All those days of heat between their legs.. could it have been? Raphael guides them into a turn, ending with their back against his chest, their hips hitting something.. hard against his. Raphael’s breath hitches, and his grip on their waist tightens enough to leave marks on them. It’s enough to make the devil stumble, bumping into one of his guests behind them. His legs shaking with need. He lowers his head to the crook of their neck, his uneven and heaving breaths fanning against their skin, their back arching, their hips parting from him. But he pulls their body in, closer this time. Holding them right there as their dance slips farther and farther away from the crowded hall. Not a damned soul seems to notice.

Raphael can’t hold himself back anymore. Not when they’re this close. Not with their back of their hips pressed against him like this. He needs them, he needs to have the real thing now. With each slow movement, he’s leading them away from the crowded hall of his home. His remaining humility is thrown out the window and into the Styx, forever lost as he guides them more.. and more.. and more away to the crowd. Closer to him.

Tav willingly moves with him. Those nights of heated un satisfaction, those humiliating moments of moans slipping out from their mouth in the mid-day, it all burns up to this moment. This final tug on the string of their body. The curtains closing on Raphael’s long chase. He has them, and they have him. His hand slowly moves to shut the door of his large chambers, closing with a slam. Claws begin to form, digging into the wood of the door beside Tav as he pins them against it. Finally in privacy, certain that only he can hear Tav now. That their eyes will only remain on him. Tav watches Raphael’s throat bob up and down, the unsteady breaths that leave his mouth. “Have you felt me, all those days?” He asks, his voice strained as he speaks against their ear, running his teeth along it, then his mouth slowly moves down, sharp edges grazing the column of their neck. “Answer.” He bites into their neck, pushing them farther against the door, claws digging even further into the wooden material of it as their head leans back and they cry out. “Yes, yes I have!” They answer, hands finding the material of his doublet. No, that won’t do. With a free hand, he guides their hands up to his hair. “Pull.” He demands, the mark of his bite visible against their skin. Hesitantly, they do pull the strands of his hair, and Raphael lets out a groan against their neck. But it’s not enough, he needs more of this. More closeness. More touch. More pull from them. He slowly raises his head, eyes pinning into theirs, pinning them just as he cages them against the door. “I could not get enough. I will never get enough. Work unfinished from hours spent between your doubles legs. You have no idea how much I’ve craved the real thing.” He watches closely as Tav swallows, hands remaining in his hair. Their eyes searching his, and he lets them search. Lets them see the honesty in his need. Ever the insightful devil, he can see the surprise on their features. They didn’t know it was him. A low chuckle escapes his lips, sounding just like silk. “You made me needy, when I felt you and Haarlep together. Jealous, even. I haven’t been able to shake off such heated feelings. It was only a patch to the floodgates of my wants, to feast from afar. But now.. now I have you.” His hands graze their sides, resting on their hips as he pulls them away from the door. So many ideas. So many things he wants to do to them. So many things he wants to hear and feel from them. But right now, he just wants to bask in this view. The victory of finally having them. He lets go of their waist slowly, hands mourning the feel of their body, and he backs into a chair, head tilting back as he sits, his legs spreading wide. His hands wrest against the armchair, eyes remaining on Tav.

“Undress for me.” He demands from them again, and Tav can clearly see the devils untamed arousal from where he sits. His foot taps against the marble floor, impatiently waiting. Their eyes remain on his as their hands reach up to the ties of their fabric, loosening the strings and buttons. Their fabric slips down, revealing their collar bone, slipping down their arm. They can hear the devils grip tighten on the chair he sits at. They do the same to the other side, and Raphaels gaze lights their skin on fire.

Soon enough, their fabric pools at their feet, leaving nothing but their undergarments to hide their more intimate areas. Raphaels head tilts up, and he breaths in a long and sharp inhale. Tav is worried if he grips the fabric of the armchair any harder, the seams of it will snap, and his restraint with it.

“Touch yourself.” He says gruffly. Tav has never heard the devils voice so desperate and low. Just the tone of it sends waves of heat down below, and even more when Raphael chokes out a “Please.” Their eyes meet again, and there is pure pleading in his gaze. Their hands move through their hair, beginning to trail down lower, over their chest. Raphael lets out a groan in response to watching their touches. “I want to see how you do it, just so I know what I can do better with my own hands.” Their thighs clench together , and their hands still on their chest.

They seem hesitant, and Raphael is impatient. “Lower.” He orders them, and the power in his voice is enough to have their hands trailing down, just above their undergarments. “Lower.” He orders again, and Tav hears the break of fabric underneath his claws against the chair. Their hands grasp the cloth, slipping it down their legs. Raphaels eyes trail down to their region, and stay there. His chest rising and falling rapidly as Tav uses a hand to stroke there. His eyes memorizing each and every movement they make. He will be sure to come back to the memory in his lonely nights, chasing after release on his own body while he imagines them as they are now.

Tav lets out a moan, and in a flash the devil is out of his seat, one hand grasping their wrist to stop their movements, another on their back as he pushes them into his bed. They can feel the twitch of his member still painfully trapped within his pants as he hovers closely over them. The hand that grasps their wrist rises, and he licks the slick off their own fingers, a satisfied hum leaving his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut at the taste. He turns them over, on top of him this time, pulling the two of them to the center of his large bed. His hands release them, only moving to undo the pins on his doublet, the white undershirt remaining as he throws the cover to the side. His fingers move over the first few buttons of it as well, before stilling, then moving to Tavs thighs.

He pulls their thighs closer, greedy in his movements. “I will taste you, and I won’t stop until you are trembling above me, until I feel tears of pleasure fall into my hair that I’ll have you tugging on.” He urges them closer on top of them, nearing his face. He can feel the hesitant flex of their muscles in their thighs, the stilling of their body, and Raphael looks up at them, that burning hunger still evident in every inch of his face. He could almost finish from the view he sees, Tav above them, their bare chest rising and falling in unison with his own. Their hair messy from his pulling movements. He wants to make it even more of a mess, so he pulls their head down by their hair, his lips capturing theirs. The taste of their mouth is divine. What is it with Tav? Why must every part of them taste so good? So addicting? His teeth bite against their lip, and they open their mouth, his tongue slipping in. The sensation of their kiss is enough to have his hips bucking up against them, and they moan into his open mouth. The devil devours the sound, only pulling away once they are both out of air and on the verge of suffocation. Their heated breath’s mingle together, and Tav gives a slow nod to him of permission to continue. Raphael wastes no time, pulling their hips up with strength fitting of the son of an archdevil against his face. His hands curl around the flesh of both their thighs, looking into their eyes once more before he dives in.

The feel of his tongue against them has their body lit aflame. It’s so much more than what they’ve been feeling these past few days. Overwhelming, almost. Their hands ball into the soft fabric of Raphael’s white undershirt, and they let out moans above him. Groans escape Raphael from below. The devil does not dare hide how much he enjoys this. His hips grinding into nothing, his grip on their thighs tightening. He feasts like a man starved. More passionately than he ever thought possible for an infernal being. Like making love to a religious figure, he licks like a mad man. He can feel Tav shuddering, and he has to stop himself from reaching down to relieve his own arousal. It’s consuming him, from his feet, to the tip of his horns - the burn of pleasure. Their breaths are quickening above him, and finally, finally, do they pull the strands of his hair. And they pull hard as they come to their orgasm. Raphael can feel the waves himself, and he lets out a cry, his mouth moving to bite the inside of their thigh to silence himself as he finishes untouched. Cumming from the taste and feel of them. The real them. Tav releases over his mouth, their divine juices trailing down to his chin, even some down his neck. His teeth let go of the flesh of their thigh, coming down from his own strange high with heavy breaths. But he still wants more. Still craves to be inside them, not only with his tongue anymore. A step he didn’t take with Haarlep. A step he wanted to save. Forget feasting until they’re sobbing. He can play that game later. He needs to have them fully. And he needs to have it now.

He lifts from above them slowly, their juices still glistening on his chin in the candlelight of his chambers. Tav is still coming down from their high it seems, eyes still heavy and breaths still coming in with short bursts. But he can sense the feel from them too, the chase to the finale. “Can I undress you?” His mouse asks him, and Hells does he want them to do just that. They don’t even need to ask. “Yes. Quickly.” He quickly responds, guiding their hands over the intricate buttons of the white undershirt. It slips down from his arms, revealing his chest. Their hands glide down it, and his muscles tense- just as Tavs had when they touched him in such a way. Their hands mess with the waist band of his pants, and he helps them, finally releasing his member, the remnants of his early orgasm evident. Tavs hands pause, surprise on their features. “Did you..?” They begin to speak, and Raphael wishes he had taken Haarleps teasing words seriously. For he did. To simply silence them, he pulls them down for another heated kiss, slowly turning them over to be on top of them once more. This will be his first time ever doing such a thing, but he’s not nervous. Not when he knows how good Tav will feel around him. Not when he knows how badly they crave this themself. His kisses move lower, against their jaw and to their neck, resting his head in the crook of it. Slowly, he matches his hips up with theirs. One leg moving to spread their hips wider for him to fit better, hands slipping underneath their back to hold them closer against his body.

