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luminnara · 2 months

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Protector | Feyd-Rautha x reader

ANON REQUEST: your marriage to Feyd-Rautha is an arranged one, and your only task is to provide an heir. When you finally become pregnant, your new husband suddenly grows obsessed with you—but does he care about you, or is he simply protective of his progeny?

Warnings: pregnancy, labor, and related talk; canon typical violence

MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Your marriage was one born out of duty, not love. You couldn’t even call it a marriage of convenience; there was nothing convenient about leaving your homeworld and traveling across an entire galaxy to marry someone you had never even met before. Yes, the Houses had agreed beforehand that you were to marry Feyd-Rautha, the Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, and immediately after the deal had been struck you had seen his face and read his writing, but you hadn’t met him until your wedding day.

You had chastised yourself for thinking it could be like the fairytales of Ancient Earth. You, a princess, your betrothed a handsome prince…in the stories of your childhood, he would have whisked you away, off to a great, shining palace full of magical wonders, and you would have lived happily ever after. Instead, your prince had proved to be disinterested in you, busying himself with his arena and his concubines, ignoring you most of the day. The Harkonnen fortress did not shine, nor did it hold any great wonders, and Giedi Prime felt far from magical, with its harsh black sun and polluted landscape.

After your vows, you had naively thought your wedding night would be full of romance. Perhaps you had been holding onto hope as a means to protect yourself, clinging to optimism to distract yourself from your harsh, sad reality. You had been all too eager to shed your dress and veil in Feyd-Rautha’s living quarters, though had not expected them to be ruined by his blade, and you had not expected him to greedily conquer you as if it were yet another battle in the arena. He had slept next to you that night, but had made it painfully obvious that he had no interest in holding you or even touching you, keeping far to his side of the bed while you remained far to yours. In the morning, you had awoken alone, and had realized that it was the beginning of a long and lonely road on your new planet.

Everyone expected an heir. That was the entire point of this marriage, a legitimate heir for the Harkonnen line. Anyone else could have done it—you were of fine breeding, yes, but any of the other Houses could have offered up a daughter to suffer at Feyd-Rautha’s side. Why it had to be you surely came down to the only things powerful men seemed to care about—money and spice. An allegiance with House Harkonnen protected your family, and your small share of spice harvesters on Arrakis added yet another drop into their vast bucket and one less smuggling operation to worry about. Your parents were happy. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was happy.

And you were miserable.

Two months after your wedding, your monthly cycle continued as normal, and you were forced to shamefully inform the na-Baron. After an annoyed sound and a grimace, he bent you over the nearest table and took you for a second time, leaving you to clean yourself up and cry at your husband’s callousness. You didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to care. You supposed he already had everything he could possibly want; wealth, concubines, a throne to inherit…you brought nothing of real value to him, save for the ability to produce an heir.

Time passed, and it became clear that Feyd-Rautha would have to touch you more than once a month if he was to have any hope of fathering a child. You cursed yourself for your apparent inability to conceive—fertility had been one of your parents’ selling points when negotiating with the Baron, and now, you couldn’t even do the one thing that was expected of you. It brought you to tears every night, the stress of being reduced to this and yet still being unable to perform your task. It was maddening, though you knew you were hardly the first woman to find yourself in such a situation. You did worry, however, that you may have been the weakest.

One evening, as Feyd performed his husbandly duties, he noticed a tear slipping down your cheek and paused. You felt a rough hand cup the side of your face and opened your eyes to find your husband staring at you with dark eyes, his head tilted to suggest he was curious.

“Tears?” He asked in his raspy voice that was still so alien to you.

“My apologies, na-Baron,” you looked away from him.

“You are crying.”

You stifled an annoyed sigh. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Do not worry yourself with me, husband.” You said.

“Tell me.”

This was perhaps the longest conversation you had had since marrying him, and part of you didn’t want it to end. You looked at him once more, finding him still watching you with that unwavering, predatory gaze, and another tear rolled down your cheek and onto his hand.

“I am sorry I have not given you a child.” You whispered.

“Then let me put one into you.”

His tone sent a chill down your spine, frightening and exciting you all at once. That night, Feyd-Rautha did not let you sleep, shocking you with his determination. It was simply because the sooner you conceived, the sooner he could return to his own concerns, you reasoned.

Sure enough, your period did not arrive when expected, nor did the next. A medical test confirmed what you already knew—you were pregnant, with Feyd-Rautha’s child. A Harkonnen child, who would grow up to be just as ruthless and savage as its father, you thought.

Upon receiving the positive result, you immediately set off to tell the na-Baron. He should not be made to wait; you wanted him to know that the entire point of your union was finally achieved, and that you could both go back to ignoring each other as usual. As you walked, you had the worrying thought that he may not even keep you alive after the delivery.

“Na-Baron,” you addressed him upon finding him in his armory.

He looked up from the blade he was sharpening. “Wife.”

“I bring news,” you said, folding your hands in front of yourself.

“Then tell me, before I grow bored of waiting.” He returned to the hunting knife, looking away from you once more.

“I am with child.”

You watched as Feyd-Rautha paused, tilting his head to look at you. “My child?”

“Yes. Who else could it possibly belong to?” You asked, exasperated. “The physicians confirmed it just now. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, looking back at the knife in his hand as he thought. “I see.”

Whatever hopes you had once had for him to suddenly flip his entire personality at the news were quickly dashed by his lack of emotion. You left him there, a hand over your mouth as you tried not to cry, returning to your bed to be alone once more.

-0-

In those earlier days of pregnancy, you were often ill, sprinting from bed to the wash basin nearly every day to be sick. Usually, you were alone; Feyd-Rautha rose early, spending his mornings training and sometimes killing his instructors. Whenever that happened, he would come back, wearing blood and a grin on his face as if he had just won some great contest.

Today, however, he was enjoying a rare occasion of sleeping in. He had begun spending his nights in the center of the bed, crowding you as you attempted to stay away from him. One morning you had even woken up to find his arm throne over you, his body closer than ever. Now, he was sleeping, and you would have been content to let him remain there were you not busy launching yourself over him as you ran to the adjoining wash room.

You missed the way your husband sat up, eyes wide and frenzied as he pulled a dagger from beneath the pillows. When he found the room to be empty and free of danger, he grew confused…until he heard your retching in the next room, and slipped out of bed.

“Wife?” He asked from the doorway.

“What?” You groaned, leaning your cheek on the cool basin.

“…are you alright?”

You sighed. “No, na-Baron, I am not. I mean…I am, I just…”

“You are sick,” he pointed out.

It took every bit of willpower you possessed to swallow down the part of you that desperately wanted to throttle him. “Yes. I am. It’s the pregnancy, the pills from the doctors haven’t been working—“

“This has happened before?” He interrupted.

“Most days, yes,” you felt another wave of nausea coming over you and hunched your shoulders, preparing for the worst.

You never expected to feel a cool hand brushing your hair away from your forehead, nor the feeling of your husband’s chest against your back as he held you.

“Harkonnen women don’t have this problem,” he commented as he held your hair.

