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Demiurge 

It probably happens during training 

As the flower of Nazarick, you’re powers are truly limitless but getting a grasp on what you can do is what Ainz put Demiurge in charge of

“Alright (Y/n)-sama sprout wings that look like mine and go as high as you can.”

“Okay got it! Whoooooo!”

“Don’t go too far up otherwise you’ll hit the–”

BANG 

Crack

You weren’t outside

You were on the training grounds of the sixth floor 

and you've just broken and banged into the roof of the floor

Momentarily stunned you’re on your way to the ground

You’re on the level of Ainz you won’t be hurt but Demiurge still prepares to catch you

“Oooh! Oh no Demiurge are you okay?! Wait where’d you go?”

He’ll wait for you to notice 

Remaining still as a plank as you get up embarrassed

When he does get up he’ll bow his head 

“Excuse me. (Y/n)-sama.”

He teleports to his floor

Before practically destroying the place with his tale 

As he morphs into no specific monster

His servants are horrified but when the thrashing tail of his stills 

There’s a wide smile on his blushing face

He’ll return to train you and act as though nothing has happened

But for the next two weeks, his tail will randomly thrash around in trickling excitement

A Supreme Being touched him 

A Supreme Being sat on him

A Supreme Being sat on his face

Shaltear has nothing on him

“Shall we continue (Y/n)? As your designated instructor I will let nothing impede your blossoming as a true ruler of Nazarick,”

“You’re…not embarrassed at all?”

“Never. Any contact especially of something so intimate is a gift in and of itself.”

Albedo 

Shadowing her when Ainz says to becomes a common routine

helping her as much as you can though she deems most tasks unworthy of you

You learn to seek her guidance

To follow after her 

To ask her what’s the right thing to do

while Ainz is adamant about correcting her more violent or overprotective lessons there are many he misses

“Uhm A-Albedo I don’t think this is umm a normal thing.”

“(Y/n)-Sama this is for your own good! Learning to punish your subordinates for the filth that comes from their lips! Like that blood-sucking trollop!”

“B-b-b-but Shaltear betrayed all of Nazarick and attacked Ainz.”

“Remember this, my Supreme Being! Ainz has warned us all not to underestimate humans. Yet I’ve insulted them and in front of you when you asked that I wouldn’t! That is worth of punishment!”

“Uh okay but only for a little while…”

“YES! THANK YOU MY FLOWER!”

You’re slow about it 

Too slow in Albedo’s opinion 

 she’ll grab your thighs and hold you in place

She’ll sniff and drool as she bucks her hips into the air

Should anyone walk in they’ll get a knife between the eyes

When she’s done climaxed

She’ll let you stand up and drink in your embarrassed expressions

“T-thank you for the punishment, (Y/n)-sama!” 

“I-I’m going to my room!”

“I’ll join you~shortly!”

If Ainz gets any wind of it she’ll claim that it was all a lesson on properly punishing your subjects

And all you got was flustered from using force

Shaltear

During a training session, it happens 

Filling in for Demiurge she trains you on her fighting style 

Encouraging you to launch yourself in her direction for practice

But by using too much power you overshot

So instead of front ways tackling Shaltear

Your butt is on her face 

“Oh Shaltear I’m s-sorry..?”

You’re slow to speak as you hear her moan

You wonder if it’s from pain 

So you’ll get up slowly worried that she may be hurt

And her nose does appear to be broken as a blood streak trickles down her blushing cheeks

She’s shaking in excitement 

Jolting in excitement as she hugs herself moaning about something you can’t choose not to pick up

She’ll be like that for a little while 

So you should come back after a little while

Chrollo hadn't yet told you why you here, and you hadn't yet bothered to ask. He would often just laugh and brush you off when you tried to question his strange intentions, so it quickly became easier to play along with the black haired man.

"So how have you been, in all your time away?"

With how long you had spent pointedly ignoring his presence, it almost didn't occur to you that the question might be for you.

"Good, I guess? I-I haven't really been up to much." Nervously, you took in his expression, and he seemed to be content with your mild-mannered answer, though that really meant nothing with this mysterious man.

"Hm, that's good to hear. I wonder if that sweet little coworker of yours has anything to do with that?"

There was no way to help it. You tensed up so hard you may as well have flinched in your seat. Why did he know about her?

--//--

The day had marked a whole year since you last had contact with a Troupe member, and the mixed emotions you felt left you staring blankly at your computer screen once the realization set in.

Typically, no-one would bother you about this, no-one would even notice, but today seemed different.

A girl probably a bit younger than yourself, bobbing around in a bright yellow sundress that contrasted her dark skin and a sunhat with a brim that covered almost her entire body span. She floated over to your little work station, offering a sunshine-bright smile on her cute round face.

Her warmth was infectious on the chill you exuded when you spoke, and it wasn't long before the two of you were speaking outside of work, something you hadn't ever done before under the Troupe's influence.

She took you shopping, you showed her your favorite games, she helped you dress fashionably, you helped her study for her degree. It was an adorable version of equal exchange, one that you found so fulfilling in the wake of your family's absence. You helping her study quickly became you hanging out at her apartment, and then that became you playing games together, completely forgetting her studying.

Then, one day, she brought you to meet her family. They were so kind and accepting, and things spiraled quickly from there. Your 'hang-outs' in public became more frequent, and her questions about your own family became more frequent.

You couldn't fathom telling her the truth. The truth about your strange childhood in Meteor City. How you were a disabled child, with barely any sense of a fighting chance, and by some miracle, the Troupe, still children themselves at the time had taken mercy on you.

How you were some strange form of entertainment for them, as they grew in notoriety, you seemed to be a figure of stability. After they dragged you out of the slums, since you were injured by some random starting gang that had shortly been destroyed, a strange system was set up. They would randomly show up in your life, in your house, at your work, where they would stick around and pretend you were the closest of friends and family for any time they chose from an hour to several months.

But you never went more than a week without seeing them. Even when they didn't come and see you directly, you'd spot one of them lurking on a street corner watching over you, before promptly disappearing.

Which is why Tania's sweet presence in your life was so needed through the bitterness of their mysterious absence.

--//--

"S-she has a name! A-and, um, yeah, she's been really nice this past year." You internally cringed and cursed yourself for your lackluster response, but it was all you could muster in the face of the fact that Chrollo knew about her. That also didn't even begin to encompass your feelings at the calmly threatening tone Chrollo had used when he spoke of her.

"'Really nice', hmm? Do 'really nice' coworkers take on ice cream dates and hold your hand on trips to visit their family?" Now his tone was entirely accusatory, with a harsh glare directed straight into your soul.

For a moment, your fear of his irresponsible driving overtook your fear of Chrollo’s violent insanity.

"Please watch the road."

"Answer my question, YN."

"Chrollo, please, I can't think."

"Are you really going to test me over this?"

He notices several seconds too late that a turn is coming up, dragging the steering wheel clockwise so sharply you once again worried that he would slam the car straight into the mountain wall nearby. You swore you could feel one side of the car lift entirely off of the road, tossing your heart into your throat and making you choke on your own breath.

When the car had landed again, and your heartbeat still raced, though in its right place in your chest this time, you tried to piece together some thoughts that would appease Chrollo to stop fucking staring at you.

"W-we... we aren't, er, we aren't anything official." You finally blurted out something, just for the sake of saying something that would fill the buzzing air.

In response, Chrollo turned his eyes back onto the road, but before you could sigh in relief, you heard the high-pitched buzzing of the car speeding up, and you realized he wasn't taking his foot off of the accelerator, at all.

"Your 'unofficial' little friend has been trying to take you away from me. Away from the Troupe. Did you really think we would ever let that slide? You thought a year without seeing us meant you no longer belonged to us, really?" A moment ago, when he was looking at you , you had felt the telltale notes of rising anger in his voice, the choppiness and volume making you scared for the moment, but now he was speaking with the lightness and pseudo-softness of a disappointed parent scolding a child.

And you knew from experience that this was far, far worse.

But you were never very good at following cues, were you? Maybe that's why they found you entertaining.

"What are you talking about?" Your question bursts out with a sob, the stress of the road and the thief next to you finally sending you over your mental edge, "You disappeared! I waited a year, a whole fucking year Chrollo, I spent hours watching and waiting for any of you to give me a sign to show that you still even considered me a part of the Troupe!" You gasped, feeling hysterical as you clutched at your own sides while rocking back and forth, almost on beat to the rhythmic thrum of the engine.

"I hate you, I hate every last goddamn member of your fucking Troupe, but I still waited for you because that's what you wanted, but you left me for a year. What the fuck did you expect me to think?" The final words were spoken through a throaty gasp, the tears streaming down your face and sobs building in your throat finally muting your rant.

You felt sick.

There was a turn coming up. Fast.

Chrollo was looking at you again.

The turn was right there.

He didn't move, his eyes fixed on you.