Tav has never felt such heat before. They never knew the sensations Raphael brought them were possible. Little did they know, neither did he. He acts like a wild animal, twisting them and turning them where he wants them most. Spreading their legs with his knee, nuzzling his head into their neck as one slow thrust he buries himself into them. “Fuck.” He curses, his breath becoming low moans himself as Tav squirms in his grasp, pain mixing with pleasure from the size of him. He should have used his fingers, he thinks, to stretch them wide enough. But it’s too late now, and he’s in too deep to stop. Raphael has to stutter out the incantation of a restraining spell, using it to freeze the lower half of his body. He knows he won’t be able to control himself from rutting into Tav, and he doesn’t want his little mouse to be in pain. Not tonight. He can still feel the throb of them around his cock, and he thanks himself for mustering the will and strength to cast that restraining infernal spell.

After mindless and high pitched moans, Tavs body aches for Raphael to dig himself deeper, the burn of his size subsiding and submitting to pure pleasure. They didn’t even understand what it was he muttered into their skin, too lost to wild sensations. But they begin to grind their hips down, and Raphael shudders, the sound of some sort of magical snap sounding out as he thrusts. And he thrusts again. And again. And again. He bites the flesh of Tavs neck, moans their name, palms every inch of their skin with his shaking hands. He revels in the sight of him beneath him like this. The way their face contorts in pleasure. By the end of tonight, Raphael expects his still crowded manner to be filled with artisans, painting and sculpting the sight he sees below. One wrong brush stroke or chip of stone that does not do his divine mouse justice, and Raphael may just hang them on hooks. His hips move in unison with their moans and his own. Louder they become together, and Raphael has to raise his head, speaking and huffing into their ear. "Just for me." He hits a spot within them that has their back arching, and he courses with pride. "Say it. Say it's just for me. Your moans, your body, your gaze. I need it to be mine." He almost pleads with them in-between moans to submit themself fully. The devil within him wanting to own every inch of them, in body and mind.

"It's yours, Raphael! Yours!" His mouse screams his name, and he's done for the moment it falls from their lips. He lets out a series of groans and moans with them, and the two are a symphony of pleasure with one another. He finishes inside, his member twitching still within them from the intensity of his orgasm. Their bodies gleam with sweat as they come down from their overwhelming high. Raphael does not pull out. He keeps himself in the most intimately close way with his mouse. Perhaps he'll never release them from his grasp, not even when their companions come wandering.

Tavs breath heave and slow, long awaited release running its course into exhaustion. Their eyes meeting his. They’ve felt those eyes of his on them the entire time, surely burning each sight of them into his long memory. They blink once. Twice. Sleep runs its claws along their body, still filled with Raphael, his scent lingering on their skin and the smell of their intimacy in the air. But before Tav submits to well earned sleep, they run a hand in his hair.

“Who knew the devil had such a sweet-tooth?”

[sailorgundam308]

Got pretty annoyed yesterday while discussing the game with a friend (don’t worry, we’re still friends lol). But truly, I got annoyed at, once more, seeing how there are wrong assumptions weaved into the community discourse - things based out of someone’s ass, apparently, that got traction and now are repeated by players as if it’s true. But, of course, if anyone stops 2 seconds to actually pay attention to the game, these ideas prove to be just wrong.

This friend, for example, was mentioning how Astarion and Karlach NEVER agree or disagree together in anything. That’s a lie. I’ve (me myself, so I KNOW firsthand) been screen shooting every time there’s an agreement between them and when there isn’t. There are much more agreements than disagreements between Astarion and Karlach. They do come across as having different alignments, but they think alike MUCH more than ‘the internet’ (or even some devs?!) tend to believe. They might justify their rationale in different ways but they do agree together and disagree together way more than they disagree with each other. So that is something I personally can attest to.

Then I heard the argument that Karlach and Astarion don’t get unique scenes between each other: again, untrue. The tiefling party scene with Karlach, for starters, is the only unique romance scene for Astarion. The only person who has back and forth with Karlach after the paladins of Tyr are defeated is Astarion. They have (out of the top of my head, at least 4 unique short banters while both are in the party - again, more than Karl with any other companion.

Then the wrong assumption Astarion can’t go to Avernus : he can and he goes, both as ascended and spawn if you’re playing origin Karl. Ascended if you’re playing him.

A lot stems, again, from simplistic and shallow interpretations of both these characters’ story arcs and personalities. Others come from prejudice, from passing judgement on their appearance instead of their “content”.

Moreover, though, there will never be as much this x that content if it’s involving Karlach (and worse for Wyll) SIMPLY BECAUSE there is LESS than A THIRD the amount of content for Karlach in ANYTHING.

For some reason writers/devs took a long while to decide to put the work into Karlach and when they did they clearly made a bet that blew in their faces - that she’d be a lesser origin character and that’d turn out alright. But she’s the second most popular character and because people like her, they are paying attention to her story - and the massive lack of work and resources dedicated to her arc. Imagine if she had received the attention in detail and the game time / in game content, say, shadowheart received? Instead of a temple Shar, we went to Avernus? In place of Shar, ZARIEL made a personal appearance? We could’ve gotten a young Karlach flashback cinematic, an extra dungeon in act 3, then a personal quest closure with Gortash instead of SH’s parents, so we’d know what the fuck happened. As someone who can’t give two shits about SH, that would’ve been incredible to play. Half of that would still have been a blast. But we get nowhere near. And I’m only bringing Karlach to attention here as an example - if you look at Wyll (who was the front page origin boy since the conception of the game), the disparity is even more shocking.

I’ve read on a writer’s twitter a while back (can’t remember who exactly so you’ll have to excuse me), that they were the writers for Durge, and for a time they got to write some stuff for Astarion for a bit, due to some task delegation changes and whatnot, and they explicitly said they “managed to put in things specific to their “main” character (durge) in Astarion’s writing” - or something in those lines. Honestly… what the fuck? Not sure if that was the intention, but to me it sounded like someone with their own precious OC, which they are obviously attached to, pushing content in to benefit their “main”. In a game where there are several “mains” and many with glaringly less content than others. Again, in my interpretation of what I read that day, this information came across as the most unprofessional shit I’ve seen - if you are tasked to write someone else’s character, you should act as that character’s writer - not a fanfic writer trying to push a personal headcanon or narrative because it pleases YOU, in detriment of other characters. It was wild at the time and I just kinda… walked away and pretended I didn’t read it. It was just shocking and not the attitude I expected from a serious professional.

Whether that’s the whole truth or not I can’t say, but what I can say is that this left me with a weird taste in my mouth and perhaps that’s why until today I couldn’t finish a single run with Durge despite trying several. There are other issues with Durge for me personally in term of the actual writing of the sentences and the way they were worded that just seems impossible to take seriously. (But I’m trying to get over it still, as I want to experience this part of the game too, so I won’t give any sort of personal final veredict).

Also, the idea that Durge was supposed to be the main character… that’s a new assumption for me and my friend also brought it up. That sounded very sus and I went to read more about it and, of course, that’s also wrong. In previous BG games, we always played a Bhaalspawn. It would make perfect sense we played one again - but the butler shit, the amnesia, the gore erotic fantasies, that wouldn’t fly for the average BG3 player - and wasn’t supposed to. When they decided to split tav to leave the “absolutely neutral protagonist” they parted with the bhaalspawn narrative that was a very big part of the previous games, so I assume they didn’t want to just toss it, but put it to another “dark tav” or whatever shit that means. And then they doubled down with the evil and edge lord of kitschy horror narrative. It’s FINE. But isn’t supposed to be the main character.

TLDR: instead of taking random assumptions about bg3 as yours, pay attention to the game itself. And think critically about it a bit. All the origins are presented AS equals but they’re nothing but. And Larian should be (yes, troubleshooting tech issues but also) trying to even out the absurd gaps they allowed to happen in integrating the narrative of, especially, Karlach and Wyll into the game. Make more and decent content for them, fix the plot holes, rewrite the shit that doesn’t make sense for them FIRST.

Tbh, I wouldn’t be complaining if Larian had owned it to their content and presented us with Karlach and Wyll as sort of Halsin or Minthara type of companion - non origin, lesser tier of companion. Then the production choices they made would be at the very least justified. And I won’t EVEN start on the fact that these two, Karl and Wyll, are the two PoC origins… the black guy and the southeast Asian woman. Because, oh, boy, things start to look VERY bad when you put THAT into this equation… 👀

[sadlovefeelss]

Delusional! Yandere Gortash insisting that Durge's physical reactions are a sign that somewhere, deep down, they know that they are his soulmate. Gently encouraging and praising Durge when they are less resistant during lovemaking.

Delusional!Gortash x Dark Urge!Reader

His insistence always sent you wondering if it was for his own delusions or at your own dwindling resistance.

Tied limbs tried to resist any twitch and quiver, but Gortash had vast knowledge on your body, knocking your focus with every stab of his cock in my guts. Your lips were bitten raw from forcing yourself silent, keeping your reactions as minimal as possible. Despite your 'feisty' behavior, Gortash murmured encouraging words to you, he wanted a sign that he still had you.

Fucking excessively deep, feeling your silence with the squelching of your stretched hole. Losing your focus and moaning caused his need for your love to grow strong. Desperate words spoke about your own 'true thoughts' insisting that your wetness proved your attraction to him, that your moaning and orgasms proved your memory of his use. That he was your dearest lover.