It was the least helpful statement he possibly could have made as you vomited once more, and yet it was also quite possibly the best.

“If Harkonnen women have no hair, then what do you pull?” You asked wryly, too ill and too exhausted to hold yourself back.

Feyd-Rautha stared you, unblinking, before a smirk found its way onto his lips. “If you are feeling brave, perhaps I will show you one day.”

You let out a laugh as the nausea ebbed, leaning back against him. “Perhaps one day I will finally stop seeing my lunch so many times, and then you can regale me.”

-0-

Your sickness faded as your pregnancy progressed, thankfully, but Feyd-Rautha’s company did not. By the time you were beginning to truly show, he was refusing to leave you alone, demanding your presence wherever he went. As a result, you sat in on many a sparring session, and he made up his mind to abandon the arena until after the baby was born. His sudden change in attitude was shocking; he had never paid so much attention to anything before, and now, his hands were constantly on you.

“I must keep you safe,” he had said when you first asked about it, and had acted as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.

You assumed he was protective due to the baby, the precious new heir to the Harkonnen throne. As its vessel, you were afforded some luxuries, but you fully expected that to change after the birth. For now, though, you were content to receive any and all attention your husband saw fit to pay you.

“That went well,” you said one day after the doctor examined you.

“He should not have touched you like that.” Feyd-Rautha growled.

“What do you mean? He’s a doctor,” you laughed, somewhat nervously.

“I did not like it.” His voice was tense.

“I could tell.” You grumbled, dropping your happy façade. He had nearly chased the doctor out of the room, hunting knife in hand. “Examinations are unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“No more.”

“But—“

“No more strangers touching you.”

"Doctors help," you protested. "Don't you want your child to be healthy?"

At that, Feyd paused in thought. "...You may have a Harkonnen midwife."

"Because a Harkonnen doctor is too much?" You asked dryly.

He glared at you briefly before looking away towards the door. "Come."

You audibly groaned, one hand on your lower back. "Na-Baron, I am tired. I wish to retire to bed."

He looked back at you, and you caught an expression of distress on his face. "I need to train."

"You train every day."

"Yes." he said it as if it were obvious, but something in his tone suggested more; he made it sound urgent, as if it were something he had to do daily, and missing a single session would be disastrous. "Come."

You heaved a sigh and followed him.

-0-

In the months that followed, your unborn child grew, as did your body. You found yourself becoming large and bloated, your gait slowing as your flexibility waned. New maternity gowns were brought to you, an interesting mix of styles--the flowing, heavy garments of your homeworld meeting the simple, stark aesthetics of Giedi Prime. You found them strange, but at that point, you really didn't care; you would have walked around naked if no one would have stopped you. You spent your days feeling uncomfortable and awkward, with swollen feet and a sore lumbar region. Harkonnen servants brought whatever you needed, and your husband ensured--no, demanded--that all of your food be tasted by someone else while you watched so that there could be no chance of poison passing between your lips.

You wondered if this was simply some aspect of Harkonnen culture that the other Houses weren't aware of or never cared to talk about. Perhaps on a planet as harsh and toxic as Giedi Prime, infertility and infant mortality were more commonplace than the rest of the known universe. Perhaps this possessiveness was common among Harkonnen men, if conception was more difficult for their people.

Whether your theory was correct or not, Feyd-Rautha had certainly become even more attached to you. Not a morning went by when he wasn’t there next to you in bed, and as of late, he had begun waking you up by reminding you exactly how you had ended up like this in the first place. Before your pregnancy, he had acted as though bedding you were a boorish duty he had no choice but to perform; now that you were heavy with child, however, he was more than interested in you physically, constantly touching you with those rough, murderous hands.

You enjoyed the attention, and you enjoyed the way he squeezed and massaged you with surprising gentleness. He didn’t want to break you, you supposed, not right now; after the child arrived, perhaps, but not now. That was a grim thought, and one you had often—what was to come of your after the birth? Would Feyd-Rautha want more children, in case this one died some horrible, brutal, Harkonnen death? Or would you be disposed of, no longer needed after his legacy was secured?

You tried not to dwell on it.

One morning, you roused on your own, without Feyd’s interference. Wondering if he was even still there, you reached out to the side, feeling for him—and you nearly jumped when you felt bare flesh beneath your hand. When you rolled onto your back with considerable effort and turned your head to the side, you saw that your husband was there, still sleeping, and that what you had felt was his exposed chest.

You took the moment to look at him, really look at him. He seemed so peaceful like this, when he wasn’t fighting and killing. You had seen him take lives so quickly that his victims hadn’t even known they had died, and you had wondered how someone could be so dismissive of those around them. The first time you had watched your husband slit a throat, you had nearly vomited, and he had found your revulsion amusing; the most recent, however, you had simply sighed and looked away. You were desensitized, it seemed, just like he was, and now, you slept just as easily after watching him commit horrendous acts of violence as he did now.

Feyd-Rautha was handsome as far as Harkonnens went. His skin was smooth like marble, free of the scars and bruises one might expect to see on a warrior. His face, usually so harsh during the waking hours, was relaxed now, and you realized he was beautiful. You couldn’t keep yourself from brushing your fingers over his lips and feeling how surprisingly soft they were, though in a way, this felt wrong. Feyd-Rautha didn’t strike you as the kind of person who would allow this sort of touch, but when would you have this opportunity again? He always rose first in the morning and slept last at night. You never caught him with his guard down, and you kept your hands to yourself during the day. This was the only time you could marvel at him like this.

As your fingers ghosted across his cheek, he twitched, and you froze. Then, to your horror, an eye cracked open, and you knew that he had been awake all along.

When you moved to pull away, he caught your wrist, then covered your hand in his. He held your gaze for several long, strange moments, and you realized that he hadn’t simply been awake—he had been allowing you to touch his face, to explore him in a way you had never been brave enough to before. It felt like a gift, in a way. In his way.

“I apologize,” you breathed, unable to look away from him.

“Why?” He asked, voice deep and rough with sleep.

“I should not have touched you without permission.”

“I am your husband,” he said. “And you are carrying my child. You do not need permission to touch me.”

Somehow, you knew his words carried a deeper meaning. You knew you were one of, if not the only, one on all of Giedi Prime whom he had said those words to. And for the first time since marrying him, you felt that Feyd-Rautha was truly your husband.

-0-

He was with you when the labor began.

You had been lounging in your shared chambers, enduring the final week of your pregnancy. It felt bittersweet, in a way; you had no way of knowing then if you would ever be experiencing this again, and a part of you desperately wanted to hold onto it while the rest was fed up with feeling massive and uncomfortable every day.

Feyd-Rautha had been agitated all morning. It was as if he had known something was about to happen, and he had spent his time barely containing himself as he paced and sharpened knives, attempting to keep to himself and leave you alone and doing a piss poor job of it. You had been ready to chase him out of the room—or at least attempt to—when you felt your waters go and the panic set in.

That had been three hours ago.