His foot still down on the accelerator.

You were gonna die here. The realization can't even draw another sob from you.

You weren't on the road anymore. Your eyes were squeezed shut, you couldn't even begin to guess how high up you were, but you could bet it was enough to kill you.

And suddenly the car's not even there.

You feel the biting cold of the mountain night air on your tear-stricken face, snapping out of your angry trance and into a new one.

Beginning to piece together what was going on, you realized that you were curled up and sobbing in Chrollo's arms, one of his arms hooked under your legs, the other around your shoulders. He's standing on the curve of the road where he'd just driven off, and staring down at you with the strangest blank look in your eyes.

Moments pass. Long, cold moments of eye contact as you shiver against his impassive body.

You can hear crickets. There's running water nearby, it sounds like a small creek, only a dribble. An owl hoots somewhere deep in the forest.

The relative silence is finally broken by a loud crash, just off the cliff. The car finally colliding with the ground all the way down the mountain. You whimper in response, the first real sound you made since you finished spitting your hatred at Chrollo.

"Did you really think I'd let you die?" His voice is soft, it's hard to not find comfort in it. "I know you don't mean all that, a lot of people say crazy things when on the verge of death, I would know." He adds a light chuckle to the end of his sentence, as if it was funny. "We're meeting with the rest of the Troupe in a cabin on this mountain. I don't think they'll be quite as understanding to this.. behavior, hm?" Again, he laughs. "Originally, you were going to help us as we decided on how to get rid of your little friend. But clearly, you're not in the right state for that. We'll show you the results whenever you're ready, okay?"

He begins to pace up the road, making no move to put you down or let you move in the slightest.

The moment she saw you, she lit up, a beaming, breathless smile splitting her face. Her tail thumped excitedly against the ground, sending little puffs of dust flying, and she lurched forward with dangerous intent.

You grinned, starting forward automatically — happy, relieved—

"STOP!" Shadowheart barked, raising both hands like she was halting an angry owlbear.

You froze mid-step, one hand half-lifted in greeting. "Uh—?"

Shadowheart stormed up, water dripping from the hems of her robes, her expression done in a way you hadn't seen since Wyll tried to "fix" her armor once with a hammer.

"She's cursed," Shadowheart said flatly. She jerked a thumb back toward Karlach, who was bouncing on her toes. fangs peeking out from the wolfish grin on her face, still visibly smoking. "Lust curse. Picked it up poking around the ruins."

Your mouth opened. Closed. "...Lust curse?"

"Yes," Shadowheart looked like she wanted to strangle someone. "If she gets intimate with anyone, the curse will spread." She jabbed a finger toward you. "And she really wants to be intimate with you."

You glanced past her to Karlach, who gave you an innocent little wave and a gigantic, toothy grin. Steam rose from her hair, framing her head like a crooked halo. She gave a low, eager whuff, like a hound scenting its master. Your heart melted—and then seized with alarm as Karlach started sprinting toward you.

"No!" Shadowheart snapped, and with a violent flourish of magic, threw Karlach sideways into the river with a massive shove of divine energy.

Karlach hit the water with an enormous splash and disappeared under the surface for a long, heart-stopping second before popping up, sputtering and laughing. She shook her head like a dog, sending water flying, her tail splashing gleefully behind her.

"You—" you turned a stunned look on Shadowheart, who wiped her hands cleanly.

"Don't thank me yet," she said grimly. "You need to stay close to her, or she might explode. Literally." Shadowheart's voice dropped to a near-growl. "But no kissing and gods help you, no sex - at all."

You stared. Shadowheart stared. In the river, Karlach was floating happily on her back, trailing little plumes of steam, grinning at you like you were her salvation incarnate.

"Babe!" she called brightly. "Come in! It's nice and cool! Promise I won't even smooch ya!"

You folded your arms, fixing her with your best stern look. "You're the worst liar I've ever met."

Karlach grinned, all teeth and mischief, and paddled closer to the bank, water sloshing noisily. "Swear on my big ol' heart! Just coolin' off!"

You hesitated. Shadowheart gave you a flat look that screamed, You deal with this. With a long, suffering sigh, you knelt by the riverbank, arms still crossed.

"Karlach," you scolded. "You stay right there."

Her lower lip trembled in an exaggerated pout. "But I miss you..."

"Still nope," you said, firm.

For a moment, you thought you might have won— And then Karlach lunged, her infernal strength letting her surge out of the water like a breaching dolphin, grab your arm, and drag you bodily into the river with her.

You hit the water with a yelp and went under. Freezing-cold river water closed over your head. You flailed, resurfacing with a gasp, hair plastered to your forehead—

And Karlach was there, clutching you tightly, steaming body pressed close to yours.

"See?" she said sweetly, breathless and hot even in the chill water. "No kisses. Just cuddlin'."

You spluttered and glared at her, wiping water from your eyes. But gods, it was hard to stay mad. Her expression was so earnest, her tail a slow, lazy wag behind her in the water. She nuzzled against you, purring low in her throat.

You let yourself relax — just a little.

Karlach hummed contentedly, squeezing you closer, lips brushing over your neck. You could feel the rumble of her heart against your chest, the press of her cheek against your temple. Her hands slid lazily over your back, tracing idle patterns.

"You're so warm, well, warmer than usual," you murmured, shivering a little despite yourself.

"Only for you, baby," she mumbled, practically glowing with affection. It was almost sweet—almost safe—

Until you felt her hand slide lower. Far too low.

"Karlach—!" you warned. But she was faster. She ducked forward, caught your mouth in a searing kiss—

And the curse snapped between you like a struck match, flaring to life inside you. You reeled back, gasping, as the maddening heat took root deep in your chest, spreading outward in molten waves. Karlach pulled back just far enough to beam at you, her tail wagging furiously, steam rising from both your bodies now.

"Now we both got it!" she said triumphantly. "So no we can-"

You pushed her back, hard enough for her to resubmerge under the water. Your chest was heaving, the curse was already clawing through your veins, making your skin buzz and your thoughts slip dangerously sideways. Karlach reemerged, eyes peeking out of the water as she took in your flustered form.

"You—" you sputtered as you splashed her, "You menace!"

Karlach stood, now fully surfaced and laughed, carefree and delighted, and hugged you so tight you thought she might crack a rib.

"You're lucky I love you," you muttered into her soaked hair, heart hammering as you already began prying off her armour.

"Damn fucking right," she whispered, holding you tighter than ever. Around you, the river hissed and bubbled with the heat of two bodies who wanted nothing more than to melt into each other. Ignoring Shadowheart's screeching and Gale deciding he could wash the pots later.

Minthara:

The moment the curse hit her, Minthara changed. Gone was the cool, ruthless drow general. In her place was something furious, wild — and whining.

"This is insufferable," she spat, pacing the ruined clearing like a cat in a cage. Her armor was already half-discarded, her hair clinging to the sweat on her brow. "Fix it. Fix it now!"

You leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed, biting back a grin. "Minthara, you heard Shadowheart. No touching. No kissing. No... other activities."

"I don't care what that prissy cleric says!" she snapped, spinning toward you, her crimson eyes alight with rage and need. "You belong to me — and you are going to satisfy me!"

You laughed — actually laughed — and that made it worse. She stomped toward you, hands clenched into little fists, trembling with pent-up frustration.

"Do you think this is funny?" she hissed, standing barely a breath away, her chest heaving. "I am suffering!"

"You'll live," you said easily, though it was getting harder and harder to ignore how flushed and gorgeous she looked like this — desperate, vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be.

"I will not live," she whined — actually whined — the sound raw and furious. "I will wither away! My body is burning and you just stand there like a fool!"

Minthara tried to grab your tunic, to drag you down to her, but you stepped aside, letting her stumble slightly past you. She whirled around with a gasp of pure outrage.

"Stop running from me!" she barked. "You are mine!"

You chuckled under your breath. "You should see yourself right now. You're like an angry kitten."

"I will kill you!" she screeched — and then immediately slumped, groaning, running both hands through her hair in pure agony. "I need... I need..."

You watched her struggle, and you almost — almost — pitied her. But it was far too amusing. Minthara glared at you from under her bangs of white hair, breathing hard. Then something in her broke. Her expression shifted — determined and furious and done with your games.

"Fine," she growled lowly. "If you will not help me..."

She launched herself at you. You tried to dodge, but she caught you around the middle, shoving you against the tree with surprising strength for someone so desperate. Her mouth crashed against yours in a messy, furious kiss.

And the curse spread.

It hit you like being punched in the gut — that raw, aching need suddenly clawing under your skin, setting every nerve on fire. You gasped against her mouth, your knees buckling slightly from the force of it.

Minthara pulled back just enough to smirk, victorious, her lips swollen and smug. "Then now you suffer with me."

You growled low in your throat, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her, pinning her against the tree instead. She gasped, wide-eyed, laughing breathlessly — but she didn’t resist.