Soon it grows. His previous treatment of you, tied, forced through orgasms after orgasms daily has turned to being freed from your bindings but tortured for hours by his teasing and playing with your body.

Fingering you, edging you through avoided orgasms, holding you close in his lap. His teasing to your body and encouragement of your growing submission has twisted your thoughts. Moaning loudly and willingly accepting his wandering hands and twitching dick. He speaks absolute filth, wanting you to beg and plead for him, his dick, for your orgasm, and for his claim.

"You can't avoid this... you need to admit the truth. We are meant for each other.... we are soulmates. But i need you to say it for us."

[boilingheart]

Arcane Hunger

Pre-Relationship Gale x Male Tav (Lucius Skorn) Takes place in early Act 1. Magical items stopped working for Gale a while ago, and the symptoms have kept coming. The Ilmatari cleric Lucius wakes in the middle of the night to find Gale in the woods, pained and tormented by the Orb in his chest. With nothing else left to treat it, Lucius comes up with an idea to sate it. Rated T Read on AO3 See: Kitchen Territory for another Gale/Lucius slow burn one shot

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. In rest is vulnerability, and every small sound in the night is the potential for a great threat.

This was the first lesson his father taught him the second he’d heard that tell-tale jingle of a belt buckle. A lesson he carried as a thief, then a leader, and then a slave.

If the foliage rustles, there’s an enemy nearby. A threat to the coalition, an incoming attack — many times in the night during the Lockjaws’ camp, Lucius had caught all sorts of aspiring predators intent on ending their reign.

Floorboards creaking, rusty doors squeaking, the faint pitter patter of feet upon the ground — Lucius never took any risks. Most of the time, it had been nothing. Others, there was the impending dagger incoming, followed by a corpse that was not his own on the floor.

The alert are victorious. The survivors are the winners. 

Lucius will not be flayed.

His head snaps up, hands instinctively reaching for their daggers as he whirls to his knees with vigilance. Try him, someone fucking try him, is all he can think, but as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he finds there’s no one there.

Once again, he has woken to nothing.

Lucius doesn’t rest his daggers just yet, still staying frozen in position in case anyone did dare enter his tent. One moment, two moments and three, his heart beats and echoes in his ears in time with the wind, but nothing comes.

Of course nothing comes.

He sheathes his daggers and rubs his face. How long has it been since he had a full night’s rest? Years? Decades? Centuries? Had he ever had a full, undisturbed rest? He can’t help but recall the one night Father Lorgan woke him in the middle of the night, and Lucius had very nearly assailed him before recognition flooded. Even in the two years of peace at the Open Hand Temple, he hadn’t been able to find rest.

Being in the forest with tadpoles in their heads isn’t making it any easier.

He’s about to convince himself to lay back down and sleep when he hears a noise again. His ears flick back, and he holds perfectly still. An animal? A voice? Has someone gotten up in the middle of the night?

He peeks his head out of his tent. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. The half-moon illuminates the tents with a gentle caress of blue, and the wind rustles the leaves with a soft layer of noise to fill the silence. There’s the chitter of distant nighttime animals and the occasional buzz of little bugs that have their own homes nearby. By all means, it’s a lovely night, and as far as he can tell, no one has gotten up. Gentle snores emit from the tents, and even the camp animals sleep soundly. 

Great. No source. Lucius sighs, retrieving his cloak and daggers, and decides to slip out and search around for himself. There’s no rest until he knows what it is.

And whatever it is, it feels… off.

He slips into the woods quietly, the muscle memory of a rogue taking over and carrying him with swift stealthy steps. Like a wraith, he slips through the foliage silently, unencumbered by the weight of any armor, free to stalk and to listen. Hundreds upon hundreds of times he and his gang had found themselves in forests, climbing the trees, hiding within the plants, staging the perfect ambush against those who pass by. Merchants, rival guilds, the Zhent, nobles – anyone they decided to make their victim that day. Not even daylight could stop these beasts of blood — but that was a lifetime ago. Yet still, that shadow does not leave the cleric.

Step by step, halt, listen. The wind whistles. The leaves rustle. Nothing new. Step, step, ascend, investigate, stop — and there, he hears it: labored breathing, like something, or someone is injured.

Something cold shoots through his veins. Adrenaline or fear? The sound is too humanoid to be an animal, which is far, far worse than what Lucius wanted to hear.

If they need help, they need it fast.

But if they need help, whatever put them here could still be lurking.

One quiet step after another. He has a dagger out, ready for any wrong move to try him. Step by step, he follows that hollow sound, feeling something in the pit of his gut turn when it starts to sound familiar. He’s close now — it’s most certainly humanoid, and they’re in pain, no doubt. But how? And who? And why —

He rounds a tree, and feels his blood turn to ice at the sight of a wizard’s signature purple sleepwear.

“Gale!”

Caution be damned! All thoughts of it melt away in alarm at finding Gale drenched in sweat, propped up against a tree trunk with a hand pressed tightly against his glowing chest. His head is thrown back, expression twisted and eyes screwed tight in agony, and he doesn’t seem to respond to Lucius in the slightest.

Is this fear?

“Gale, hey, Gale!” Lucius shakes his shoulder, only for Gale’s brows to scrunch further. “Gale, look at me. Hey, are you alright? Please look at me.”

Gale lets out a pained breath, peeking an eye open. They look unfocused, as if they can barely see Lucius in the slightest. It takes a few breaths before his lips quirk to a strained smirk and he gets his voice to work. “Hi.”

“The fuck you mean hi — Gale —” Lucius searches him for any injuries, his hands held out with a spell at the ready. There didn’t seem to be any visible wounds, and nothing quite off with Gale aside from the dirt and grass stains that now adorned the rich purple of his clothes. Well, aside from… 

His eyes trail up, and beneath Gale’s hand at his sternum, he can see the markings of the Netherese Orb glow up his neck and to the corner of his eye. The purple hue intensifies rhythmically, as if beating in tune with Gale's quickening heart. Lucius’ hairs stand on end.

“What’s happening to you? Why are you out here?”

Gale tries to laugh. It dies in his throat. “I was just… trying to get some air…”

“You look like you’re dying, Gale.”

“Well I certainly hope that’s not the case,” He says, struggling to get the words out. He digs the palm of his heel harder into his chest. “I’m… too close to camp.”

“Don’t tell me you were trying to go find some place to die.”

“No, no,” He takes a deep breath. “I-I just needed air.”

How long had he been out here? How long has the Orb been tearing him apart like this beyond what Lucius could tell? Had he been hiding the severity since the artefacts stopped working? Lucius raises his hands, a curing spell upon his fingertips, but there’s no place to put them. What would he do? What can he do?

Gale’s eyes are squeezed shut again, riding another wave of pain while Lucius sits on his haunches uselessly. He didn’t hear him get up. He should’ve checked on him. He should’ve thought of something. Lucius bites down the terror and buries it in its grave in his chest to speak.

“Tell me how I can help you.”

“Lucius…”

“There’s – There’s got to be something I can do,” Lucius says, leaning in closer. “Anything!”

Gale cranes his head, opening his eyes to look at Lucius as best as he can. He can barely focus. “I just need to ride this out. The Orb won’t feed anymore. I can’t… It’s fine, Lucius.”

“This is very much not fine! You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Gale.”

“I’ve had these episodes before, this is… nothing I can’t handle.”

“Sure, sure…”

Maybe he can’t help him. But he can at the very least keep him from suffering alone in the woods.

Resolute, Lucius makes up his mind. The prepared spell drops, and he slides one hand behind Gale’s back to prop him up. He slides his cloak off and wraps it around the wizard.

“What are you —”

“You see, here’s your first mistake, Gale,” Lucius says, hugging Gale close to him. With ease, he secures his other hand under Gale’s knees and hoists him up. “You’re telling a cleric of Ilmater to let you suffer alone. I think you should know by now that I’m not letting that happen.”

Gale tenses as he’s suddenly lifted, curling in closer to Lucius and shutting his eyes. “Please put me down.”

“And just let you rot in the woods? Come on, Gale.”

“There isn’t anything —”

“To the Hells with that. Maybe I can’t stop the Orb…” Lucius makes certain he has a good hold on Gale before heading back towards the camp. “But the very least I can do is keep you company.”

Gale is both lighter and heavier than he expects. Lighter, in that it was significantly easier to lift him than he imagined it would be. Heavier, in that the man is real, warm, solid, and in his arms. The darling wizard that’s had Lucius spinning dizzy for some time now was now cradled close to him. Gale likely isn’t able to fight back against him, for which Lucius feels a crumb of guilt over. He hates to whisk someone away when they don’t want it — but with how Gale collapses into himself, not taking his hand off his chest for a second and screws his eyes tight, he can’t help but feel he has no choice but to watch over him, or at the very least keep him where he can see him. Where he’s not exposed to the elements and gods forbid whatever else might be out there.

He treads the outskirts of the camp, circling away from where the others are sleeping in order to get to his own tent a little ways off. He’s long since learned that not many of the others are quite… fond of Lucius, which means his tent has the least amount of traffic in the camp. An advantage in this case, seeing that Gale needs to be away from the others in such a vulnerable state like this.

He hunches into the entrance, crouching low until he’s able to safely lay Gale down on his bedroll without tussling him, resting his head gently on his pillow. Gale peers up at him through squinted eyes, trying to follow him as Lucius closes up his tent and begins to rummage through the baskets and satchels he had around.