Now, you were in your bed, and a shockingly-diligent Harkonnen na-Baron had yet to leave your side. He had briefly stepped into the corridor to bellow at the nearest passerby and your midwife had arrived very quickly as a result, but after that, he had sat down next to you and refused to go anywhere else.

“Is it agony?” He asked as you stood.

You shot him a glare. “I would not wish this sensation on even you.”

He was taken aback by your tone, impressed, even, by the venom in it.

“A short walk about the room may help,” the midwife suggested. “I will assist—“

“No.” Feyd-Rautha was up and at your side in an instant, taking your elbow. “I will.”

You didn’t care who did what, you just wanted it to be over and done with. The labor was progressing quickly, the midwife assured after another check once you were back in bed, and soon, you were wailing and grunting, your face was sweaty, and the na-Baron was staring in awe. You were focused on the task set before you, one hand on Feyd’s arm as you pushed with all your might, and so you could not see the way your husband was looking at you.

When your son was born and crying at the top of his tiny lungs, Feyd-Rautha cut the umbilical cord with a hunting knife and then he stared. It seemed that the entire time, he was incapable of looking away, his eyes glued to either you or the new Harkonnen heir. You supposed he had been too enthralled to order the midwife out of the room, and the woman was smart enough not to push her luck—she did the necessary examinations as quickly as she could, then handed the baby off to you, busying herself with cleaning what looked like a murder scene and gathering the afterbirth when it came. Then, satisfied with her work and the health of the child, she left, and you were alone with your husband and son.

You cradled the infant, tucking him against your breast and pulling the edge of your robe over him in an attempt to keep him warm. He was born pale, like his father, but with a soft layer of hair that made you wonder how much he might grow to look like you. The midwife had said it before she slipped out, and you had to agree—he was beautiful, and you smiled down at him.

A thud startled you and you turned to see that Feyd-Rautha had fallen to his knees at your bedside, looking at you with a reverence you had never seen in anyone before.

“Feyd?” You asked.

He looked between you and your son, and you saw then that something had changed within him over those many months. Gone was the dismissive, uncaring husband you had wed; this Feyd-Rautha had grown to become a protector, one who would fight until his muscles tore from his bones, who would bleed himself dry for you.

“You are stronger than I knew,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek much the way you had with him all those nights ago.

You felt a lump in your throat. “Come here. Join us.”

He did.

Feyd-Rautha sat with you there, in your bed, the very bed your first child was born in. He watched as your son woke from his peaceful, short nap, and he was privy to the private, intimate moment of his first feeding. He held the baby, staring at him in wonder and what may have been a touch of fear, supporting the both of you as he helped you to the bathing room when you were well enough to stand.

“A son,” he said, watching the baby sleep that night.

“Yes.” You mumbled, exhausted and nearly asleep as well. “Are you pleased, husband?”

“I would have been just as pleased with a daughter.”

That surprised you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him propped up on an elbow, watching your son as he slept in his simple Harkonnen manger. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said, never once taking his eyes off the child. “I can teach a daughter to fight just as well.” Finally, he looked down at you. “Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected.” You sighed.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am,” you answered him, sleep already dragging you down.

You barely felt his lips as he pressed a kiss to your temple, and you barely heard his voice as he said,

“I am as well.”

-0-

You had expected Feyd-Rautha to grow cold in the weeks following your son’s birth, but he never had. He was attentive, caring for you in a way that suggested he felt some primal urge to drag back great beasts for dinner every night but modern living prohibited that.

Now, you watched as he stood before one of the massive windows within the Harkonnen palace. It was evening on Giedi Prime, but the black sun casted no shadows over the landscape. Feyd-Rautha held your son, whispering to him, and as you watched, you wished the moment could stretch on forever.

“Husband,” you said, approaching him.

“Wife,” he greeted you, turning.

“On your evening walk together, I see.”

He chuckled. “I am showing him everything he will one day rule over.”

“I am surprised you haven’t taken him into battle with you yet,” you said sarcastically.

“I will strap him to my chest so that he might taste the blood of House Atreides,” he said with a grin.

“The youngest Harkonnen warrior the world has ever seen.” You smiled, leaning in to check on what appeared to be a perfectly happy, albeit possibile bloodthirsty, baby.

“What are you doing walking alone?” Feyd-Rautha asked.

“Looking for you.”

“And now that you have found me, what do you intend to do?”

You leaned into your husband, resting your head on his shoulder. “Drop the baby off with the wet nurse, seduce you, take you to bed and then have my way with you.”

“You have my attention.”

“I thought you might be interested in trying for a girl this time…”

In a blink, he had spun you around and was dragging you down the corridor, and once the baby was safely tucked in with a nursemaid watching over him, you did indeed have your way with your husband. And again. And again. And you realized, as you retired to bed that night, that you were truly glad to have been arranged to marry Feyd-Rautha, heir to the Harkonnen throne and father of your children.

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd x reader #TW pregnancy #TW labor and delivery #dune x reader

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pucksandpower · 3 months

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Theories of Relativity

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you don’t need TikTok theories to prove that your relationship is a dream come to life, but it doesn’t hurt when your boyfriend passes all of them with flying colors

The Olive Theory

When you love someone, you have to be willing to make sacrifices and compromises for them (even if those sacrifices are something small like pretending to hate olives just so you can give them to your olive-loving partner instead)

You sit across from Charles at the long dinner table, smiling as he animatedly recounts the race from last weekend. His hands wave through the air, punctuating his story as he describes the final lap battle with Max down to the last corner. You’re only half listening though, too distracted by how handsome he looks in his dinner jacket, his tanned skin glowing in the low light of the restaurant.

As Charles pauses to take a sip of wine, you lean in and whisper, “I wasn’t really watching the race, I only had eyes for you.”

Charles chuckles, his nose crinkling adorably. “Oh really? So you missed all the action then?"

You shrug, trailing a finger down his arm. “What can I say, I find you far more interesting than the other cars going around in circles.”

Charles opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a mechanic sitting a little way down from you. “Oi Charles, why do you keep picking all the olives out of your salad?"

You look down, noticing the small pile of olives Charles has stacked onto the edge of his plate.

Charles glances at you, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Oh, um, I’m not a huge fan of olives.”

The mechanic frowns in confusion. “But I’ve seen you eat olives before. You always get them on your pizza.”

“I, uh ...” Charles stammers, clearly flustered.

Under the table, you squeeze his hand reassuringly. Charles looks at you and you give him a small nod.

“Well, the truth is,” Charles says, turning back to the mechanic. “I actually love olives. But Y/N loves them even more than I do. So I pick them out of my food to give to her.”

You smile softly at Charles, warmed by his thoughtfulness. The mechanic chuckles and shakes his head. “You two are so cute it’s almost gross.”

Charles just grins and pops an olive into your mouth. “Anything for mon amour.”

You crunch the olive happily, then lean in to give Charles a quick kiss on the lips. “People who say chivalry is dead have simply never met you.”

The conversation moves on, flowing from racing to travel and everything in between. Under the table, your fingers stay intertwined with Charles’ the whole time.