"You little brat," you muttered, pressing your forehead to hers, your hands locking around her wrists. "You just couldn't be patient."

"I do not do patience," she whispered, shivering against you. "Now take what is yours."

You did. Oh, gods, you did. And Minthara, for once, had nothing to complain about.

Shadowheart:

You were still chuckling about Gale’s lecture as you wandered deeper into the woods, a basket under your arm for the handful of herbs and berries you intended to collect.

Everything was fine, he had said. Shadowheart said she would sleep it off, he had said.

You plucked a sprig of wild mint and tossed it into the basket, trying to shake off a lingering doubt gnawing at the edge of your mind. It wasn't until the third patch of violets that you frowned, thoughts darkening.

A lust curse.

Not a fever. Not exhaustion. Not some harmless little enchantment. A curse that preyed on every base, starved desire you harbored. A relentless, gnawing thing that tortured the mind until you either gave in or went mad from the wanting.

And Gale—bless his trusting, naive heart—had taken the word of an ex-Sharran that she could just sleep it off?

You stood there, basket dangling forgotten from your hand, heart beginning to race. You turned on your heel, about to sprint back toward camp—

Too late. There was a rush of movement, a flicker of shadow—

And then Shadowheart was on you, slamming you back against a tree trunk with surprising force, arms locking around your shoulders. Your basket hit the ground with a soft thump, forgotten.

"Found you," she breathed, her voice low and velvet-thick, dripping with sultry satisfaction. Her silver hair tumbled around her face in wild disarray, her cheeks flushed a dangerous pink.

Before you could react, she ducked into the vulnerable curve of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your skin—hot, insistent, needy.

"Shadowheart—!" you gasped, hands immediately trying to push her off, but she clung to you with desperate strength.

"You don’t understand," she whispered between kisses, her body pressing closer against yours, her thigh slipping between your legs with wicked, slow friction. "I need you. I’ve needed you for so long..."

You struggled, trying to slide sideways out of her grip, panic clawing up your spine. "You’re not thinking straight—you’re cursed—"

"I am thinking straight," she insisted, lifting her head to meet your gaze. Her eyes shimmered, dark and feverish. "I’ve never thought clearer."

She leaned in, lips parting for a kiss—

You slapped both hands over your mouth, wild-eyed. Shadowheart froze, then blinked in stunned silence—and then laughed. A low, throaty sound that sent a fresh bolt of terror and heat straight through you.

"Oh, you sweet thing," she murmured, amused, a wicked glint lighting her gaze. "If you won’t let me kiss you..."

Her hands slipped lower, tracing down your chest, your stomach—

You tried to dodge, heart pounding, but she sank to her knees before you with unholy grace.

"...then I’ll just have to be more creative," she purred.

You tried to catch her wrists, tried to pull her back upright, but in doing so you moved your hands away from your mouth—

And Shadowheart seized the opportunity, surging up with the swiftness of a striking serpent to catch your lips in a deep, hungry kiss.

The curse hit you like a fist to the chest. You reeled, staggering back against the tree, gasping as molten heat roared through your veins, setting your nerves alight with agonizing, insistent want.

Shadowheart leaned into you, sighing happily against your lips, her whole body pressed tight against yours.

"There we go," she whispered, nuzzling your jaw, utterly delighted. "Now you understand."

Your muscles trembled with the force of it—the raw, gnawing need, the hunger. You clutched her, helpless to push her away now, both of you burning, breathless, utterly doomed together in the deep shade of the woods. And somewhere, far away, you cursed Gale’s trusting heart.

Lae'zel:

You found Lae'zel pacing back and forth in the clearing just outside camp, her whole body taut with restless, twitching energy, her usual ironclad composure cracking under the strain of something far greater than anger or frustration — something much more primal, much more dangerous.

The moment she caught sight of you, her golden eyes lit up with a hunger so naked and intense it stopped you dead in your tracks, the force of it nearly knocking the breath from your lungs — and not just because she looked devastating like that, all fury and longing wrapped into a single coiled body.

"You," she growled, stalking toward you like a predator, her boots kicking up little clouds of dust as she moved, "you will suffer with me."

You blinked, struggling not to laugh at the sheer affronted outrage burning off her in waves; Lae'zel was many things — proud, fierce, unrelenting — but this was something new, something almost petulant, and it was difficult to take her threats seriously when she looked one wrong word away from either tackling you to the ground or throwing a tantrum.

"Lae'zel," you said carefully, trying for calm even as amusement bubbled traitorously in your chest, "you're cursed. You know what will happen if I touch you. It'll spread."

Her snarl was immediate, low and impatient, and she crossed the space between you in three long strides, reaching for you — but the curse, while sharpening her need, had dulled her grace, and she stumbled slightly, catching herself with a furious hiss that made your grin slip out despite yourself.

She pointed an accusatory finger at you, chest heaving, armor glinting under the sun like she was some glorious, furious war goddess undone by something as stupid and human as desire.

"You!" she barked again, scandalized. "Always you wanting closeness. Always you demand soft touches. And now, when I offer, you deny me? Treachery!"

You couldn't help it — you barked a laugh, folding your arms and stepping just out of her immediate reach, savoring the way her scowl deepened to something almost childishly wounded. She was practically vibrating with indignation and unspent energy, her whole body trembling not with fear or anger, but with the unbearable, consuming need for touch she could not have.

"I’m trying to protect you," you said with a chuckle, dancing back another step as she lunged at you again — and this time she almost caught you, her fingers brushing your tunic before you twisted away, leaving her growling in frustrated defeat.

The next time she pounced, though, she was quicker — or maybe you had gotten cocky, letting your guard down, forgetting for a moment that Lae'zel was still, at her core, a creature of instinct and willpower so ferocious that even a cursed, sluggish haze couldn't slow her forever.

She tackled you bodily to the ground with a heavy thud, landing squarely atop you, her legs bracketing your hips, her hands braced on either side of your head, her face close enough that you could see the fine tremble in her jaw, the wild desperation in her gaze.

You opened your mouth to protest — to reason with her — but then she did something so shockingly tender it knocked every thought clean out of your head.

She nuzzled into you, slow and clumsy and soft, like a cat seeking warmth, rubbing her cheek against yours with little needy sounds, her body trembling with exhaustion and need and something perilously close to affection.

It was so adorable — so utterly unlike her — that for a moment you just froze, caught between horror and hilarity, unsure whether to push her off or simply melt into the moment.

"Lae'zel," you croaked, trying to push at her shoulders — but she was heavy and stubborn and clinging to you like her life depended on it, and gods, she was warm, too warm, and you could feel the heat of her skin even through the thin layers of your clothing.

She chuckled — a low, dangerous, amused sound — and before you could gather enough strength to shove her off properly, she shifted, catching your face in her hands with surprising gentleness, and leaned down to kiss you full on the mouth.

You struggled, you really did — hands scrabbling at her arms, trying to pull away — but her mouth was hot and insistent and hungry against yours, and before you even realized it, you were kissing her back, drinking in her desperation, her devotion, the way she seemed to pour every ounce of her frantic, cursed longing into you.

And just like that — the curse exploded through your veins, searing hot and overwhelming, dragging a gasp from your lips as it took hold.

Lae'zel pulled back just far enough to smirk down at you, victorious and radiant and unbearably smug.

"There," she said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable as she pinned you to the ground, her golden eyes gleaming with wicked glee. "Now you suffer too."

And gods help you — you didn’t even mind.

Not when it was her. Not when you could feel her heart hammering against yours, beating the same wild, desperate rhythm. Not when it was Lae'zel.

Jaheira:

You had been warned, of course — Gale, ever the scholar, had cornered you before you even approached the campfire, looking harried and flushed.

"It’s a lust curse," he said in a low, urgent whisper, as if speaking it aloud might make it worse. "Jaheira's been hit with it. She's lucid — for now — but you know how these things go. If you’re touched in... certain ways, it will spread to you immediately."

You had nodded solemnly, assuring him you would be careful — that you knew better than to tempt fate. But then you saw her.

Jaheira was sitting on the log near the fire, her head tilted back, the flames painting her golden-tan skin in a wild, living light. She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in a way that was utterly hypnotic, and when she caught sight of you, her lips parted slightly, her entire body almost reaching toward you without thought.

"Come here," she said, voice low, a velvet growl that made your stomach twist with longing.

You hesitated, heart hammering painfully in your chest. She was never like this — Jaheira, fierce and composed, always so in control, so sharp, was looking at you now like a starving creature denied its only salvation. It was a rare and almost reverent sight to behold her so undone, so needy, every inch of her screaming for you in a way she usually hid behind duty and pride.

It undid you.

Without thinking, you took a few steps forward, drawn in helplessly by the intensity of her gaze, the way she opened her arms in silent invitation, the promise of her touch more tempting than any spell or enchantment.