“Lucius…”

“Not a word, Gale,” Lucius says, pulling out a small crate from under his makeshift desk. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of protests and excuses and other words to try and discourage me from helping you, but they will be on deaf ears, my friend.”

Gale stays silent for a moment. When Lucius looks back at him, he has his head turned away.

“I just have to ride it out in waves,” Gale says weakly. At the very least he seems to have caught his breath a little. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, I’d rather save you the time. I’ve tried to feed it already. It doesn’t work.”

“Mm, I’m sure you have. I don’t doubt it. But if you’re just going with rings and trinkets, I just don’t think it’s strong enough.”

“Lucius —”

“Here, but first,” Lucius pulls out a rag, giving it a quick sniff to make sure it’s clean and dusts it off. With the quick incantation of a water spell, the rag soaks, dripping onto the floor. “Whoops, shit —”

He folds it neatly, wringing out the excess, and gently wipes down Gale’s face. Gale closes his eyes, but allows Lucius to move him when he brings his other hand to turn his head, bringing the cool, soft rag across his cheek, his nose, his chin and his temple. The process is automatic, for which Lucius is grateful for. In the Open Hand Temple, they’d sometimes take in the sick who needed help, and as one of the adorned who worked with the medicines, Lucius was often tasked with caring for them. The feverish, the elderly, all those who needed someone to care for them but were utterly alone. That’s what the Ilmatari are for. To help bear those burdens for those who couldn’t carry it. They take their places on the rack and bear it for them, for no one should suffer if they don’t have to.

He refreshes the rag and refolds it, laying it horizontally across Gale’s forehead. He’s done it a hundred times before, sometimes for faces that he often forgot, and for the faces who only had the Temple to go to. And though muscle memory shields Lucius from any strong feelings, he finds himself resting his hand over the rag, lost in observing Gale’s features up close. There’s no denying he’s a beautiful man, no matter how many times Lucius tries to convince himself otherwise. Soft brows, hooded eyelids, long lashes, laugh lines, a well kept beard, and those dark veins at Gale’s left eye that connected to his Netherese scar — he has to catch himself lest he linger for too long watching over him tenderly. It’s not appropriate.

“There we are,” He says, clearing his throat and patting the rag on his forehead before moving to the other side of the tent. “That should help you cool down. Let me see if there was any tea I salvaged. A good cup of tea ought to do you some good. Tea usually helps. Tea’s good.”

He can hear Gale huff with amusement. That’s good. He’s coming back to himself somewhat. He rummages through his inventory, trying not to bang all the pots and pans he’s found around in their travels, and finally manages to find some flowers he knows in his heart to have medicinal properties.

“I don’t have sugar on me. And I ate the last of my honey yesterday, so you’re going to have a bitter brew,” Lucius says out loud while he tries to arrange the shittiest set up of a teapot to boil without a stove or proper bonfire to boil at. He sets a wide copper pan missing its handle upside down on his table, a miniature brazier frame atop of it, and the dinked up teapot he’d salvaged on top. Water incantation fills it, and he flicks his fingers to try and light the brazier.

“Are… Are you starting a fire inside your tent?”

“Hm? Oh, no, not at all.”

“It very much looks like a homemade stove there.”

“Yes, but it’s not fire,” He pokes a finger onto the piece of charcoal laid in the metal frame. “Incende. Sacred flame cantrip — I was never good at the fire one.”

“Still technically fire.”

The made up stove lights up. “It’s sacred flame. Radiant. It’s different.”

“You’re using it to ignite something. It’s fire now.”

“But it’s holy fire.”

“Fire regardless.”

“I’m not going to burn this down, I’ve done this before,” Lucius says with a laugh, settling back onto his haunches to open the box he’d pulled out. “And even if I do, I have a water spell on hand. I’m glad I took the time to learn it. Never needed to use it so often than when I got stuck out here.”

“Oh, I hear that,” Gale huffs, wincing again as the Orb seems to coil him with pain. When he speaks again, it’s with significant strain. “I’ve gone through a handful of spells in my day I took for granted. Up until the moment I needed them.”

“That’s always how it goes, isn’t it.”

He crab-walks towards Gale, dragging the box with him. Gale cranes his head up, the rag covering his brows to create the illusion of an angry look on his face. “What are you doing?”

“You know, when you first told me about your whole uh, condition thing,” Lucius says, sticking his hand into the box and clattering all the various objects inside. “I actually went through the effort of hoarding all sorts of magical items that I could find.”

Gale’s expression softens. “Oh! That’s… very appreciated.”

“I mean I got a lot, Gale.” Lucius holds Gale’s gaze as he knocks the box over, spilling all of the items on the floor. A shortbow, daggers with various runic inscriptions, a dozen rings, a handful of necklaces that have tangled into each other, several maces, an axe, some crumpled scrolls, two pairs of gloves, a helmet that belonged to a halfling once upon a time, and other trinkets covered by the mess of items. Gale watches as all of the objects pour out and onto the floor, staring at it wordlessly, then back up at Lucius, then back to the pile.

“When did you… H-How did you… Where did…”

“This might sound hard to believe,” Lucius says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I used to be a… pickpocket, back in the day. There were just too many useful magical stuff we were finding and not very much I was able to spare, and it was scaring me. So, whenever we got to some higher crowds, I… went ahead and relieved some of them of their excess weight.”

Gale stares at the pile. “That is a lot of stuff.”

“I wasn’t about to let you starve.”

There’s a moment of silence while the two of them watched each other. Lucius can feel the distance between them — they were still strangers to each other for the most part, even if Lucius had suddenly found himself with an inexplicable infatuation for the wizard. He has no doubt he’s put Gale in an awkward position, having whisked him away bridal style into his tent while his ailment ate away at him, leaving him at his most vulnerable. He won’t pretend to understand Gale’s life story, or how this condition has treated him, or what he’s normally used to under those circumstances. He just knows that he can do what he can to ensure he can lift that burden in any way, and he wants Gale to know that he’s willing to do so.

And from that look on his face, perhaps Gale wasn’t expecting that Lucius would at all.

He tries not to feel anything about that. He hasn’t given many reasons for the camp to like him much, and that’s fine. But he’s willing to go through the effort for them. He’s not sure anyone has fully realized it just yet.

Gale’s expression drops to one more solemn, and Lucius feels his heart sink with it. “I don’t even know if this will work.”

“Will you at least try? I know you said it’s not sating the hunger anymore, but… maybe the doses were too small. Maybe you need a big go all at once. It’s… like a neverending maw, isn’t it? One ring a week can’t keep you going forever.”

Gale presses his lips together. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep some of it? It just… it all looks so valuable, Lucius, I —”

“Quit looking for excuses and let me help you damn it!” Lucius snaps, louder than he expects. It shuts Gale right up, sure, but the last thing he wanted to do was raise his voice at this man. He rubs his face, dropping into a proper seat on the floor. “Look… I told you. I set this stuff aside for you specifically. I hid this from everyone else for a reason. You think Astarion and Shadowheart wouldn’t go crazy for some of this stuff? I left it out of the inventory logs. What I gave you to help before came from this pile. Except the first one, of course, as you kind of caught me off guard — but still.”

Lucius doesn’t want to make assumptions about this man. He would think it’d be a little easier for a man of his caliber to understand and accept gifts. He pressed the urgency for having something to sate him, but now he wants to back off? Why can’t he just let him? And why can’t Lucius just let it go?

Why is it filling him with such a deep, profound sadness that Gale is hesitating?

Gale sits up, slow in his movements and carefully pulling his hand off his chest, as if doing it too fast would cause something to spill violently, the other taking the rag off his head. Up into a criss cross, he slouches dejectedly, staring at the vaguely glowing pile of goods.

“I appreciate it, Lucius, please don’t mistaken me,” Gale says softly, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s just… I don’t know. It hurts sometimes. Not just… physically. I’m a wizard, Lucius, I command control over the Weave. I dedicate my life to studying it. It was more than just my everything. My very being, intertwined with me, at my fingertips. Even Mystra herself, the mother of magic, had caressed me once with such divine power — and now I’m…”

The Orb glows under his shirt, and he grinds his teeth as it gnaws on him from the inside out. Lucius can almost feel it. That dark, radiating magnetic power — subtle enough that Lucius could ignore it if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but strong enough that if he does, he can feel the pull of it towards Gale’s chest. It seethes and it burns and claws and chews. He can see how it’s left bruises over his skin.

“I know I brought this on myself. It’s the consequences of my own actions, my own hubris, but it doesn’t make the burden any lighter. The Orb… all it does is consume. It takes, and it takes from me. Magic is my lifeblood, and now I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life destroying it, lest it kill me and bring catastrophe to everything and everyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby.”

He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. Trying to keep control. Lucius lets the silence balance, lest he knock something over with words.

“These are all very nice things, Lucius. I just… I hate that this is what it’s made of me. To consume and destroy the Weave. Magic that is my world. So many powerful and valuable items intertwined with it in this world that I’ve destroyed because I took something too far. I can’t help but feel that I am robbing you of so much utility for something I can no longer sate…”

Lucius casts his gaze back to the pile. Sure, there were some things in there he could find use for. He had already plucked some things out of the box a couple times when he realized he could make use of some of the rings and such in there, but… for the most part, Lucius felt no attachment to them. He knew when he lifted these items that they were going to be destroyed, and it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

He decides to be a little brave and moves to sit beside Gale, close enough that their arms touch, catching his gaze. Gale makes considerable effort to focus on him, and though he’s more conscious now, it’s clear it’s taking every ounce of energy he’s got into this conversation.