After dinner, you all head outside into the cool night air. Charles’ team members head off towards their own cars, calling out goodbyes.

You snuggle into Charles’ side as you walk towards where his Ferrari is parked. “Thank you for the olives,” you say. “But you really don’t have to deprive yourself on my account.”

Charles wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. “I want to though. I like making you happy.”

You stop next to the car, turning to face him. Running a hand down his chest you say, “You know what would really make me happy right now?"

“Hmm?" Charles murmurs, his eyes drifting down to your lips.

You grin mischievously. “A stop for gelato on the way home.”

Charles laughs and opens the car door for you. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

The Bird Test

If you say something that could be deemed insignificant and your partner responds with genuine curiosity, that’s a really good sign that your relationship will last a long time

The Brazilian sun beats down as you wander hand-in-hand with Charles along the edges of the Interlagos circuit. It’s the day before qualifying, and Charles brought you out to the track in São Paulo to share the grid walk with you.

You stroll slowly, enjoying a rare private moment together during the hectic race weekend. Charles points out details along the track — the tricky off-camber Turn 3, the sharp left-right complex at Turns 5 and 6, the long full throttle blast down the back straight.

You love seeing him so in his element here, his passion for racing evident in his voice and gestures.

As you round Turn 12, heading down the home straight, a flash of bright blue in the trees catches your eye. Gasping in excitement, you grab Charles’ arm and point.

“Look, a hyacinth macaw!”

Charles follows your gaze to the large, vividly colored parrot perched in the branches. “Wow, that’s amazing! I’ve never seen one outside of a zoo.”

You bounce on your toes, thrilled at the sighting. “Aren’t they gorgeous? That bright blue is unreal. Macaws are pretty rare around here, I can’t believe we spotted one!”

Charles smiles at your obvious delight, then turns back to observe the macaw with curiosity. “What do they eat?" He asks. “Fruit, like other parrots?"

“Yes exactly!” You reply eagerly. “Mostly palm nuts and acai berries. And they need a huge range of territory, something like 80 square kilometers.”

As you chat more facts about the brilliant bird, Charles listens attentively, asking more questions and commenting on its beauty. His genuine interest and engagement makes your heart flutter happily.

Eventually the macaw takes flight, its bright wings flashing blue against the trees as it disappears into the forest.

“Incredible,” Charles murmurs, watching it go. “What an amazing thing to see.”

He turns back to you, eyes shining. “Thank you for pointing it out, I never would have spotted it myself. I love seeing you so excited teaching me about something you’re passionate about.”

You step closer, looping your arms around his neck. “And I love that you always listen and want to know more, even if it’s not about racing.”

Charles wraps his arms around your waist, smiling tenderly. “Of course, your passions are my passions now too. I want to know everything that sparks that beautiful light in your eyes.”

The Orange Peel Theory

A partner’s willingness to perform small acts of service is indicative of a healthy relationship

Early morning sun filters into the kitchen as you sip your coffee, still wearing the oversized Ferrari shirt you slept in. Charles stands at the counter across from you, freshly showered and humming to himself as he browses his phone.

Setting your mug down, you grab an orange from the fruit bowl and start to peel it. Or at least you try. The tough rind puts up a stubborn fight, your nails scraping uselessly against it.

“Ugh, I hate peeling oranges,” you grumble after a minute. “Whose idea was it to make the peel so impossible?"

Charles glances up with a sympathetic smile. “Here, let me.”

He takes the orange from your hands and deftly digs his thumb into the top, effortlessly tearing the peel away in one long curl.

You watch in admiration as he strips the rest of the orange until it’s completely naked and ready to eat.

“Voila,” Charles presents it with a flourish. “One perfectly peeled orange for mon ange.”

“My hero,” you grin. You go to take it from him but Charles playfully keeps it out of reach.

“Ah ah, allow me,” he says. Holding your gaze, he gently pulls apart one glistening segment and brings it to your lips.

Happiness bubbles up in you at this sweet, unexpected gesture. You let Charles pop the orange slice into your mouth, savoring the bright citrus burst.

“Delicious,” you murmur. Charles smiles and leans in to kiss you softly, his thumb brushing a drop of juice from your lower lip.

One by one he continues to peel the segments and feed them to you, interspersing each with tender kisses that taste of orange and love.

You close your eyes blissfully, letting the sensual ritual relax you. Charles takes his time, not rushing. He knows this is your favorite part of the morning, stealing these private moments together before the busy day sweeps you both up.

When the last segment is gone, Charles kisses you again, deeper this time. You loop your arms around his neck, melting against him.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” you whisper when you finally separate.

Charles nuzzles your nose with his. “You may have said it once or twice. But I never get tired of hearing it.”

You lean into him contentedly. As always, his thoughtfulness and care warms you from the inside out.

Peeling an orange is such a small act but the meaning behind it speaks volumes. Charles knows your quirks and preferences, and cherishes these little opportunities to make your day brighter.

The little things that mean everything.

You’re still musing dreamily about this when Charles tips your chin up. “Where’d you go just now?” He asks with a curious smile.

You shake your head, focusing back on him. “Just thinking about us. And how perfectly you peel my oranges.”

Charles laughs. “Well I’m glad to be of service. I know how you hate getting orange string stuck under your nails.”

He kisses your fingertips one by one. “Can’t have anything marring these beautiful hands.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “Oh yes, I need to keep my hands soft and dainty in case a prince comes along to propose.”

Charles squawks in protest and tackles you against the counter, fingers digging into your sides to tickle you mercilessly. You dissolve into helpless giggles, swatting him away.

“No no, stop! I take it back!” You gasp.

Charles relents, holding you close and nuzzling into your hair. “Too late, you’re stuck with me now,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.

You snuggle into him contentedly. No fantasy prince could ever compete with the reality of Charles.

The Invisible String Theory

An invisible string connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance (the string may stretch or tangle but it will never break)

The living room is filled with laughter and happy chatter as you and Charles sit surrounded by both your families. Your wedding is only two days away, and his mother suggested gathering everyone together one night for reminiscing and quality time.

Looking through old photo albums is proving to be hilarious and heartwarming. Baby pictures, school plays, family vacations — memories preserved to embroider the story of your lives before fate brought you together.

Charles smiles wistfully as Lorenzo shows an album from their childhood. “I wish my godfather and father could have met you,” he says softly. “They would have loved you so much.”

You take his hand, leaning your head on his shoulder. His lost loved ones are always close to his heart.

Your mother passes an album to you with a smile. “Oh this one is from our trip to France when you were five! So many cute little Y/N photos.”

You roll your eyes but obligingly open the album, Charles peering over your shoulder. You flip through pictures of your younger self building sandcastles on the beach, wearing a hilariously large sun hat, beaming gappily with missing front teeth.

Charles grins down at you. “Adorable. I can’t wait for our kids to-”

He stops abruptly, staring down at the page. You follow his gaze to a photo of your family in Nice, taken in front of the Le Negresco hotel. And there in the background, almost out of frame — four familiar figures walking down the promenade.