"Jaheira," you breathed, voice cracking slightly. "You're cursed—"

"I know," she said, almost laughing, a breathless, broken sound. "I know, and I do not care. Come to me."

You were close enough now to see the fine sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her fingers trembled where they gripped her knees, how every muscle in her taut, battle-hardened body was coiled and trembling with restraint. She looked utterly wrecked by want, and it was all for you.

You almost gave in right then and there, ready to throw caution and Gale’s warnings to the wind. What did it matter, when she was looking at you like that, like you were the only thing in the world that could save her?

But — somehow — reason clawed its way back through the haze.

"No," you said firmly, stepping back with an effort that felt like tearing yourself in half. "Jaheira, not like this. You're not yourself."

The look she gave you then was devastating — betrayed, furious, needy all at once, the kind of look that might have felled lesser mortals on the spot.

"You always want me," she said bitterly, pushing to her feet with a grace that was only slightly marred by the trembling of her limbs. "Always watching, always waiting for me to allow it, to put aside my duties— and now, when I offer myself to you, when I need you— you refuse me?"

Your mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but no words came. She was right — gods help you, she was right. And yet — you stood your ground, hands fisted at your sides to stop yourself from reaching for her.

Jaheira's eyes narrowed, that calculating sharpness returning to her gaze even through the haze of the curse.

"So," she murmured, stepping closer, slow and measured. "You would deny me. Even now."

She was in front of you before you could think to move, her scent — the warm, wild scent of earth and leaves after rain — overwhelming your senses. You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut like a child refusing medicine.

That was your mistake.

She moved swiftly — decades of battlefield experience turning even her cursed need into a strategic assault — catching your face between her hands and forcing you to meet her gaze.

"Look at me," she whispered, and gods help you, you did.

The kiss, when it came, was brutal — desperate, raw, full of a need that threatened to drown you both. Her mouth crushed against yours, and the moment her lips touched yours, it was like fire licked across your skin, the curse seeping into you with dizzying, searing heat.

You gasped into the kiss, hands flying to her waist to push her away — or maybe to pull her closer, you couldn't even tell anymore — as your body reacted instinctively, helplessly, to the magic flooding your veins. Jaheira groaned into your mouth, deep and triumphant, as she felt the curse take hold of you.

"There," she breathed against your lips, her hands sliding down to grip your hips, holding you tightly against her. "Now you understand."

And you did. You understood far, far too well — and you were utterly, gloriously doomed.

Gale:

When you returned to camp that evening, Shadowheart was waiting for you near the fire, her arms folded tight across her chest, her expression a strange blend of annoyance and reluctant amusement.

“He’s cursed,” she said flatly, the firelight catching on the silver of her hair.

You blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Gale,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “A lust curse. Some relic he was fiddling with while scouting. He’s managing it...for now. He’s warded himself as best he can, but—” Her sharp eyes pierced you. “If you see him, do not touch him. Do not kiss him, do not so much as hold his hand. If the curse spreads, it’ll only get worse. Understand?”

You nodded automatically, even as unease bloomed in your chest.

“He’s in his tent,” Shadowheart added, softer now. “Said he’s going to meditate. Maybe sleep it off.” She snorted faintly. “Wishful thinking, but... he’s stubborn.”

You promised you’d leave him be. You meant it. But curiosity gnawed at you, relentless. And when you approached Gale’s tent, you felt it—the heat, like walking into the heart of a furnace. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, thick with the scent of ozone and something sweeter, something more dangerous.

You hesitated at the flap. Maybe you should just...turn back. Give him space. But then you heard it. A broken, guttural noise, like a muffled plea.

Caution abandoned, you pulled the flap aside—and froze.

Gale was kneeled on his bedroll, stripped down to his briefs, the thin fabric doing little to hide the powerful, trembling tension of his body. Sweat clung to his skin, making him gleam in the dim light like some desperate, golden idol. His hands and ankles were bound with what looked like glowing, magical ropes, their light pulsing weakly as if struggling to contain him.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed cheeks. Chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. And when his eyes met yours—wide, dark, almost frantic—you saw it there, plain as day: fear.

“Stay—stay back!” he rasped, jerking against the bindings, which tightened and sparked in warning. “I haven’t—I haven’t finished the gag ward yet—please, you need to stay away, for your own good—”

His voice cracked, pleading. Your heart shattered. How could you just leave him like this? How could you not help?

Moving before you thought better of it, you knelt beside him, brushing sweat-slick hair from his forehead, murmuring soft reassurances you weren’t even sure he could hear. His skin was burning under your touch, fever-hot and thrumming with suppressed magic.

Gale whimpered—a pitiful, broken sound—and pressed into your hand like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, leaning closer. “I’ll help you. I promise.”

He shook his head weakly. “No... You have to...go...”

You hesitated. Only a moment. And that was all he needed.

The bindings vanished—mere illusion—and in a flash of desperate strength, Gale surged up, grabbing your wrists and rolling you down onto the bedding beneath him.

Your gasp barely made it out before his mouth crashed onto yours, searing and hungry. Magic ignited between your bodies. The curse bloomed through your veins, violent and overwhelming, drowning you in sudden, white-hot need.

You clutched at him instinctively, nails digging into his bare shoulders, overwhelmed by the fire roaring through you. When Gale finally broke the kiss, panting against your lips, there was a wicked gleam in his fevered eyes.

“You should have listened to Shadowheart,” he whispered, voice rough and ruined, but triumphant.

You barely registered the words. Every inch of your body was screaming for him, the curse turning every brush of skin into a shock of unbearable pleasure.

And Gale, damn him, knew it.

He dragged his hands down your sides, slow and deliberate, savoring every shudder, every desperate gasp. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, murmuring broken praises between kisses, and you melted beneath him, the last of your resistance crumbling to dust.

The thought maybe the others would hear flickered weakly at the back of your mind—but it was a fleeting, dying thing.

Right now, there was only Gale—smug, beautiful, dangerous Gale—pinning you beneath him with the weight of his body, the fire of the curse binding you together more completely than any magic ever could.

And gods help you... You didn’t want to be saved.

Astarion:

You found him in the woods, where the shadows thickened and the air grew heavy with the scent of moss and damp earth, and for a moment — just a moment — you thought he might be hurt, the way he was hunched against the base of an ancient, gnarled tree, his body shuddering like a taut bowstring ready to snap, his fingers digging furrows into the dirt as if physical grounding could somehow hold back whatever storm was raging inside him.

The moment his eyes lifted to meet yours — molten red clouded and glazed over with need so raw it almost looked like pain — you knew exactly what had happened.

A lust curse.

It clung to him like a second skin, thick and suffocating, and you could see it in the way he trembled, in the way his breath shuddered out of him in gasps, in the way his hands flexed uselessly at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn't quite trust himself to close the distance.

He rose unsteadily, every movement aching with the effort of holding himself back, and for a heartbeat you saw a flicker of the Astarion you knew — proud, beautiful, incorrigible — before it was swallowed whole by the gnawing, insatiable hunger twisting him apart.

"Ah, there you are," he said, his voice pitched somewhere between a laugh and a sob, silky and broken all at once, and though he tried to summon that familiar smirk you adored, it wilted on his lips before it could fully form, leaving him looking heartbreakingly young and lost.

You raised your hands instinctively, a futile barrier between you, trying to ignore the way your own heart thundered in your chest at the sight of him — disheveled, trembling, flushed with desperate, furious need — because you knew, more than anything, that you couldn’t allow yourself to touch him.

Not like this.

Not when you couldn’t be sure it was truly him wanting it.

"Astarion," you said softly, gently, as if soothing a wounded animal, "you’re cursed — you’re not thinking clearly — you have to fight it."

His laugh then was ragged, hollow, bitter — and something in it made your throat tighten painfully.

"Oh, darling," he whispered, dragging one shaking hand through his hair, "you think I don't know that? You think I don't know exactly what's happening to me?"

He swayed where he stood, and for a horrifying second you thought he might collapse, but he caught himself against the tree, nails raking down the bark with a horrible screech that set your teeth on edge.

"I know I’m cursed," he ground out, voice rough and low and trembling with the effort it took to speak, "but that doesn’t change what I want. It’s still you. It’s always you."

And gods, you wanted to believe him — you did believe him — but still, you couldn’t move, couldn’t cross that impossible distance, because the thought of ever, ever taking from him, using him while he was vulnerable like this, was something you couldn’t stomach.

He must have seen the resolve settle in your features, because something dark and wild sparked behind his eyes, and suddenly he was pulling out every weapon he knew how to wield — every devastating smile, every coy tilt of his head, every sinful, decadent roll of his hips as he let his hands trail suggestively down his own body in a display so shameless you would have laughed if it hadn’t been so utterly, gut-wrenchingly tragic.