“Gale, I literally let a highly suspicious vampire feed on my literal blood on the regular to sate him.”

Gale can’t help but honk a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Look at me, Gale, I’m serious! It sounds funny, mostly because it is, but this is where I’m coming from. You think someone who’s letting in a spawn walk around the camp — and let us not forget, I am a cleric here — that I’m going to just call you, a chronically ill wizard, a burden?”

“Now, to be fair, I am quite literally a walking bomb —”

“Everyone here has some weird shit going on!” Lucius says. “Sure, not everyone’s about to blow up, but you think you’re the only one with baggage? The only one here who isn’t worth saving? A vampire spawn. A Sharran cleric. Noah being Noah. Infernal engine lady. A githyanki warrior — well, her deal is more a culture shock than anything but I won’t digress, ‘cause listen, I thought at least Wyll was the normal one here, and then it turns out he’s a fucking warlock!”

On the tip of his tongue, the precipice of his mind, Lucius imagines for one wild moment that he spills his own story to Gale. That he admits the kind of person that he was — still is, even. That he’s only been a cleric for two years, that he spent decades in prison prior to that, several more decades as a slave before that, and centuries being the absolute worst, rotten filth in Faerûn with the Lockjaw Gang. The blood of hundreds, mostly innocent, stains his hands always and forever. He still remembers the feeling of his hand around a dagger, blades plunged into flesh just for the thrill of it. How he’d first begun robbing for money and stability to live, and then became so good at it he just did it because it was fun. A horrific, terrifying menace, Lord Skorn, so awful that there had once been rumors that he was a Bhaalist —

But he doesn’t say any of it. And he knows Gale won’t ask. As far as anyone knew, he used to be a rogue, served time for being one, and found Ilmater when he came out. It’s good enough. No one needs to know. His scars and his tattoos speak for themselves.

“Besides,” Lucius continues, bumping his shoulder. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t accept this. I got all of this for you, Gale. If you let it go to waste, I will be mad. Is that good enough for you?”

Gale looks at him, taking a moment longer than normal to process his words before scoffing, shaking his head. “Fine. So be it. I suppose you’re right. All this effort just to go to waste…”

“Exactly. Now, come on. I can’t stand to see you like this. You have to at least try.”

Gale takes a deep breath, staring down at the pile of magical items. Lucius plucks the rag out of his hands and scoots to give him some space. It takes the wizard a moment to find his bearings, and he watches his expression change as he drops his hands on top of the pile. Hunger. A ravenous, desperate, wild look, one Lucius had only seen on the most spurned of men who’d never been spared a moment of kindness or earned enough gold to live. The look of a starved wolf, manic over the bones of a long since picked at carcass, desperate to find even a modicum of flesh still left on the kill. The look Lucius had seen in his own eyes, his own reflection as a child when winter came, and neither he or his father were able to secure enough food before getting stuck in the snow. The look in his eyes the day he decided to cut his father’s own throat out —

Here comes the glow. Each of the items light up in a vivid violet, illuminating the tent with its brightness as they begin to pull like magnets towards Gale’s hands. Lucius had watched him consume these kinds of items before, but never this many. Never more than one at most. It was always fascinating to watch the ring or pair of gloves or mace disintegrate into Gale’s hands and feed into his chest, but this, oh, this was different. This, Lucius feels, shows him a better glimpse on the extent of the hunger, the raw, visceral, chaotic magic that plagues the wizard. It has never glowed this bright before, rattled and tangled and crumpled in on itself on its way to Gale’s hands, leaving fettering trails of flaky purple dust and an electric sting to the air. The magic funnels through and around Gale, siphoning into the center of his chest with a vacuum of sound. Sitting this close, he can almost feel the pull of the Orb, and finds himself leaning back out of sheer instinct as the items disintegrate.

He doesn’t want to call it beautiful, because it feels like a cruel thing to say to such a sight. It’s a horrible thing, this Orb and its hunger. What it does to Gale. But it’s an awe inspiring sight. The magic paints the tent in a violet hue, and he can almost taste it in the air, potent and raw as it breaks and breaks and breaks towards Gale. One by one, each item loses its form and becomes nothing. The tangled necklaces become one, and then become none. The rings lose their shape and become dust. Weapons that have likely slain many forgotten faces in the past are rendered useless. Fodder. Consumed.

Perhaps Lucius had simply always found beauty in destruction. 

Perhaps that’s what made Lucius an unforgivable man.

Eventually, the pile is rendered to nothing. Just a light trail of pink smoke to ever hint that anything existed at all. Gale still swells with magic, his hands pressed tightly over his sternum as if to cram all of it into the Orb and keep it there. His expression is screwed tight with pain, and Lucius wishes he could alleviate it, wishes he could reach out and smooth out those creases with his thumb and hold him close.

(How much longer can he pretend that these kinds of thoughts are platonic? How many times can he tell himself that it’s simply because he is Ilmatari that he feels things like this? It is his duty to bear these burdens, yes, but such feelings of care never did come naturally to Lucius. It has always been an active effort to bring himself to care about anything or anyone. Why it comes so easily when with Gale… well, how can he keep pretending there isn’t merit to these thoughts?)

The Orb releases him, and Gale slumps, the tension loose from his body after the effort it took. It startles Lucius so much that he immediately has his hands to catch him before he can fully understand what was going on. Did it hurt? Did he faint? Did it work?

“Gale, hey hey, are you okay?”

Gale trembles in his hold, and after a moment, he turns, suddenly burying himself into Lucius’ chest. Lucius freezes, unsure what to do or where to move. Gale is warm. He’s a comfortable weight, and he fits so nicely in his arms. He fell into his arms — he is seeking him out.

But he’s shaking.

Lucius rests his hands on Gale’s back tentatively, feeling Gale cling onto Lucius’ shirt. Lucius prays that it’s relief that Gale feels, that he’s simply overwhelmed with it and overjoyed with it, but he knows in the pit of his gut that it’s probably not true.

He asks anyways, in case the gods decided to grant them mercy.

“Did it work?”

His voice is a whisper. 

Gale takes a sharp breath. He’s crying.

“No.”

Lucius closes his eyes, feeling his chest twist at the confirmation. He was sure. He was so, so sure this would work… 

He wraps his arms around Gale tight, pulling him in close, and Gale throws his arms around Lucius just as tight in turn, clinging onto him. His cries are quiet, composed mostly of sharp breaths. A despair Lucius can only imagine. The pit of his gut churns with frustration at how helpless he is to the situation. Lucius rocks gently in the embrace, resting his chin atop Gale’s head and staying silent, letting him take all the time he needs to gather himself. Or to fall apart. If Gale needed to shatter, Lucius would be here to piece him together if he had to. 

Either way, Gale won’t be alone. He’ll be here. He’ll hold onto him.

He doesn’t know how long they stay here like this, but eventually, Gale does manage to settle his breaths and find the strength to pull away. He doesn’t look up at Lucius, though he can see how disheveled his hair has become and the puffiness in his eyes from the emotion. Lucius wordlessly hands him the wet rag, and Gale accepts it, wiping his face.

Silence hangs between him. Lucius wonders if that distance between them has grown any shorter than when he last felt it earlier, or if it’s become a chasm now with the raw wound on his pride.

Gale unfolds the rag, draping the entirety of it against his face, covering him completely as he keeps it pressed against his eyes. After a moment longer, Gale clears his throat, intending on gathering his bearings as quickly as possible.

“... You should check on your fire hazard.”

“My wh—”

Ah. The shitty teapot on his shitty made up stove.

“Martyred Father…”

Lucius springs up in a hurry, nearly tripping over the box he discarded and extinguishes the heat with a cantrip. The water has since boiled, some of it evaporated with the time that’s passed. He retrieves one of his chipped mugs, placing the flowers and herbs into it before pouring the hot water in. In a perfect world, he’d have some cinnamon, perhaps some cream. Some sugars and some honey. A nice, new mug with different painted decals, one that wasn’t chipped. And he’d have a real stove, a real bed, running water and a fire in a fireplace. He’d make all of this look nicer, taste nicer, feel nicer, and they’d be comfortable.

But instead, it’s their salvaged resources out in the wilds, a sewed up tent, parasites in their skulls and a ticking time bomb in a man that’s slowly convincing Lucius that there may just be some merit in the stories people tell about falling in love.

He hopes that making the tea is giving Gale enough time to recover, enough distance to patch himself up from the vulnerability he’s just exposed to Lucius. He knows keenly what this moment was, and he knows that it’ll be raw for a while. He won’t poke it. He won’t push him further than he has to. This is sacred, and this is important. He will hold it in the cup of his hands gently and take care of the trust Gale has given him in this moment, and he will simply do what he can to help him without wounding him.

Sure enough, by the time Lucius returns with the mug, Gale has laid back down, the rag folded now over his eyes and brow, and his hands clasped together over his belly. His breathing was more even, and he was more collected than he left him.