A young Charles holds the hand of a teenage boy you immediately recognize as Jules. On Charles’ other side, his father Hervé carries a toddler Arthur.

Your breath catches sharply. The families fall silent around you. Charles’ fingers tremble slightly as they trace over the image.

“Of course we went to Nice often,” he whispers. “I had no idea ...” His voice trails off, thick with emotion.

Arthur cranes his head to see. “Is that us? With Papa and Jules?" He looks between you and Charles with wide eyes.

“Almost twenty years ago,” Lorenzo marvels. “And your paths were already crossing.”

Pascale wipes at her eyes, grasping Charles’ other hand tightly. “It was meant to be. Some invisible string tying you together even then.”

Charles’ fingers tremble as they trace over the image. For one brief, impossible moment, it feels like you’re all together — you, Charles, Jules, Hervé. Preserved in time, intersecting at the crossroads of past and future.

Though you never met in life, somehow you were all bound in that instant, tied by invisible strings of destiny. Strings that would one day guide you and Charles to each other.

It’s only a photo, yet looking at it you feel Jules and Hervé’s presence like a bittersweet embrace. As if across the years, they’re saying we know you. We love you. We’re so happy for you both.

You stare down at it, this captured moment of impossible synchronicity. A glimpse of the thread that wove itself silently through your lives until the day it finally drew you together.

Charles meets your eyes, his own shimmering with tears. Without words, you know he feels it too. The impossible link stretching back through time. Proof you were always meant to find each other.

He pulls you close, kissing the top of your head. “I believe that with all my heart, we’ve always been connected somehow.”

“Soulmates,” you whisper.

You cling to him, overwhelmed with certainty. Through accidents of time and geography, missteps and milestones, your story was always guiding you here.

Meant for each other. Destined, even then.

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vexingwoman · 18 days

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One of the things that makes arguing with men so much more draining than arguing with women is the unequal distribution of credibility and contribution.

Somehow, whenever I argue with men, it always falls upon me to both prove my own claims, and to disprove his, while he does neither; his only obligation seemingly to dole out whatever ungrounded assertions he conjures up on the spot. Somehow, it is always wordlessly established that anything I say is false until proven true, while anything he says is true until proven false.

This same dynamic happened again over on tiktok, when a man claimed women are just as violent as men. Automatically, almost as if by muscle memory, I offered up the usual statistics on male depravity: men constituting 99% of rapists, 99% of mass shooters, 98% of killers, 95% of serious domestic abusers. And his only response was to say those statistics were wrong. No elaboration; wrong simply because he said so.

I already knew how the entire conversation would pan out: I’d give him my source, he’d find a reason to discredit the source, then I’d scour the internet to find a source that suited his standards, which he’d inevitably find a reason to discredit too.

So instead I simply said, “Prove the statistics are wrong.” And that was the only thing I responded with henceforth: prove it, prove I’m wrong, prove you’re right. Thus reversing the dynamics and positing that anything I said was true unless he demonstrated otherwise; unduly putting all the onus on him while I did nothing other than decide whether he was convincing me of claims thoroughly enough—and if he wasn’t, it just meant I was winning, of course.

He blocked me, and so far so have all the other men I’ve used this approach on. I don’t know whether it’s because they couldn’t actually disprove my claims or because they couldn’t stand to be treated the same way they treat women in debates. But I think more women should do this. Stop wasting energy proving your points to men, and start making them prove theirs to you.

#radical feminism #misogny #sexism #my post

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stenka-razin · 27 days

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Maybe, a cynical observer would say, Coachella 2024 also proved that the future might not have much to offer. If you followed the festival online, you’re aware that Grimes’ Saturday evening DJ set in the yawning Sahara tent went less than smoothly. It would, in fact, be difficult to communicate to anyone who wasn’t there what an utter disaster it was: The music kept lurching to a halt, with Grimes going on extended rants about how the people to which she’d outsourced all her prep work had not properly prepared her tracks. (“This actually isn’t my fault,” she said at one point.) The third or fourth time she complained about the displayed BPMs being incorrect, she warned the crowd that she would have to simply listen to tracks as they played and try to match them with others in real time—prompting the woman beside me to say, “Yeah, that’s DJing.”

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bettsfic · 6 days

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one of the best decisions i've ever made was to stop arguing.

i'd always been an arguer. i was defensive about everything and mindlessly contrary. it wasn't all my fault; i was (and still am) talked down to and patronized a lot, and when you live your life that way, you become kind of a raw nerve and dedicate a lot of energy to trying to prove yourself. someone even told me once, "it's just fun messing with you. you get so upset."

at 23, i was working in an environment where about a half dozen middle aged conservative men were always telling me what to do and explaining things to me. i either argued with them when they said heinous things or stewed about it for hours or even days. and so my new year's resolution one year was simply: no arguing.

it felt a little like defeat at first, like i was no longer standing up for what i believed in, even though no matter how right i was or how much proof i had for my claims, no one had ever been swayed by anything i told them. part of that was because they had no respect for me and didn't take me seriously; the other part was the simple truth that arguments are almost never productive. when someone says something and you immediately reply with, "you're wrong and here's why," a wall goes up and nothing can go over it.

i couldn't just let these men talk at me though, so i started asking questions. not leading questions, not with an intention to prove a point or walk them into a corner. i genuinely wanted to understand how they came to shape the opinions they held. i realized that understanding and agreeing are two different things, and just because i seek to understand doesn't mean i condone.

a truly fascinating thing happened: these men walked into corners all by themselves. it turns out nobody had ever actually tasked them with speaking their opinions aloud to a neutral audience. no one had ever been sincerely curious about them and their views. sure, their loved ones probably asked, "how are you doing?" all the time as a show of affection, but that's much different than, "what do you think?"

knowing what i know now, i think that's true of everyone. how many people ask you for your opinion and listen to what you have to say without speaking their opinion back to you? without judging you? how many people actively and intentionally try to understand you?

it's been over ten years since my resolution and i think i can count the arguments i've gotten into on one hand. one finger, even. it's amazing what happens when someone tries to rile you up, pick a fight with you, and your only response is, "can you elaborate on that?"

you can work someone into a very open and vulnerable state when you ask questions. they eventually run out of their usual talking points and move into the personal. when i do this, it's not like therapy; i'm not trying to help anyone. and it's not like teaching; i'm not trying to educate anyone. i just want to understand how people reach the conclusions they've come to. even after all these years of asking questions and not arguing, it still amazes me how few people in this world feel understood, and how easy it is to get them to open up when you say, "i want to know what you think."

#writing advice

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prettyboykatsuki · 5 months

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— ❈ YOU'RE SO PRETTY, BABY.

▸ prompt ; companions and their responses to being called pretty boy / pretty girl.

▸ a/n ; bit of a generic post im sorry forreal. while i was originally just going to write this for astarion i had ideas for. all the other companions.

most of the characters have a reader w a specific class or background, all varied! also spoilers for gale, shadowheart, karlach, and lae'zel.

reader / tav is always gender neutral!