He purred filthy promises, he whined with needy, broken little noises that clawed at your sanity, he even — gods help you — dropped to his knees and looked up at you through his lashes, looking so heartbreakingly vulnerable, so wrecked, that you almost — almost — faltered.

But you didn’t.

You stayed rooted to the spot, hands fisted at your sides, muscles aching with the strain of not reaching for him.

Minutes dragged by in agonizing silence, broken only by his ragged breathing, until finally, finally, something inside him seemed to shatter completely.

He slumped forward, head bowed, shoulders trembling so violently it looked painful, and when he lifted his gaze to you again, there was no seduction left — only raw, desperate pleading.

"Please," he rasped, the word tearing itself from his throat like it hurt to speak it, "please, just one kiss. That’s all I’m asking. Just — just let me have that."

You felt something deep inside you break at the sound of it — at the way he knelt there in the dirt like a man undone, stripped of all his armor and artifice, reduced to nothing but need and the desperate, terrified hope that you might still want him even like this.

You crossed the distance between you before you could think better of it, falling to your knees and cradling his face in your hands, feeling the way he leaned into your touch like a starving man would lean into the scent of bread.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, because you needed — needed — to hear him say it. You just needed him to be okay. He nodded, a tiny, broken thing, his smile trembling and radiant all at once.

"I’m sure," he whispered back, and there was something so painfully real in his voice that you knew, in that instant, that whatever the curse had done to him, whatever false hunger it had stoked, it hadn’t — couldn’t — touch the way he felt about you.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his in the softest, most cautious kiss imaginable, your lips barely brushing his, trembling with the force of all the things you couldn’t say.

For a single, precious heartbeat, it was gentle — tender — achingly, impossibly sweet.

And then Astarion made a soft, broken sound deep in his throat, and the dam broke completely.

He surged forward, grabbing you with a strength born of desperation, deepening the kiss until it was wild and messy and frantic, his hands clawing at your back like he could somehow pull you inside him, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, surrendering to the tidal wave of need that crashed through you.

It wasn’t until a sudden, electric jolt of heat tore through your body — searing and sharp and utterly overwhelming — that you remembered the curse.

You pulled back with a gasp, eyes wide, body trembling with the force of it, and Astarion — beautiful, ruined Astarion — just smiled that wicked, triumphant smile you knew so well and dragged his thumb along your lower lip, savoring the shudder that wracked your body at his touch.

"Looks like we’re both damned now, darling," he purred, his voice low and hoarse with victory and unbearable, breathtaking affection.

And gods help you — you couldn't even bring yourself to mind.

Wyll:

It all started simply enough — or so Shadowheart had assured you, half-smirking as she delivered the news.

"He's fine," she'd said casually, though there was a wicked glint in her eye that made you instantly wary. "A little... affectionate, perhaps. Nothing you can't handle. Just — whatever you do, don't let him kiss you. Or, you know. Anything worse. It'll spread otherwise."

You had rolled your eyes at the warning, already heading toward Wyll’s tent with the confident belief that you — of all people — could resist the man, no matter how charming he got.

That was before you saw him.

He was sprawled messily across his bedroll, stripped down to only his briefs, sweat gleaming across the broad plane of his chest, his dark hair damp, a sheen on his horns. His chest heaved with every breath, and his whole body seemed to hum with some deep, restless energy.

"Ah — my love," he said the moment he caught sight of you, his voice ragged, rougher than you’d ever heard it, like every word physically cost him to say. He pushed himself up to his knees in a clumsy, desperate movement, offering you the most pitifully hopeful look you had ever seen on him. "You’ve come to rescue me at last."

You froze, mouth dry, already feeling the heat coming off him like a furnace.

"Wyll," you warned carefully, hands raised like you were approaching a wild animal. "*Shadowheart said you need to rest. I'm just here to—"

"Rest?" he repeated, incredulous, dragging his hands through his hair with a laugh that was far too close to a groan. "Darling, I am dying here. Look at me." He gestured down at himself dramatically, chest still heaving, his flushed face full of pitiful earnestness. "Is this a man who needs rest?"

You couldn't help but chuckle, even as you took a cautious step back. "You're cursed, Wyll. You need to sleep it off. No kisses, no cuddles, no — whatever else you're planning."

"But my sweet heart," Wyll drawled, struggling to his feet, staggering slightly as if even gravity was conspiring to torture him, "you are all I dream of. If I sleep now, I will dream of you — and then wake even worse than I am now. Is that what you want? To leave me here, suffering?"

He swayed toward you, his voice dropping into that deep, coaxing tone he knew you were weak to, the one that wrapped around you like velvet.

"Don't you miss me?" he murmured, dark eyes hooded, voice almost a purr. "Don't you want to hold me?"

You gritted your teeth, heart pounding. "You want to hold me," you said, voice wobbling with the effort to stay firm. "There's a difference."

Wyll's grin was utterly wicked — the curse had loosened something in him, made him shameless, unrestrained in a way that was dangerously tempting.

"Semantics," he said, before lunging forward like he might actually tackle you.

You squeaked — a very dignified squeak — and dodged, making him stumble and curse under his breath. He threw his head back in pure frustration, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Gods above," he groaned, voice cracking. "You are merciless!”

"You'll thank me later!" you called over your shoulder, trying to put distance between you.

Wyll let out a sound that was half growl, half whine, and — to your horror and amusement — he just dropped like a felled tree onto his bedroll, arms splayed out dramatically. He lay there perfectly still, utterly defeated.

You frowned. "Wyll?"

No response.

You crept closer, suspicious. "Wyll," you repeated firmly, reaching out a hand to prod his shoulder. "This isn't funny—"

The moment your fingers brushed his skin, he sprang to life, faster than you could react.

"Got you," Wyll breathed triumphantly, grabbing you and hauling you bodily onto the bedroll with him.

"Wyll, no—!" you gasped, struggling against him, but he was already shifting over you, pinning you down with shocking ease, his whole body pressed against yours in a way that made your resolve crumble in an instant.

"You should've known better, my heart," Wyll murmured against your ear, voice low and filled with wicked delight. "You can't resist me forever."

You opened your mouth to retort — and he kissed you, full and deep and utterly devastating, pouring every bit of his cursed, desperate longing into it.

The moment your lips met, it was like a spark ignited between you, a magic you couldn't hope to fight — the curse latching onto you like a brand, heat flooding your veins so fast and sweet it almost made you dizzy.

Wyll groaned into the kiss, cradling your face in both hands like you were something precious and sacred, finally his to hold without restraint.

"See?" he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse with hunger and affection all tangled together. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

And you, utterly lost to him now, could only shake your head, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him closer, surrendering to the pull that had always existed between you — curse or no curse.

Because this was Wyll — your Wyll — and gods help you, you wanted him just as badly.

Halsin:

You had seen it happen — had watched from across the clearing as the old magic, wild and half-forgotten, tangled around Halsin like a web spun of sunlight and smoke, seeping into his skin with a shimmer you could almost hear, a low, hungry hum that set your own heartbeat skittering in warning.

It took mere moments before you saw the change in him: that slight, telling hitch in his breath, the way his massive frame tensed and shuddered under some invisible pressure, the normally grounded calm in his golden eyes swallowed up by a dark, glassy haze of want that struck you like a blow.

And gods, it was almost comical — almost — the way he immediately turned toward you like a moth spotting a flame, shoulders rolling, muscles flexing under his tunic as he swayed where he stood, blinking dumbly at you as if trying to process why he wasn’t already touching you.

You cursed under your breath, already stepping backward, palms raised, trying to inject some lightness into your voice despite the way your pulse roared in your ears.

"Stay where you are, my heart," you teased, summoning a quick barrier spell between you with a flick of your fingers. "You're not thinking straight — and I, for one, would prefer not to get cursed today."

Halsin made a noise in his throat — something low and almost hurt — before lurching forward, walking straight through your ward like it was smoke on the breeze. His size alone was intimidating enough, but the naked, unfiltered need rolling off him in waves made your whole body tighten in pure, instinctive anticipation.

You scrambled, grabbing the closest weapon you could find — a dull training sword, laughably useless against him — and brandished it in warning. "I mean it! Stay back! Don’t make me poke you with this thing!"

He smiled — smiled — that slow, lazy grin he usually wore only after long nights tangled together, and your breath hitched because there was nothing careful about it now, nothing restrained. This was the bear beneath the druid, the wild, relentless force that had always lurked just under his skin — and you had never been more gloriously doomed.

Still, you tried. You darted to the side, weaving illusions and sending harmless blasts of force to try and trip him up, laughing breathlessly as you ducked and rolled, tossing dirt at his feet, all the while your heart pounding wildly against your ribs.

But it was futile.

Halsin was a predator born, built for the chase, and he indulged it now with a rumbling, pleased growl, following you unhurriedly, utterly certain of the outcome, until you backed yourself right into a tree — and before you could blink, his massive hands were on you, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing at all.