“It’ll take a few minutes for all the flowers and stuff to seep in the water,” Lucius says, mostly to announce his presence as he sits back down beside Gale. “Water’s still clear. Needs a sec before it gets that nice amber color. Wish I had sugar.”

“You’ve been sweet enough to me already,” Gale says quietly, though not moving from his position. “That’ll be enough to get me through the tea.”

Lucius huffs with amusement. His gaze can’t help but travel to the markings on Gale’s chest. The Orb doesn’t feel nearly as unstable as it did earlier, but it was still glowing, still etching into the wizard’s skin. 

He decides to ask the delicate question. “How are you feeling?”

Gale takes one long, slow deep breath. “Admittedly, better. The pain is… somewhat duller, but still…” He shrugs. “... still pain. That amount of magic should’ve held me off for at least a month. Now it just…”

He scowls. Lucius can already imagine the types of things he’s readying up to say. Apologetic and avoiding the subject of how he actually feels.

So Lucius answers. “It’s still hungry.”

Gale sighs. “Yes. Very much so.”

Lucius sets the mug aside, rubbing his hands together in thought. The fact that there was relief gained was good. It meant he could treat it somewhat, but getting a hold of that many magical items again just for a temporary amount of relief was going to be difficult to maintain. Gale says it comes in waves, so it won’t always be this bad, but it also means that he’s in constant pain. 

The thought twists something in his gut. There were a few moments recently during various combative encounters that Gale wasn’t able to focus on his spells completely. His missteps cost Lucius and Wyll a great deal of trouble with the goblins, and were it not for Shadowheart, they’d have seen a greater deal of blood on their end. He feels guilty for not noticing it before. Every moment he’s had with Gale where he seemed off was recontextualized now, and by the Rack it ached to think about. 

There had to be something he could do. Anything. A steady stream of magic to at least take the edge off, and at least provide him some relief so he’s not panting in the woods at the dead of night.

Lucius looks down at his hands. An idea brews in his mind.

“The magic helped a little though, didn’t it?” Lucius asks. “You’re at least not falling apart at the seams anymore.”

“It’s definitely helped me feel… present,” Gale says. “I… still feel like it’s going to start eating me alive at any second if I move the wrong way.”

“Do you mind if I try something else?”

Gale turns his head a little, carefully raising a hand to peek out from the rag. “Don’t tell me you have another box full of stolen items.”

“Haha, not magical ones,” Lucius says, scooting over to sit closer to Gale. He holds up a hand, feeling divinity flow through his fingertips. “I… have a theory I’d like to try. I think at this point anything is worth a shot, right?”

Gale squints at him, his gaze flickering between him and his glowing hand. There’s a quirk of his lips. “Are you putting me down?”

“Yes, actually, that was exactly what I was about to do, you caught me,” He waves his hand around. “No, Gale. You need to consume magic, don’t you?”

“The Weave, yes…”

“Well… I don’t really control the Weave like you do. Actually, I’m not sure if what I control counts as the Weave — but what I do know is this,” Lucius brings his hand closer to Gale, still tentative, and holding it so Gale can push it away no problem if he doesn't want any part. “The magic I wield is given to me by my god. Ilmater, the One Who Endures — He preaches that we must take on the burdens of others so they do not have to suffer. What’s a more noble cause for Ilmater to intervene in than to call for His power to alleviate this ailment of yours?”

Gale scrunches his brows in thought, his eyes flickering away as he tries to run the theory over in his mind. “... I can’t say I’ve tried feeding off of the magic of holy items or the equivalent thereof - though, that is mostly because I’ve not come across any of them in my tower, nor a cleric to boot. In theory, I don’t think the Orb will respond to it — you and I wield very different magics. I, of the Art, and you, of the Power — but again, I haven’t tested it. It’s… Hmm, it could be an alternative source…” His gaze flicks back to Lucius. “But… won’t it exhaust you? I don’t know how much it will need to take. It’s one thing for me to take your material things, but an entirely different thing to take from you directly.”

“Oh holy Martyred Father — Gale what did I just say? Cleric. Of. Ilmater. I let a fucking vampire take from me. Stop stopping me, damn you.”

“I’m just —”

“Stop it. Seriously!” Lucius huffs. “If you don’t want to try it because the magics don’t mix or for some other hypothetical reason that puts you on edge, that’s perfectly fine. But if you’re refusing it because you think I’m going to lose something from it or whatever, please don’t. I’m telling you right now I want to help you, and through the power vested in me by the God of Endurance, I assure you I could absolutely fucking handle it.”

Gale lets out a puff of air, looking up in thought. The Orb still glows, painfully so, and Lucius can see him running through all sorts of ideas in his head.

Finally, the wizard seems to settle, leveling his gaze back to Lucius. “... Fine. I have to admit, I am rather curious what sorts of effects divine magic will have on me.”

“There we go, there’s the nerd in you.”

“You caught me. I am always a sucker for testing theories.”

“If it doesn’t work or has a worse effect, we can stop and save the trouble, if that makes you feel better.”

“That sounds good to me.” Gale sits up, pointing a daunting finger at Lucius. “But you have to promise me that if at any point during this you experience a significant amount of pain, you must stop.”

“If it stings a little, I can bear through it man —”

“You must promise me that, Lucius Skorn. If it feels like this Orb is a threat to your life and safety, you will stop.”

Lucius tilts his head a few times in thought. “Alright. Fine.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it on my Lord.”

“Thank you.” Gale settles back down, staring straight at the tent’s ceiling ahead. “Your God is watching you, so I do hope you keep to your word.”

“Har har.”

A buzz of excitement flows through him. If this works, then they’ve found a solution to hold them off enough until they can find another alternative. Just kneeling before Gale, preparing to use the powers given to him feels holy in and of itself. Though Lucius’ connection with Ilmater has been somewhat hazy these days, his magic still flows strong, and he swears it feels even stronger as he summons divinity through his veins here. 

Lucius rests his hand over the Orb in Gale’s chest, light to the touch before fully committing. In his mind, he calls out to Ilmater, seeking a pathway to that holy power, hoping to tap into the very vein of it and channel it in one go. “Ilmater, the Tortured God, the God of Endurance, holy Martyred Father on the Rack — grant me your power to bear this burden. Give me the strength to carry it on my shoulders, offer me your divinity to alleviate my friend. Allow me, Ilmater, to take his place on the rack.”

Gale closes his eyes, and Lucius follows. There’s a moment of fear that flickers through him. What if Ilmater doesn’t respond? What if he calls out for his power and nothing happens? What if he just made a fool of himself here, and has nothing to show for?

Cruel, cruel thoughts. Purge them, cleric, and open yourself. Self doubt will get you nowhere. Bear this burden, Lucius.

The power runs through him like a shock of cold water dumped on him all at once. It crashes through his heart and travels through his veins, overflowing through his fingertips in a flurry. The Orb glows viciously, and he feels the magnetism of it pull his hand closer against Gale’s chest, pressing against him with far too much pressure. He can barely move the hand — he plants his free one on the bedroll beside Gale to keep balanced, and feels Gale immediately snap to clutch it tightly. Gale writhes with the power that flows, the glow reaching to the veins of his eye as divinity spills from Lucius’ hand into him.

Lucius has to grit his teeth to stay rooted and keep control over the sudden power coursing through him. “Is it working?!”

Gale can barely respond. His other hand has gripped Lucius’ wrist as it funnels the power, and he’s kicked his knees up to dig his heels into the bedroll, his breath caught in his throat. It makes Lucius run cold with fear, but when he begins to pull the magic away from him, Gale only pulls his arm in.

“I’m okay,” He hisses through grit teeth. “It’s… It’s doing something. Don’t stop.”

Lucius nods, and lets the magic continue to flow. The Orb has begun to shift in hue, the violets and blues changing to that of the golden oranges and yellows that Lucius funnels into him. Gale’s grip is tight against him, clawing through his sleeves and digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises. Lucius grinds his teeth as he tries to keep his balance. He’d witnessed the hunger itself only once before when Gale had him place his hand over his heart and project the memory of the Orb through their tadpoles. But being on the other end of it, feeling an incorporeal force latch onto him and try to tear him away, all teeth and jaws and a bottomless pit of a stomach, oh, it does scare him. Every time the Orb pulls and licks at skin that his holy magic didn’t cover, it fills him with an overwhelming visceral fear, a force so strong that Lucius wonders if it’s even his at all.

The Orb pulses. Waves of magnetism shake both of the men, throttling them and pulling them into its center, knocking Lucius off balance and nearly collapsing on Gale. He remembers being told that the Orb will erupt. That just a fraction of this power is enough to level a city the size of Waterdeep. He aggravates it now with his magic, feeding it something other than the Weave, this hungry thing. It pulls and pulls, and Lucius can’t move his arm. He might be damning them. He might just kill them both, kill everyone in this camp. He might just ruin everything, ruin everyone, ruin it all.

But the divine magic is a fount he can’t stop, a waterfall that pours and pours into a maw that takes and takes. Could he possibly hope to feed it all? To satisfy it enough? How does one feed that which never stops hungering?

(How do you feed yourself, when you yearn and ache and writhe with hunger that you can’t seem to kick? When you travel the world after seeing bars and chains for years, and look for something, anything that can feed you? Can a soul ever be nourished? Can a curse ever be cured? Could the starving ever be full?)

