#guys is it gay if your girlfriend tends your wound while you relish in the violence enacted on you

[kittlesandbugs]

BG3: Flesh wound Pairing: Dark Urge/Minthara Warnings: Dark Urge who leans into it, so... blood/gore imagery, eroticism of violence, meaty descriptions, that sort of thing lol Word Count: 588 whoops Prompt: write a little snippet (300-500 words) where your character is... wound-tending their closest friend/RO

Nimble spider-light fingers creep under your armor, feeling for the warmth of your crimson blood that you are almost certain oozes beneath your gambeson. The moan that escapes you when her fingertips inadvertently dig into your ragged gaping flesh is more erotic than pained. 

"Contain yourself," she hisses, sharp as the serrated dagger you'd wrenched from your side. But you see the twitch in her lips as she begins unstrapping your bloodied plate mail to examine it further. 

Tension in the air thickens as Astarion's gaze focuses on you, drawn in by the shameless indulgence of your chummed scent. Gale averts his eyes. You aren't certain whether it's out of respect or nausea. The wizard has never been fond of the parts of battle you revel in, thin skinned and soft stomached despite his knack for Weave-wrought carnage. 

But Minthara ignores them completely. Her hands work swift and business-like, her beautiful blood red gaze narrowed with focus as she strips your top half down to your naturally pallid flesh. Her fingertips trace the edge of the wound, pulling another soft sigh from your bloodied lips that makes her smile just a little. She leans in close, eyes falling closed as she inhales deeply of your gore. 

"Flesh wound. It missed the bowel," she determines with the certainty of one who is intimately familiar with such reek. You wonder just how many guts she's spilled along her life to become such an expert, and your pulse quickens hot with want. "We will not need the cleric."

"Just another scar then," you murmur softly as her hand begins to glow, imbued by the power of her vows despite her lack of deity. You're tempted to tell her to leave it so you can enjoy the sweet pain later, but you've still much distance left to travel to reach Baldur's Gate. And who knows how many more ambushes you might face along the way. 

"Indeed." 

Her other hand traces the myriad scars on your belly. You'd spent nights lying awake, fantasizing about what battles you'd fought to attain such art upon your skin. The truth had been far more nauseating, even to your warped sensibilities. A necromancer's ill-gotten toy, cut open to play with again and again. Your eyes fall closed as you embrace the memory of strangling her with her own innards, retribution for her days buried in yours. You long to do the same to the one who put you in the state that allowed such things and stole half your vision. 

The wound on your side itches perversely as Minthara heals it, pulling you back from your reminiscence. You stare down at her with your one good eye, taking in her hardset eyes and mouth, fierce with determination. Healing does not come as naturally to her as it does Shadowheart, but she refuses to fall short. 

She withdraws with a satisfied nod, your flesh knit back together with a thin marled scar the only evidence of the wound. 

"Thank you," you say softly, your thumb wiping someone else's blood from the corner of her mouth. You taste it, her salt and their iron and you hum softly in appreciation. 

She rolls her eyes, but you see the faint color in her cheeks. "You should be more mindful of your blind spot," she criticizes, but the undercurrent of concern makes you smile as you re-don your armor. 

As your group begins to move out once again, she falls into step at your left flank, because she knows you won't.