▸ wc ; about 4.5k, about 700+ words per companion.

ft. astarion, wyll, gale, shadowheart, karlach, lae'zel

no minthara or halsin bc i could not bring myself to write it. but maybe later if enough people ask lol.

❈ ASTARION ;

Astarion tries his very best to find your affection for him trite, even when he knows it doesn't feel that way. It's an instinct for him, one you'll simply have to make peace with you if you're really planning on tailing him to the end of the world.

Truth be told though, he likes your generally affectionate nature. He hasn't reached a point he can admit this so openly, but the comfortable and easy way you reach for him is nice. He likes how your hands seem to stretch for him, the way you cling to his spine when you sleep in his tent and the likes.

And while he is not stranger to hypocrisy, he thinks it'd be amiss to try and bar you from calling him any pet names when he calls you so many. He's got quite a few handy. Darling is a favorite, followed by dear, and sometimes my love when he can muster up the courage to mean it instead of saying it like he's trying to perform.

You like to call Astarion by his name though, most often. He isn't exactly sure why you're so fond of it, and truthfully he's done little to consider his own name. You say it wonderfully though, tasteful and loving and soft.

Sometimes you gasp it in offense or horror or shock, other times in pleasure. Sometimes you whimper it in your sleep, groping around until your hands fist in the material of his shirt and you drag him back to you.

In any case, he's used to hearing his name. So hearing you utter the words pretty boy to him, he can't help but be a little shocked.

You're a little tipsy. A hard, arduous journey of fighting githyanki soldiers has taken a terrible toll on your normal inhibitions. You're quite flushed while you're drunk, and all the same sitting in his lap like you've not a care in the world.

Astarion doesn't mind holding you. In fact, he's thinking of all the terribly teasing things he can say to you come morning. So far, you've done nothing but mumble. It's a sudden movement, your hands clasped around his face.

"Feeling forward are we darling?" He says, like second nature. It's so reactionary it's banal, though he does have some enthusiasm since the flirtation is directed at you. Instead of your usual giggling, you stare at him with your lips parted.

"I suppose I am pretty boy," You reply, a completely foreign confidence in your voice that stops him dead in his tracks. Underneath the thick layer of flirtation is sincerity so unmistakable it almost proves to be too much "Could I ask you to keep me company?"

Astarion is, eternally grateful about the fact you don't get much more than that out of you. He spends the entire night thinking about it. You're certainly not the first to call him pretty, and that particular phrasing has been thrown to him more than once.

Yet it rings a little differently. The way you said it so tenderly, your hands stroking the nape of his neck and cupping his face. Well, it's not nothing. He can't decide if he hates it or not until the next morning comes.

Your eyes flutter open as light pours through the open part of his tent. You reach over to him with a deep sigh, engaging in some quiet morning affection when you repeat yesterdays sentiment.

"Good morning, my very pretty boy," You say - and this time Astarion is sure whatever he is feeling he has not ever felt previously "Sorry for the antics last night."

"So your memory hasn't failed you. Good to know." Astarion says back. You laugh lightly. "Your charming little pet name worried me quite a bit."

"Nothing to worry about my love." You say, warm and nuzzling into his neck likely to cool yourself from over-heating "I really do find you very pretty."

He can't help the feeling that floods his sense. He likes it even though he feels a little clingy, but perhaps there's no need to admit that.

"Oh, really, darling? How sweet you are. Tell me again, then. Just for kicks this time."

❈ WYLL ;

it's a matter of getting used to it for Wyll.

For the first month of your adventuring together, pretty boy, had been a somewhat condescending substitute for his name. Among other ones, like daddy's boy and prince. None of the pet names held any real affection.

You liked getting under his skin, after all.

You didn't get on at first, not for a long while. You're a rogue, a ratty street urchin turned mercenary who'd spent your youth climbing through the soil and mud of the Lower City's underbelly. Your words verbatim, not his. At first, your resentment for him caught him off guard, especially because Wyll prefers to keep the peace and get along with everyone. But, he had a difficult time understanding you, even with his people skills

Eventually it clicked that your resentment was less towards him, and more towards what he represents. You're a Baldurian, but one abandoned by the city and it's people. What else could the Ravengards represent if not the future you never had a chance to look towards.

It was easier after that. And Wyll had promised to himself to observe you closer. In that, he found to like you a great deal.

He's fond of pet names in general, but more fond of you lately. At the beginning of your adventure, it was a little difficult to get accustomed to your... roughness. You lack delicacy, but you're not exactly silver tongued.

Yet, you're not as cruel as you make yourself out to be. Contrarily, while you've traveled together, Wyll bore witness to only gentleness. Nothing more. The words you spoke about only doing things for coin had been clearly disproved by your countless acts of charity. Especially gentle and kind to children, and especially unforgiving to the rich and unhelpful.

Once he got used to it, there was something kind of...sweet about it. To see you say one thing and do another had it's own novelty that Wyll grew fond of you.

It was the night of tiefling party that roused his feelings. That night, he'd watched you play with the tiefling children all night, teaching them tricks of the trade.

And you'd started falling for him, too, judging by the way your usual snark was nowhere to be found.

Especially vivid is the change in your tone when you call him the same way you did before.

"We'll take a short rest for you, pretty boy." Your voice murmurs, looking carefully over his wounds while place down your own weapons "Get your spells back. Organize our things in the mean time."

He gives you look, examining your own worry before his smile stretches into one of fondness. It doesn't bother him at all, not anymore. No, lately - it sounds rather fond, and each time Wyll hears it, it does something for ego.

"No need for the concern, though I am appreciative," He says, not bothering to mask the smug quality in his voice at your change. He delights in it a little, admittedly . "I'll be alright soon enough."

You don't seem to notice, too busy wiping your blade of fresh blood, metal shiny as moonlight. "And there's no need for your heroism, Blade of Frontiers. Have some discernment about time and place."

You look up at him with your brows furrowed, and Wyll can barely help himself. "Are you worried I'll lose what's left in my appearances? I'm just telling you there's no need to trouble yourself over it."

It takes you a while to register to his words, but when it finally does - your eyes blow wide. The look of embarrassment on your face is well worth it.

"I thought you hated when I called you that." You say coolly.

"It's not so bad," He says back tenderly, staring at you "At least not anymore."

You pout a little. Wyll fights some unspoken urge to kiss you. A little longer.

"I prefer when you're acting oblivious,"

"Sorry to disappoint."

He lets his head lay on the wall behind him - reaching a hand for yours instead, trying to rest up as promised. He sees you smiling from the corner of his eye and affirms it to himself. You squeeze, soft, but otherwise say nothing about it.

Yes, lately, nothing you say could get under his skin. Even when you so obviously try.

❈ GALE ;

Gale is always the poet, never the muse.

He thought highly of his relationship with Mystra, and in many ways still does. He loved her. This much is true. He can't say for any certainty if she had loved him just as much, or at all. He wasn't the first mortal, and would hardly be the last.

But he loved her, enough to write about her and wax poetic about all that he'd lost.