Gale pants, throwing his head back. His breaths are uneven, and the magic seems to render him speechless. How far do they go? Is Gale present enough to figure out when they should stop? Is Lucius sane enough to let go even if it becomes too much? The force of it takes the strength out of Lucius, and he finds himself hunched over Gale, bracing his weight on his forearm on the ground and his head dropped onto Gale’s shoulder while the magic pours. Gale’s back arches, pressing further into the magic, hand still tightly wrapped around Lucius’ wrist. Like magnets they cling to each other, every ounce of their beings and the powers that claim them tangle them together, choking the breaths out of them.

It’s almost addicting, the way it feels. Like two pieces that fit together perfectly, however destructive. But Lucius always did find beauty in destruction, didn’t he?

Just when he thinks it’s becoming too much, he starts to feel the force weaken, as if the Orb was starting to release its jaws off of Lucius. Gale no longer writhes as violently, resting back onto the bedroll flat, his grip on loosening. Even the fountain of power gifted to Lucius begins to pull back, as if it too had begun to sense that it was ending. The golden glow of the Orb against Gale’s skin starts to shimmer and dim, no longer violent and uncontrolled. A burden slowly relieved, slowly lifted. 

Though the power begins to dissipate from them, Lucius still feels his hand stuck to his chest. The last bit of holy power drains from him, and he starts to feel the world spin around him. His mouth is dry, and he’s starting to wonder when the last time he breathed was. His knees slide out, leaving him practically laying on his side with his hand still stuck, his elbow bent high in the air as the last ribbons of gold flutter through. It seems like Gale’s not in pain anymore. That’s good. That’s very good. He’s not sure what he would do if after all of this, there was still nothing to be gained.

Everything flickers. Lucius blinks hard. It becomes difficult to tell whether he’s stopped channeling the magic or not.

A bit of humor washes over him. It feels funnily similar to nights that Astarion drinks a little too much from him.

Gale's hands wrap around his wrist, gentler now, and in one swift motion, he plucks Lucius’ hand off of his chest, severing the connection completely. Golden flakes of dust flutter away from his fingertips as the magic stops, and the Orb finally quiets. The relief wipes Lucius out instantly, all the tension in his body uncoiling and dropping next to Gale, not a thought spared to how he’s buried in the crook of his neck and laying atop his arm, hand flopping back onto his chest. The silence almost hurts his ears, making the sounds of both of their heavy breaths all the louder than it has any right being.

Neither of them make any effort to move, no doubt fully drained by everything the impromptu ritual put them through. It’s only when both of their breaths start to even out that Lucius cracks his voice to speak.

“Did it… work?”

Gale lets out a long, shaky breath. “It’s… To give you a short answer and save us both the time, yes. I think it did.”

Lucius closes his eyes, a swell of relief and pride washing over him. With it, he feels a warmth — whether that is from the absolute incurable affection he bears for the wizard, or the fulfillment of his holy duty to bear the wizard’s burden, he cannot tell. “God, I’m so fucking glad to hear that.”

“I… have never felt anything like that…” Gale says, his voice tired. “I didn’t think it was going to work, but… it was enough to satisfy it, I think. Between the… magical stuff you gave me and this… Gods, my eyes are heavy.”

“Same…” Lucius makes a move to shift away from him, but can’t seem to make it far. “We should… get you back to your tent so you can sleep this off.”

“A sound plan.”

Neither of them move. The last cognitive thought in Lucius’ mind is remembering the mug of tea he’d made, and he forgets the rest of everything else.

--

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. 

In rest is vulnerability.

In rest, there is the potential to lose everything.

This was one of the first lessons Lucius learned and carried with him for centuries. 

Don’t sleep in the unfamiliar. Keep one eye open. Leap to action at any and every sound, never be caught off guard, always have a blade in hand, never sleep in, always be ready, always be sharp —

And yet…

Lucius sleeps in.

It’s a rest he hasn’t gotten in years. Perhaps never. Between his childhood, the life in the Lockjaws, running for his life in the Underdark or in prison, he’s never slept in. Never found himself comfortable. Never found himself so lost like he is now atop this warm pillow, floating soundly, dozing delightfully.

Peace. 

Is this what it’s like?

He should be awake. Instincts scream at him to wake up and get up and assess the environment and see what he’s got, get ready for the day, check on the others, get breakfast started — but they float away, carried by the river of exhaustion, ferried away to be someone else’s problems. Down, down, down…

He shifts, and sunlight dares impede his darkened vision with dapples of light. He buries himself further into the pillow, hoping to chase away the dance of consciousness. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet, not yet. Not when he’s so cozy. Not when for the first time in his life, he’s been able to just cuddle up and rest. Not when this purple pillow is doing everything to —

Lucius’ eyes snap wide open. He doesn’t own any purple pillows.

Reality dawns on him as he slowly, slowly raises his head. One moment, two moments and three, his heart pounds and echoes in his ears faster than a pulse beneath him, and horror begins to take root in the pit of his chest. His hair sticks out from every which way, clinging to his mouth as he peels away from what is very much not a pillow, and is very much a highly specific wizard from Waterdeep sleeping peacefully on his bedroll.

Gale never did make it out of his tent.

The horror continues to pile on. Their legs had tangled themselves together, Lucius’ hand stayed on his chest, and Gale had an arm thrown around his side, a comfortable position their sleeping forms must have found themselves in during the night.

They slept together.

Innocently, yes, sure, but they slept together.

This is too close. Too intimate. It wasn’t like that, surely — it was an accident. He didn’t mean to. He shouldn’t be here. Shit, shit, this shouldn’t have happened.

His face runs hot, and he’s frozen, fear rooting him in place with a quickened breath. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight just beneath him. Gale’s hair had become a mess, splayed out over the bedroll in such a way that tugs at Lucius’ gut with affection. His face, which had been so contorted in pain not so long ago now rests peacefully, absent of that horrible despair and twisted curse, almost appearing younger with his features at rest. His brows don’t furrow and fold, his eyes closed gently and resting the skin — Lucius follows the trail of those darkened veins down his neck and to his chest. The skin was bruised all around where the Orb marks him, and Lucius gets the horrible, horrible thought that he wishes he could kiss it better. 

That ache pulls at his gut, at his heart and even his throat, this longing to kiss Gale, to follow the trail up his neck and to his cheek and kiss him awake. The ache that they could wake up like this without a problem, without it being weird, without it being some kind of situationship that Lucius would often find himself in. He aches, he aches, he aches —

Gale starts to stir. All of the alarms in Lucius’ head ring and blare, his pulse pounding in his ears. Move, move Lucius! Move, damn you! Do something, quick! How many seconds are passing? Think, damn you! Get up!

Those beautiful brown eyes — knock that off! — flutter open, blinking the sleep away and come into focus. The hand still around Lucius moves and then halts suddenly, his eyes locking with Lucius. He can practically see the cogs in his head turning with thought, booting up and bringing him to full cognition.

It’s over.

With all the grace of a startled cat, Lucius scrambles off of Gale, pushing himself up and away with haste. Gale backs away just as fast, though seemingly more in response to Lucius than anything else. Lucius’ back crashes into something, a quick burst of pain blooming and hisses, pulling his knees into his chest to rub at the spot. Damn it all.

“Are you quite alright?”

“No — Yes! Yep, I’m… fine…” Lucius fumbles, cursing his cheeks for still feeling hot with embarrassment. He feels as though he’s been caught in the act of something terrible, and all he wants to do is shrink away. “Um. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Gale replies easily, a look of amusement to his features. Lucius tries not to focus on the color that paints the wizard’s cheeks, or the intense curiosity in his eyes that Gale rakes him with. “It appears I did not… make it back to my tent…”

“Mm…”

They stare at each other for another awkward moment longer, and then suddenly, everything about the situation just felt ridiculous. Gale’s hair is a wreck, Lucius has drool dried on his cheek, their clothes were wrinkled and pulled to the wrong corners, and they’d all but cuddled with each other in the night. All at once, the tension snaps, and the both of them burst out laughing, Lucius loud like a barking dog, and Gale with a squawk like a bird.

Lucius runs a hand down his face, pinching his nose and wiping his cheek. “I think I drooled on you.”

“That can’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me out here.”

“Gods. I hate it here.”

Gale chuckles, stretching his arms out with a yawn. “For what it’s worth, Lucius, that was the most rested sleep I’ve had in a while.”

“Man...”

It’s a shame to miss the warmth he had just moments ago. He tries not to linger on it. He tries not to think about it too hard.

There are several choice words that dance at the tip of the cleric’s tongue, but he does well to swallow them all down before he chokes.

“Well, that’s good at least,” Lucius finally lands on saying. “I uh. I hope all of that stuff helped?”

“That it did, my friend. I feel… revitalized today,” Gale says, a grin spreading across his face and a sigh of relief. “I think this is something I may have to write down. It raises so many questions about the nature of this Netherese magic inside of me. It has only ever fed on the Weave before, and theoretically, it should only feed on the Weave. That’s what it’s made of. Divine magic, the Power, is very much not Weave magic, and yet…”

Lucius can’t help but spare a look to his hand that casted the spell, startling somewhat when some of his veins seem to have retained a dim, golden glow. “The power of Ilmater, my friend. I told you so.”