"Got you," he rumbled against your ear, voice thick and syrupy with satisfaction, and you squeaked — squeaked — in protest, struggling half-heartedly against his iron grip, but it was like trying to fight a landslide.

"Halsin," you gasped, laughing helplessly as he pinned you with nothing but the breadth of his body, one big hand cupping the back of your head like you were something fragile and precious even as his hips pressed you shamelessly against the tree. "You’re cursed! You’re not thinking clearly!"

"I am," he countered, voice impossibly deep, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. "I am thinking perfectly clearly. I want you. I always want you."

You opened your mouth to argue — to remind him of the magic seething under his skin, twisting his desires into something dangerous — but it was too late. His lips found yours, hot and desperate and softer than you expected, like even now, even drowning in lust, he still couldn't bear to treat you with anything but reverence.

The curse slammed into you like a tidal wave the moment your mouths met, white-hot and dizzying, and you moaned into the kiss despite yourself, your whole body arching instinctively into his.

Halsin groaned low in his chest, as if feeling the change in you, recognizing it — and then there was no more hesitation, no more control. His hands roamed greedily, possessively, up your sides and down your back, finding every inch of you like he was memorizing it all over again, and you clung to him with equally frantic need, your own resistance dissolving into ash.

You barely registered the leaves and twigs digging into your back as he lifted you higher, cradling you with ridiculous ease, murmuring filthy, reverent things against your mouth, your neck, your shoulders — words that blurred together into a haze of heat and hunger until you weren't sure who was devouring who.

And maybe that was the curse speaking. Maybe it wasn’t fair.

But as Halsin whispered your name like a prayer and held you like a treasure he refused to let go of, you realized — curse or not — you wanted this.

You wanted him.

Always had. Always would.

There may or may not be a smut version of this in the drafts if people want it..... Hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

Gale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A battle of wits? That’s foreplay.

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

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

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

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

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

And when he truly lets go:

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

Halsin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s open about it, but never pushy.

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

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

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

Wyll

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices the little things, and they move him.

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

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

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

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

He’ll ask before crossing a boundary.

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

Even his teasing has warmth:

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t take. He offers.

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

And if you do choose him?

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

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

Rolan

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

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

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

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

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

(He has.)

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

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

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

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

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

(He was admiring.)

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

Touches are brief, careful, and loaded with tension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It slips out before he can stop it:

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

And when he finally stops fighting it:

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

Karlach:

The armor clattered to the riverbed with a muffled thud, the cold water doing little to quell the infernal heat radiating from Karlach's skin – and your own, now. You fumbled with the straps of your own soaked clothes, fingers clumsy with a need that was both terrifying and exhilarating. The curse sang in your blood, a primal symphony of desire, urging you closer, faster.

Karlach's golden eyes burned with an intensity that mirrored your own. She reached for you, her large hands, roughened from battle, yet surprisingly gentle, skimmed over your shivering form, pulling you flush against her. The contrast was shocking – the icy river water swirling around your hips, your core pressed against her fiery heat. Her touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the water's chill. You could feel the heat radiating from her, even through the soaked fabric of your clothes, igniting a fire within you.

"How I can't wait to devour you" she murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through you, sending a delicious tremor through your core.

Your own hands found purchase on her broad shoulders, fingers digging into the smooth, hot skin. You tilted your head back, offering yourself to her, and her answering kiss was immediate and devouring. Her lips were firm and demanding, tasting of fire and something uniquely Karlach.

There was no teasing, no restraint, only a raw, desperate hunger that mirrored the curse's demands. Her tongue danced with yours, a fierce, wet exploration that left you breathless and wanting more.

The river swirled around you, the gentle current a stark contrast to the tempest raging between you. Karlach lifted you, her strength effortless, and you wrapped your legs around her waist, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a world gone mad. The feel of her body against yours was intoxicating, the heat of her skin searing through your soaked clothes. Her breasts, full and firm, pressed against your own, the friction sending a jolt of pure desire through you.

Deeper into the river she strode, the water level rising with each step until it lapped at your chest. You broke the kiss, gasping for air, your breath mingling with the steam rising from Karlach's skin. Her eyes locked onto yours, pupils dilated with lust, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep within your bones, that you were completely and utterly hers in this moment.

"Here," she growled, her voice thick with lust. She positioned you against a moss-covered rock, the rough surface surprisingly welcome against your back. Her eyes raked over you, possessive and hungry, and you arched into her touch, every nerve ending screaming for release. The way she looked at you made you feel desired, cherished, completely consumed. Her gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, making you feel utterly, exquisitely feminine.

With a swift, practiced movement, she settled between your legs. The joining of your bodies was explosive, a collision of fire and ice, pleasure and pain, need and fulfillment. You cried out, the sound swallowed by the rush of the river, your nails digging into her back as you held on for dear life. Every part of you was filled with her, stretched and pleasured in a way you had never experienced before. The slick heat of her was overwhelming, consuming.

Karlach moved with a power that was both terrifying and exhilarating. Each thrust of her hips was deep, demanding, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The curse amplified every sensation, turning the world into a kaleidoscope of heat and pressure. You were drowning in her, lost in the rhythm of your bodies, the world outside the river fading into a distant hum.

"Yes," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper. "Faster, Karlach."

And she did. Her movements became more insistent, more demanding, driving you both higher and higher. You could feel the heat building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter until you thought you might shatter.

Finally, release crashed over you in a wave of pure, white-hot sensation. Your body convulsed around Karlach, your cries echoing in the night. Karlach followed soon after, her own guttural roar shaking the very foundations of the riverbank.

You clung to each other, breathless and slick with sweat and river water, the curse sated for now. The world slowly swam back into focus, the sounds of the night – crickets chirping, the gentle lapping of the water – gradually filling the silence.

Minthara:

A predatory smile stretched across your face, the curse fueling a desire to dominate that even surprised you. Usually, Minthara held the reins, but the tables had turned, and you intended to relish this.

"Oh, I will," you purred, your voice low and dangerous. "But we're doing this my way now."

Her breath hitched. The fight in her eyes hadn't completely vanished, but there was a tremor of anticipation, a flicker of something akin to fear mixed with desperate longing. You released one of her wrists, letting your hand trail down her throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath your fingertips. She tilted her head back, her sharp features vulnerable in the fading light.

"Beg," you commanded, the word rough and laced with the sudden, potent pull of the curse. Minthara’s eyes widened further, a flash of her usual imperiousness warring with the overwhelming need. For a moment, she almost refused. But then, a soft, almost broken sound escaped her lips. "

...Please." The single word was all the permission you needed. Your mouth crashed down on hers again, harder, more demanding this time. You kissed her deeply, possessively, your tongue invading her mouth, demanding and taking. Her hands, now free, clutched at your shoulders, her body arching against yours, desperate. You broke the kiss, leaving her gasping, her lips bruised and wet. Your gaze locked with hers, letting her see the raw hunger in your eyes. You lifted her slightly, positioning her against the tree so her full weight rested against you.

Your other hand didn't waste time. You roughly tore away the remaining pieces of her armor, your touch urgent. Each rip of fabric, each exposed inch of her heated skin, elicited a gasp or a whimper from her. The usual composed mask had shattered, leaving behind a raw, needy vulnerability that was intensely arousing.

Once she was stripped bare, you wasted no time. You reached out, and with a flick of your wrist and a muttered incantation, your Mage Hand appeared, hovering between you. You positioned Minthara firmly against the tree, your body heat radiating against hers. You then moved between her legs, your hips pressing against hers

Minthara's eyes widened, a mixture of shock and exhilaration on her face. You reached up, your fingers forcefully grabbing her jaw and you bit at her lips before deepening the kiss as you began to move against her. The kiss was rough, demanding, a primal assertion of control.

As you rutted against her, you directed the spectral hand to trace her body, the incorporeal touch feather-light yet incredibly stimulating. Her breath hitched, her back arching as the maage hand trailed over her cunt, teasing and tormenting her hole before slipping a single digit in. The curse had her so wet and wound up that it wasn't long before another finger was added and then another.

You watched her, your own desire spiking as she writhed under your control. The dual sensations - your forceful movements and the Mage Hand's touch - pushed her closer and closer to the edge. You felt her nails digging into your shoulders, her moans growing more desperate. You could only smirk through your own pleasure and continue

With a final, powerful movement of your hips and thrust from the mage hand, you took her, relentless and driven by the curse. Minthara cried out, her body clenching around you, her head falling back against the tree as she surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure. You continued, your pace animalistic and unforgiving, leaving Minthara writhing in blessed overstimulation until you too found release, the world exploding in a riot of sensation.

The two of you stood there against the tree, foreheads connecting as you shakily cupped her cheek and brought her face to your lips again, this time softer, soothing. Minthara smiled and kissed back, relishing in how you melted into it before delivering a quick nip to your lower lip and flipping your positions.