When Gale examines any of his past relationship, he realizes this is some kind of pattern. Gale is good at being loving, but he does not know for certain if any of them loved him back. Or if he was loved in the way he loves - if it was anything near close. Gale had thought, at one point, it was just matter of destiny. Gale is after all, a man who bleeds with all he has.

He can't blame anyone for loving him less than when he is categorically too much. He thought that way for a long time, destined himself to never find love again or beg for Mystra's forgiveness for some new found purpose.

When you came into his life, he hadn't been sure what would come of your relationship. Certainly a brain parasite would make camp a difficult place for romance, but the two of you managed against all odds. Among all the things that Gale finds astonishing about your relationship - it's your affection for him that catches him the most off-guard.

It's a little sad, he can admit. But it's true. When you speak to Gale, your voice is always soft. It's never demanding. Before, always, there had been some kind of expectation. Gale had to be a certain way, to pour himself into someone else for the sake of it being returned.He loved. Surely he loved.

But now, lately, you love him back. Overwhelmingly. The easiness of your love makes him feel a little... spoiled. Which is embarrassing, at the stage of life he's in. He finds the whole thing tips him over the edge. The heat creeping up his neck every time he remembers. Your hand brushing against the back of his neck, cupping his face so gently.

Gale, perhaps unsurprisingly, is fond of your various pet names. All of them sound good. Make him feel important and desired. You like to call him a bookworm, sometimes you call him baby (which he really likes much more than he is ever willing to admit), and other times you settle on saying my love.

Pretty boy is new. Pretty boy is different, and makes heat crawl up the back of Gale's neck like a smitten school boy.

It has a special effect on Gale.

In between classes, spoken with your hands cupping his face as he leans on his desk. The sunlight is pouring through the large paneled windows, casting a warmth on your expression. Gale is sat on his desk, making you eye-level.

"I'm glad you've come to see me," Gale says to you first, breaking a period of comfortable silence. You're a busy person, given all the heroics. Gale finds it troublesome, despite the fact you've moved with him to Waterdeep. Your reputation precedes you "It's been ages,"

"Of course I'd come to see you, pretty boy," You hum, thumb brushing under his cheek - carefully drawing a line "You're very healing to look at."

The effect is rather immediate. As soon as the words leave your lips, spoken to him so lovingly - he unlocks a part of himself he always seems to forget about. Forgets himself in a fundamental way, the flurry of heat and euphoric sensation of adoration washing over him like water.

He gives you a look, and you laugh - pressing your thumb to his lower lip as you lean in for a kiss. "Stop pouting, will you?"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," He insists, kissing you despite him. You laugh into, warm and bubbly. For a minute, he remembers all he might've lost had he done what Mystra told him.

He's glad he's alive. To feel you.

"You very much are," You reply back, once you've managed to pull away from each other "Don't be so surprised. You've always been very pretty to me."

He blushes again, deeper, and closes his eyes.

❈ SHADOWHEART ;

You don't often communicate your feelings to Shadowheart through words.

You're something of a stoic. Of the few people in Shadowheart's past who remain by her side, many of them communicate about how surprised they are about your partnership. Shadowheart is known to be a little snarky, witty. She used to be very prickly, at the start of your adventure together - so everyone questions how you were able to win her heart.

Truthfully, Shadowheart didn't know what to make of your personality at first. There's a silence to you. Maybe she should expect this of paladin so loyal. A Paladin of Torm, the unswerving enemy of injustice and corruption. You've always been a devout person, putting action and justice over everything. She hated it at first, a natural response for a Sharran, she figures.

Once she'd left it all behind, she could no longer use it as an excuse.

Truth be told, Shadowheart had always liked that aspect of you. Your devotion spoke to something greater than your oath or even your god. You had simply believed in the world, and inadvertently in her. You saved her from herself, her parents from her fate, and then some.

Your devotion to her as a lover isn't something so different. She often thinks you would swear yourself to her if you could. For Shadowheart, your affection is akin to worship. Every morning, the animals are tended and the flower bed is damp. You wake her mother up without a start, remind her of where she is without making her feel ashamed. You're good to her father, talk to him of worldly politics at the dinner table.

She has no complaints to make about you. Your love for her is tangible, something she can reach out and touch with her fingers.

She's unused to hearing your affections, though. Unused to hearing the words.

You lay together in the darkness. You're alone tonight, the entire cabin empty. Her mother and father have gone together on an outing together, after you accompanied them into the city. You've finally returned, put the horses up in the stable, and have to come to her side.

Shadowheart likes to lay in your arms. She lets herself curl into your weight, inhales the scent of your skin - earthy and rich as you let your arm fold around her waist. She lays ontop of you today, her whole body on yours like a blanket.

She looks up at you, her her tied loosely. She can practically feel how glowy her own expression is as she examines you - sees her reflection in your irises.

You let your hand lay over her back, reaching up underneath her nightwear to lay touch her skin. She gives you a look - her smile small, sincere. Your own expression is tired from travel, but fond. You insisted on taking her parents instead of letting them go alone.

She loves you more than she cares to admit.

"You're staring." She comments blithely "See something you like?"

Normally you'd flush a little at this, silent as you kiss her forehead or cheek. This time though, you use your fingers to brush the stray hairs from her face and nod.

"Yes, pretty girl," You hum, nonchalantly. Sagely. "I really do,"

She's so caught off guard, she can't help but gape. She lifts herself slightly to stare at you in shock.

"I've never heard you talk like that. Not once while we've been together. I mean.. you've called me beautiful but," Shadowheart stumbles, a fluttery feeling in her stomach she'd rather ignore "But it's never like that,"

"I think it more often that I say it,"

"And you always think to call me that?"

"Like I said, often," You look over he carefully, before your lips pull into an easy smile "You're pretty to the point I want to tell you all the time,"

Shadowheart is scarcely embarrassed by anything. She's a practiced woman at this point in her life. It's almost juvenile the way the words effect her. It's you saying it that makes all the difference. The way you've said it that makes her squirm. She lets out a little puff of air, silent as you laugh.

"Pretty girl," You repeat, warm and gentle and laced with exhaustion "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever met."

Shadowheart tucks her face into your neck, voice as soft a murmur as the sound of her own heart rings in her ears.

"Don't make a habit of talking like that," She huffs "I already know, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to hear."

You smile brightly. "I'm glad,"

❈ KARLACH ;

Karlach adores you, utterly and completely.

She's a little caught off-guard by it. Just when she'd convinced herself she couldn't love you more, you surprise her all over again. She'd probably harbored some sort of affection for you from the start of your adventure together, when you'd gone to bat for her and make sure Wyll didn't take her head as a trophy.

Since then, though - on your journey together, she'd taken careful notice of you. And gods, she likes you. You're very different she must admit. Where Karlach is strong and fiery, you're cool and calculated. She figured that's just what magic users are like, but Gale is pretty keen on correcting this assumption. You're a sorcerer, specifically, means the whole magic thing is in your composition and not your study.