“Well, it looks like I’ve got a mighty amount of thanks to give to the Broken God. Remind me to pass an offering to His shrine if we ever do make it to one of His temples.”

Lucius gives him a two-fingered salute. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Gale gives an amused huff, his attention shifting back down to his chest. He presses a hand to it tentatively, and the Orb glows dimly in return. “It’s… very strange, honestly. How all of that felt. The Orb rejected it at the beginning, as if it didn’t quite know what to do with it. By the time I felt it begin to consume… Ack, it’s so strange. I lack the vocabulary to define what it all felt like.”

Lucius rubs his chin in thought, crab-walking closer to Gale to seat himself criss cross. “Just say it badly. Don’t need to dress it all up. You can give it pretty words later.”

“Hah. Suppose I can.” Gale hums, idly chewing at his fingertips as he tries to find a phrasing he’s happy with. “Ah, I got it. I would imagine it as a proper diet. One should have enough balance in what you eat. Meats, vegetables, a healthy amount of grain and just a little bit of sweets — all the proteins and nutrients to sustain yourself, yes?”

Lucius nods along. “My greatest lament is our sad little diet out here.”

“Ha, as is mine. Now, the Orb requires proper sustenance. The Weave, in this case. You’ve given me a fraction of what it needs — but with the food analogy, you’ve given a starving man the quarter cut of a steak, but nothing more. It satisfies the hunger enough not to pang the stomach, yet still isn’t quite enough.” He gestures meticulously throughout his explanation, miming as if he’s cut the steak and served it, pointing to his own belly as he speaks. A very visualized man, Lucius thinks. “Now, nutritional sustenance will get you far. But not everyone eats well. In this case, I’ve been given an alternative. It’s like… hmm, I don’t want to say being on a vegetarian diet when one needs meat — it’s more like one has filled up on bread and butter as much as they could until they couldn’t eat another bite. You’re full, yes, but you’ve missed out on all the nutrients.”

“Are you calling my god’s power a serving of bread?”

“No no no, don’t take it too literal!”

Lucius barks a laugh. “Go on.”

Gale huffs. “What I mean to say is that the hunger is satisfied. I have filled up on enough to keep me going. I think after a while, if we were to, in theory, keep this up, it will eventually take a toll on me, but not eating is always worse than eating filler foods. It’s better to eat something than to starve.”

Lucius smiles, finding himself more than happy to hear the dissertation. “That’s good! That’s really good, actually.”

“Oh, most certainly! I must admit, I was starting to get… well, I was… starting to feel a little hopeless about the whole situation, but now…” Gale looks up at him, a glint in his eyes of awe and appreciation, a gaze that makes Lucius almost shrink back at the fondness within them. “I cannot possibly thank you for this gift you’ve given me, Lucius.”

Lucius waves a hand, rising to his feet. “It’s my duty, Gale. This is a fight we’re all in together. All I want to do is find a way to take care of all of you while we figure this hell out.”

Gale nods, rising as well. “Your efforts are noted and appreciated, good leader,” He says with a bow. “But now, I do have to ask you. Are you alright? You started to look weak after the whole thing, and considering how we’ve woken up this morning, you cannot deny that it took a lot out of you as well.”

“Well… I can’t say it’s every day that I call upon my god to grant me an intense amount of magic to feed my magically hungry friend…”

“True.” Gale raises that accusatory finger once more. “But you promised me that you would stop if it became too much.”

“I promised I’d stop if I was in pain.”

“And if it was going to compromise your safety.”

“My safety wasn’t that compromised.”

“See, there’s the trick of your words. It was compromised. Maybe at a miniscule level, but the promise was broken there.”

“In my defense! I was doing fine up until the very end. Which is when I… kind of lost it.”

“That’s what I didn’t want to happen Lucius —”

“Ah ah!” Lucius raises a finger at him now. “It was fine. I’m willing to do this again, but this time, I know what to expect. The hardest part was just handling how much raw magic Ilmater granted us. Once it ran out, it all… Well, I know when to let go now. Alright?”

Gale frowns at him, crossing his arms. Lucius purses his lips, and crosses his arms as well, staring at him.

“You promise?”

“Swear on my Lord.”

“Your Lord is watching.”

“I sure fucking hope He is. I’m His greatest little boy.”

Gale chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Very well. Thank you again, Lucius. It means more than you know. I don’t even know where I’d begin to repay you.”

You could kiss me, Lucius wishes he could say as a tease and feel nothing about it at all.

He claps a hand on his shoulder instead. “Just keep chucking spells, and we’re good. I don’t need that much but your company, your prowess, and a helping hand in our sorry little kitchen.”

Gale lifts his head with a little pride at that. “Then you will have me there to the best of my abilities.”

Lucius smiles fondly at him. Wherever did this crush start, he wonders? How did this infection spread and fester within his chest without him noticing? It’ll bring him down to ruin and rot if he’s not careful. He’ll collapse and wither and die if he can’t get a stop to this disease.

This churning in his chest… his heart does not normally stir, and when it did, it ended in blood. What about Mauve? What about Virena? Lessons they were to keep his heart anchored to this cage of bone.

But Gale smiles at him with a glint in his eye, and Lucius still feels the echo of his warmth upon his body. Where did it start? Could it be that shared moment of magic? When Gale confessed the horrors of the Orb? Or could it have been the very second Lucius pulled him from that stone?

The tremor in his hands makes itself known, and he has to bite down to keep from trembling. Curses to the body for reacting so dramatically, as if a human man could do anything to bring Lucius to true ruin. As if… As if…

Gale’s about to turn to leave. “I think I should get going. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome, after everything you’ve already done for me here.”

“No no!” The words tumble out of Lucius’ mouth before he can stop them. He swallows hard when Gale regards him with curious eyes, and Lucius has to follow up with something pertinent. He turns Gale, taking a look at the poor abused skin surrounding the Orb marred to his flesh. “I’m not letting you go like this.”

Gale drops his gaze down to his collarbone. “Ah. Yes, this was…”

“Very bad.” Lucius finishes. He calls upon his holy power once more, and the magic flows easily through him. Moreso, even, as if channeling raw power previously had made it easier for the spell to take root. He places his hand on Gale’s chest, letting the soothing magic flow through him in his incantation. Slowly, the violets and blues of bruised skin soften to reds and yellows, and soon, to none, golden magic caressing the sites of injury and tracing the Orb’s pattern on his skin. The Orb shimmers as Gale takes a breath, for a moment taking on a golden hue before settling back to its darkened, slumbered state.

“Oh!” Gale says, touching his chest as Lucius drops his hand. “Oh, that final piece of relief — I’d been so used to this I nearly forgot what it’s like to be without that pain…”

A pang of sadness hits Lucius. “My friend, please do not hesitate to come to me for healing.”

“You’ve given me more than I could possibly ask for.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do if you asked for it, Gale.”

Those words tumble out again, unfiltered, and Lucius schools his expression into something casual. The severity and weight of his words can’t reach Gale like this. Not like this. Gale’s cheeks color, and Lucius pointedly ignores it.

“You are far too kind to me, Lucius. I will treasure this.”

There’s a moment where both of them linger. Goodbyes are in place. They’re to meet again anyways when they convene at the fire pit and set out for adventure. They’re to get back to the road and back to business within the hour or two. They’ll see each other again, but still, they pause. Hesitant. As if something else should be filling this moment.

Lingering looks. Awkward hands. Perhaps Lucius should reach out. Perhaps Lucius should say something more. Perhaps Gale wants to say something else. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and the air is heavy, it’s thick and hazy and Lucius is drawn to it.

But the moment ends. No spark ignites the thick air, and Gale bows his head to the cleric.

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” he says.

“I’ll meet you there,” Lucius replies.

And Gale leaves.

Lucius waits until he’s certain Gale has gone long out after before dropping to the ground and letting out a long groan. He’ll never get over this, he’s certain. Not with the way his heart pounds against his chest. Why does it stir so much? Why does it make him fumble? Where did he go wrong? Where did he possibly go wrong?

He has to get ready. He has to clean up, fix his makeup, and behave like a proper, genuine, functioning person. He has to pretend this never happened, and remember who he is. He is Lucius Skorn, and he does not get crushes. He is Ilmatari. This is his solemn duty. This is his charge.

As he moves to get to his sponges and rags, his foot kicks something, splashing liquid all over the place. He stares at the ground, watching that chipped mug from the night before roll around on the ground uselessly, spilling its soggy flowers.

He forgot about the tea.

[sadcambion]

He will protect you and his heir.

Very short text that came to me at the moment.

Raphael x f!Tav (Reader), pregnancy

Raphael is a cambion, a creature of the Hells. His mother, he never knew him because she died in childbirth and such is the fatal fate of the mortals who bear a child of the devil. So when he sees you, pregnant with his child, he is taken with a certain fear that you too die during the birth of his offspring. You sleep peacefully, and it’s like you were unaware of all the danger of this pregnancy. His clawed hand gently passes over your rounded belly. His body is huddled against yours, his tail around one of your thighs. His grip on your sleeping body is firm but reassuring. Caressing your pregnant belly he feels that the fetus moves and that fills it with a certain warm feeling. How he hates that feeling. And yet…

And yet the mighty devil, future archdevil, is afraid that you will know the same fate as his mother. He wants to protect you, and he will do everything in his power for your survival and that of his heir in your womb.