"Your turn now."

Shadowheart:

The heat between you was a tangible thing, a raging inferno consuming all sense and reason. Shadowheart shifted, her body grinding against yours, the friction igniting a wildfire in your core. You could feel her desire, the desperate need for release, mirroring your own, amplified and intensified.

With a groan, you sank to your knees with her, the rough forest floor a sudden, grounding reality against the wild swirl of the curse. You were both breathing heavily, chests heaving, eyes locked in a silent battle of wills that neither of you was winning.

"This... this is madness," you gasped, but even as you spoke, your hips tilted involuntarily, seeking closer contact. A moan escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't suppress. Shadowheart's lips curved into a subtle smile.

"Exquisite madness," she corrected, her voice husky and low. Her hands found the hem of your tunic, pulling it up with impatient urgency. You reciprocated, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of her armor, desperate to feel her skin against yours. You couldn't stop the soft gasps that punctuated your movements.

Clothes were discarded haphazardly, scattered across the forest floor like offerings to the lustful curse that bound you. The cool air against your heated skin did little to quell the inferno within.

You positioned yourselves instinctively, facing each other, legs tangling, bodies pressed so close there was no space left between you. The ancient trees seemed to lean in, silent witnesses to the raw, primal energy that pulsed in the clearing.

Shadowheart’s hands framed your face, her thumbs tracing the lines of your jaw, her gaze intense and possessive. Her touch was rougher now, more demanding.

"Mine," she breathed, the word a claiming brand on your soul.

You met her gaze, the heat in your own eyes reflecting the same fierce desire. Moans bubbled up from your throat, beyond your control.

"Yours," you agreed, the word a surrender and a promise.

And then, you were moving.

The rhythm was instinctive, desperate, fueled by the relentless demands of the curse. Shadowheart’s movements were forceful, grinding you against her with a raw intensity that bordered on pain and pleasure. You couldn't stop the sounds of your own arousal - whimpers, gasps, and soft cries that echoed through the silent woods.

Her hands moved over you, exploring, caressing, demanding. She traced the curves of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, her touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You arched into her, your moans growing louder, more insistent.

Your own hands found her waist, her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, seeking a deeper connection. You were lost in the sensation, the feel of her skin against yours, the taste of her on your lips, the scent of her filling your senses. Every nerve ending was on fire, and you surrendered to the pleasure, the sounds of your ecstasy echoing around you.

The world narrowed to the two of you, entwined and desperate, seeking solace and release in the depths of the forest. The curse had taken hold, pushing you beyond the limits of reason, but in each other's arms, there was a strange, twisted comfort.

Release finally shattered over you, a wave of pure, white-hot sensation that left you both gasping and trembling. You clung to each other, bodies slick with sweat, the forest floor a soft cushion beneath you. The curse still thrummed between you, but for a moment, you were both suspended in a state of exhausted bliss, the world outside fading into a distant hum.

Lae'zel:

The world dissolved into a haze of heat and sensation. Lae'zel, usually so controlled and precise, was a whirlwind of raw need. Her hands, which typically wielded a blade with deadly efficiency, now roamed over you with a desperate tenderness that was both unfamiliar and utterly captivating. You usually saw her as fierce and боевой, all sharp edges and focused intensity. This softer, more vulnerable Lae'zel, driven by a force she couldn't control, was a revelation.

She shifted, her weight pressing you deeper into the soft earth, her body molding against yours with an urgency that stole your breath. Her kisses deepened, no longer tentative but demanding, her tongue exploring your mouth with a thoroughness that left you breathless and aching. But even as the kiss deepened, she seemed desperate for more, her lips never leaving yours for long, as if she couldn't bear the separation, even for a single breath.

Your hands, which had been pushing ineffectually against her, now clutched at her, fingers digging into her back, holding her as close as possible. You were lost in the feel of her - the solid strength of her, the unexpected softness beneath the rigid planes of her body. Every moan and gasp that escaped your lips seemed to fuel her further, driving her to a fever pitch.

She broke the kiss, her golden eyes blazing down at you, her face a study in concentration, but only for a fleeting moment. She moved slightly, positioning herself between your legs, her hips grinding against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through you.

You arched into her, your own hips meeting hers, the friction building with each press. Her lips followed yours, her mouth hungry and demanding, stealing every breath you had.

"Yes," she growled, the word a rough demand, her voice thick with lust. "Like that. Again. Kiss me."

Her hands found your breasts, her touch surprisingly gentle as she kneaded and stroked, her thumbs circling your nipples, drawing sharp cries from you.

You were beyond coherent thought, lost in the sensations. You had never felt so completely possessed, so utterly consumed. Her lips never left yours as she did this, her body moving with a growing urgency.

You moved against her, your own rhythm matching hers, desperate for release. You were dimly aware of the forest around you, the soft earth beneath you, the ancient trees standing as silent witnesses to your passion.

But it was just the two of you, bound together by the curse, surrendering to a desire that was both terrifying and exhilarating. Lae'zel's need for constant lip contact was a driving force, her mouth never leaving yours for more than a second, her breaths mingling with yours in a hot, desperate exchange.

The release, when it came, was explosive. A wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashed over you, shuddering through your body, leaving you weak and trembling. Lae'zel followed soon after, her own cries mingling with yours, her body clenching around you in a tight embrace. And even in the aftermath, her lips sought yours, her need for that connection insatiable.

You lay beneath her, chests heaving, hearts pounding in unison. The curse still thrummed between you, but for a blissful moment, you were simply two beings, connected in the most primal and intimate way possible, the unfamiliar tenderness of Lae'zel's touch and her desperate need for your lips lingering on your skin like a brand.

Jaheira:

The moment the curse took hold, the last vestiges of your resistance crumbled. A matching fire ignited within you, mirroring the desperate need in Jaheira’s eyes. Her grip on your hips tightened, pulling you flush against her, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around her neck, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a suddenly chaotic world of pure sensation.

Her kisses grew more frantic, more demanding, her tongue plunging into your mouth, tasting and claiming. You met her urgency with your own, your body arching against hers, every nerve ending screaming for contact. The years of unspoken longing, the carefully maintained distance, shattered in the face of this shared, overwhelming desire.

With a low growl, Jaheira shifted, her hands leaving your hips to tear at the fastenings of your clothes. You reciprocated, your fingers fumbling with the buckles and straps of her armor, driven by a primal need to feel her skin against yours. The campfire cast dancing shadows on your intertwined bodies as garments were discarded in a flurry of desperate movement.

Once bare skin met bare skin, the intensity escalated. Jaheira’s hands roamed over you, possessive and sure, her touch igniting sparks wherever she made contact. She cupped your breasts, her thumbs teasing your nipples until sharp cries escaped your lips. You tangled your fingers in her thick, blonde hair, pulling her closer, desperate for the feel of her mouth on your skin.

She obliged, her lips leaving yours to trail down your neck, across your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her teeth grazed your skin, sending shivers of pleasure mixed with a wild urgency through you. You moaned, your body trembling uncontrollably as she paid homage to every inch of you.

You, in turn, explored her powerful, battle-hardened body, your hands tracing the lines of her muscles, the curve of her spine, the tautness of her stomach. The years had etched a map of strength and resilience onto her skin, and you reveled in every contour.

Jaheira shifted again, her leg sliding between yours, the intimate contact sending a jolt of pure sensation through you. You gasped, your hips lifting instinctively, seeking a deeper connection. She met your movement, her own desire a palpable force.

"Tell me what you want," she commanded, her voice rough with need, her eyes burning into yours.

The curse had stripped away all pretense, all hesitation.

"You," you breathed, the word a raw admission of the longing you had held in check for so long.

And Jaheira obliged. She took, and you gave freely, the shared curse a catalyst for a passion that had always simmered beneath the surface. Her movements were both fierce and tender, her experienced touch knowing exactly how to drive you to the brink of ecstasy. Each caress, each kiss, was imbued with a desperate need that mirrored your own.

The sounds of your passion echoed in the quiet clearing – your ragged breaths, her low growls, the soft slapping of skin against skin. You were lost in the sensation, the world outside the circle of firelight ceasing to exist.

The release, when it finally claimed you, was shattering. You cried out, your body convulsing around her, clinging to her as the waves of pleasure washed over you. Jaheira followed, her own release a primal roar that shook the very air around you.

You lay entangled, breathless and slick with sweat, the embers of the campfire mirroring the lingering heat between you. The curse had taken hold, but in its wake, it had unleashed a fierce, unbridled passion that had been waiting for its moment. And in that moment, with Jaheira’s arms wrapped tightly around you, you knew that you were both utterly, gloriously lost in each other.

Gale:

The gentleness you were accustomed to from him was gone, replaced by a raw, demanding hunger that thrilled and terrified you in equal measure. He moved against you, his body a hard, insistent presence, his hands roaming with a possessive urgency.