Which explained why your head isn't the books like their local wizard. She does find you to be rather charming. You're good at talking your way in and out of almost everything, and you can outwit even the cleverest people on camp. You'd think it'd make you... annoying. Or cruel. And sure, you're a little calculating - but mostly, you're sweet.

Karlach's really never met anyone like you before. Her companionship is a little limited because before the Blood Wars, she was a rag-tag kid in the street of the city. But you grew up in a noble house, learned to charm and finesse your way through everything. You know how to read situations before they've even happened.

And you always explain them to her afterwards.

You make Karlach nervous, strangely. Which is wild! When it comes to socializing, she can get along with almost anyone. You though, you always see right through her. You know when she's using her own personality as a shield, and you always know just when to intervene. Or when to say nothing, and just let her sit with you.

The day she blew up at you, after defeating Gortash - you'd handled it better than she could've hoped. You were comforting, and kind, and let her feel it out without making her feel bad. With you, she felt hopeful despite knowing that the end was probably going to come for her eventually.

With you, she thinks she could endure even the end of the world.

You're in the city now, no longer sleeping in the woods. When everyone else has gone to bed, Karlach finds you in the study, a room attached to the main living quarters.

She knocks before entering. Your voice is soft as you tell her to come in. Dressed in your comfy night clothes, your hair damp from washing up. You're bent over the desk with a furrow in your brow that Karlach finds sweet.

"Hey, baby," She asks, her heart thumping soft "Hope I'm not disturbin' your research."

"Of course not," You reply back, encouraging her towards you "I'm actually due a break."

Wordlessly, you sit up from your chair, pointing for Karlach to sit. She follows through, a little confused as to what you're doing before you plop yourself back into her lap. She throws her head back in laughter.

"Don't know what I was expecting there," She giggles, arm curling around your waist "All cozy?"

"Mm," You melt yourself into her embrace, turning to look at her. Your eyes are soft, free hand cupping her face "I'm cozy. What's keeping you up, pretty girl?"

The words catch her off guard completely, her engine flaring from the heat.

"Shit, what's with that?" She glances down at you, smiling like the cheeky fucker you are "I can't get any redder, you know? It's making my engine burn."

"You like it, no?" Your voice is smooth, smug in a way that gets her hot "My pretty girl,"

Karlach stares at you as you say it. Traces the curve of your lips, the slight arch of your brow. Asses the weight and warmth of you as you lay your legs over her lap and feels her body start to react. She didn't think it was possible to feel so complete by someone, even among the impending doom at the end of the world.

With you it fades away to nothing. Permission to want freely, she had no idea she had wanted that so bad. She had no idea she could want more when you'd already given her so much.

It's nice to be greedy. A little greed is fine, after everything.

"If you keep talking to me like that, we're going to do a lot more than just sitting, you know?" She tells you seriously.

You smile and laugh but don't deny her "Only if you say please,"

❈ LAE'ZEL ;

The Githyanki do not fall in love.

It's a fact of the culture, a mark of their honor. Love is for the soft, tender fleshed species of the material planes. It does not suit warriors, not the ruthless githyanki who spend their entire lives training the sword and learning magic. Love had always been a flimsy concept to Lae'zel. To the point she'd never thought about it or cared too. For the gith, there is only pleasure and carnal desire. The foolishness of longing can only be harbored in the lesser existence of the outer-world. The world outside of her creche.

For a long time, this was true for Lae'zel. She had never intended her time in the material plane to weaken her in the ways in which it did. Or that the experience of a ghaik parasite trapped behind her eyes would will her into cooperation with lesser beings. In many ways egregious, unfathomable. In trying to rid herself of one parasite, she'd found herself another one - more intolerable and more consuming than the first.

You. What a foreign and remarkable bond. From the beginning she had told you the truth, that the gith do not love and she would not be able to love you. Though she could admit passion, admit admiration for your courage, admit possession - she could not admit love. She knew nothing of it.

Over the course of your journey, you'd managed to prove her wrong. Slowly stripped bare of the identity she'd made her life around, you stripped Lae'zel down to her soul. Her most honored solider, and most formidable ally. When the time came, you'd told her to do what she must, to liberate her people. That you'd be there when she returned.

That you'd wait for her.

Months apart with few visits in between meant that each time Lae'zel sees you must make every minute count. Enjoying your body and indulging in carnal pleasures is only so much of that. What Lae'zel looks forward too most, she must admit, is the gentleness of your touch whenever she comes back to Fae'run.

Soft warm whispers among the indulgent plush of bed sheets and candles. A room that smells like lavender and oak, prayer books and scripture littered on the desk. A cleric of Bahamut, and a soul strong as steel.

But this, her head resting in your lap as you stroke her hair so carefully, is what she's missed most of all. No doubt she's going soft.

"Chk. You are smitten by the text in front of you as if you have forgotten of my return,"

You look down at Lae-zel with a laugh, carefully placing said book down on the bedside table. The voice you speak with her is different from her own. Tender fleshed even in your speech, you let her curl herself into you.

A vulnerable position, open to whatever may come.

"I'm sorry, pretty girl," You hum. The words practically startle her "I don't mean to neglect you. It was an interesting passage."

"Pretty...It is true among the githyanki, I am among the finest of their ranks," She replies, turning herself towards you - getting comfortable "Yet still, something stirs."

"Are you embarrassed?" You reply, delighted as her frown deepens. Before she has a chance to argue with you, you lean down to press your lips against hers briefly "How sweet of you."

"I do not get embarrassed," She insists, scowling as you begin to giggle at her "It was merely unexpected."

"You're beautiful to me, Lae'zel." You hum, stroking her cheek gently as she continues to lay herself across. Your eyes are tender and lidded. That look of obsession she recalled from the months prior returned in full, and no longer hidden. Unlike your other mortal companions, or the pale elf - there is nothing hidden in your words. No agenda "More beautiful than anyone else. At least to me. Getting to look at you so closely is a gift."

She softens, her hand gripping yours resting on her chest

"When it is over," She says seriously, a solemness to her voice "I will return to you. This I swear. Without you, the liberation of my people would be no less then a dream,"

You return her smile in kind.

"My pretty, wonderful girl," You hum. She loves you. She thinks she understands it now "I know you'll return to me, nailo. You always keep your promises."

"Yes," She says, an unfamiliar emotion overwhelming her "I will not forsake all we have promised."

The affection in your voice shakes Lae'zel to her core. Initial abrasion fades only into warmth. It's not so bad to hear, even if it is tender fleshed.

▸ a/n ; the word reader uses for lae'zel is elvish for swift winds!! reader is meant to be sort of a book worm so you do not need to picture them as a elf and more of a linguist.

this is the most substantial thing i've written in the last few weeks so commentary is very appreciated. i'd be willing to do a minthara and halsin addition to this eventually if anyone is interested!!

anyways, baldurs gate companions i love u. reblogs so appreciated !

#bg3 x reader #baldurs gate 3 x reader #astarion x reader #wyll x reader #gale x reader #shadowheart x reader #karlach x reader #lae'zel x reader #writing tag #waah. i love them all

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