He tore at your clothes, the fabric ripping easily under his suddenly forceful grip. You helped him, your own movements clumsy with need, desperate to feel his skin against yours. The dim light of the tent flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls as you shed the last of your inhibitions.

When you were both naked, he loomed over you, his eyes burning with a dark intensity. He braced his hands on either side of your head, gazing down at you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

"Gods, you're beautiful," he rasped, his voice rough and unfamiliar. "So beautiful. Mine."

Then, he moved lower. His mouth trailed down your throat, his teeth grazing your skin, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. He lingered at your breasts, his tongue circling your nipples with a hot, wet insistence that made you arch beneath him, your back bowing off the bedroll.

"Perfect," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "You feel so perfect."

His hands found your waist, lifting you slightly, positioning you for his entry. You were open to him, vulnerable and aching, every part of you thrumming with anticipation. He paused, his gaze locking with yours, a silent question passing between you. You nodded, your eyes half-closed, your lips parted in a soundless plea.

He entered you slowly, stretching you, filling you completely. You cried out, the sound a mixture of pain and pleasure, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his face contorted with a mixture of lust and something that looked almost like reverence.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "I can't believe you're mine."

Then, he began to move.

It was rough, it was deep, it was everything you had never experienced with him before. Each thrust was powerful and demanding, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You met him thrust for thrust, your hips bucking against his, your moans echoing in the confined space of the tent.

"Yes," he panted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

He couldn't seem to stop praising you. With every thrust, he whispered your name, telling you how incredible you felt, how perfect you were, how much he needed you. The words were like fuel to the fire, driving you both higher and higher.

"You're driving me insane," he growled, his hands gripping your hips, his pace quickening. "I'm going to—"

His release was a raw, guttural sound, a primal cry of possession and ecstasy. You followed soon after, your own climax a shattering wave that ripped through you, leaving you weak and trembling.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy but welcome. You clung to him, your bodies slick with sweat, your hearts pounding in unison.

The curse had transformed him, unleashing a side of him you never knew existed, a side that was both terrifying and exhilarating. And as you lay there, breathless and sated, you knew you would never be the same. Or at least your sex life would never be the same.

Astarion:

You deepened the kiss, your hands moving to cup his face, ensuring he felt cherished, even in this heightened state. His response was immediate, a needy groan that vibrated against your lips. You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze.

"I want to make this good for you," you said, your voice firm, ensuring he understood your intention. "Only what you want."

He searched your eyes, a flicker of his usual guardedness before it melted into raw need. "All of you" he rasped.

You smiled, a genuine, tender smile. "Then let's start there."

You shifted, positioning yourself to kneel before him. His breath hitched as he realized your intent. You took him into your mouth, your movements slow, reverent, focused entirely on his pleasure.

While you did, Astarion conjured a Mage Hand. The spectral hand hovered near you, its touch incredibly stimulating. It traced patterns on your clit, teasing and tantalizing, mirroring the sensations you were creating for Astarion.

The combination of the physical and the ethereal was almost overwhelming, pushing you both closer to the edge. His hands clenched in your hair, his body trembling, but he made no move to direct you, trusting your touch. You varied the pressure, the rhythm, your gaze never leaving his, ensuring he was enjoying every sensation.

As you continued, his breaths grew more ragged, his sounds more desperate. He was close.

He pulled you away gently, his hands framing your face, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart pound.

"I want to be inside you," he said, his voice thick with need and a surprising vulnerability.

You nodded, your own desire a mirror of his. You shifted, positioning yourself to receive him, your body aching for that connection.

He moved over you, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you time to adjust. He entered you, filling you completely. You cried out, the sound a mixture of pleasure and relief.

He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his gaze locked with yours. Then, he began to move, his thrusts deep and powerful, driving you both towards the edge. You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in perfect rhythm, the shared pleasure eclipsing everything else.

"You're incredible," he breathed, his voice a husky litany of praise. "So beautiful. So perfect."

You arched into him, your own release building, the world narrowing to the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of his ragged breaths, the sight of his face contorted in pleasure.

"Astarion," you gasped, your body clenching around him.

He tensed, his own release imminent. He gave a raw, guttural cry, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding. You met him with equal fervor, your bodies moving in perfect harmony.

The release shattered over you both, a wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy that left you trembling and breathless. You clung to each other, the forest fading into a distant hum, the curse momentarily forgotten in the aftermath of pleasure.

Wyll:

The kiss deepened, becoming less about persuasion and more about possession. Wyll shifted, his weight pressing you further into the soft bedroll, his body heat searing through your clothes. He moved with an unhurried confidence, a stark contrast to his earlier desperation. His hands, which had been framing your face, now roamed lower, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips. The contact was electric, sending shivers of anticipation through you.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with lust and a possessive undertone that sent a shiver down your spine. He broke the kiss, his gaze intense and unwavering, pupils dilated with desire. "Mine."

Then, he began to move, his hips grinding against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that left no room for doubt about his intentions. He was taking you, here and now, curse be damned. And you, caught in the intoxicating heat of the moment, found yourself unable to resist the raw, primal hunger in his eyes. His movements were a blatant claim, a sensual assertion of ownership that both thrilled and terrified you.

His charming banter didn't disappear entirely, though it took on a decidedly more carnal edge.

"Gods, you feel incredible," he'd rasp as he thrust deeper, his words punctuated by sharp inhales and the sounds of skin on skin. "Like coming home. Like… the only place I want to be."

He punctuated his words with bruising kisses, his lips leaving a trail of dark marks down your neck, each one a searing reminder of his touch. These weren't gentle pecks; they were hungry, demanding bites that claimed your flesh as his own. The marks were a deliberate display, a possessive branding that left no question of your intimacy.

The possessiveness was a new, thrilling facet of Wyll. It was as if the curse had stripped away his usual layers of decorum, revealing a primal hunger that had always been there, lurking beneath the surface. His hetechromic eyes burned with an intensity that spoke of a deep-seated need to possess, to dominate, to make you his in every sense of the word.

"Wyll," you gasped, your own desire escalating with each thrust, each possessive mark. Your breath hitched, your body arching to meet his.

He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin, sending tremors of pleasure through you. "Yes, my heart?"

"Harder," you managed to choke out, the word barely audible, a plea and a command all in one.

His answering smirk was pure male dominance. "As you wish."

And he did. He drove into you with increasing force, his movements powerful and demanding, bordering on rough. The earlier desperation had been replaced by a focused, unwavering intent.

He was staking his claim, branding you with his touch, his taste, his very essence. He'd grip your hips, lifting you slightly to control the depth and angle of each thrust, his power absolute.

The world narrowed to the feel of his body against yours, the sound of his ragged breaths mingling with your own whimpers, the possessive marks he was leaving on your skin.

You were his, and he was making damn sure you knew it, imprinting himself on you with every forceful thrust, every carnal word, every possessive touch.

Halsin:

His mouth left yours to blaze a trail down your throat, his teeth nipping gently at your skin, eliciting a gasp that quickly turned into a moan. He supported your weight effortlessly, his powerful thighs a cradle against the rough bark of the tree. With a primal groan, he shifted, his knee nudging your legs apart, positioning you with a certainty that spoke of instinct rather than reason.

You were open to him, vulnerable and aching, the sudden urgency of his touch igniting a fire in your own loins. He paused, his golden eyes, still glazed with that potent hunger, locking onto yours. "Are you sure, my heart?" he rumbled, the question a low vibration against your skin.

You nodded fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, pulling his head down for another searing kiss.

"Now, Halsin," you breathed, the word a desperate plea.

He needed no further prompting. With a guttural roar that echoed through the quiet woods, he thrust into you, filling you completely. The force of his entry slammed you against the tree, the rough bark digging into your back, but the discomfort was instantly overshadowed by the intense pleasure of being filled by him, truly filled by him, in a way that transcended your usual tender intimacy.

He began to move, his hips grinding against yours with a hard, relentless rhythm. Each thrust was deep and powerful, stretching you, taking you further and further into the intoxicating sensation. You cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, clinging to him as if he were the only anchor in a storm.

"Gods, you feel good," he groaned, his voice thick with lust and exertion. He braced his hands on either side of your head, his gaze possessive, devouring you. "So tight. So hot."

You bucked against him, meeting his thrusts with a desperate urgency of your own. The primal nature of the act, the hard wood against your back, the raw, untamed hunger in his eyes, all combined to create a sensation that was both exhilarating and slightly terrifying.

A flicker of worry crossed your mind – the bear. What if the curse twisted him further?

As if sensing your unease, he paused, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged.

"No shifting, my heart," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly lucid amidst the haze of lust. "I want all my human senses to experience you. Every touch, every sigh, every shudder."

His words, raw and possessive, banished your fear, replacing it with a surge of pure desire. You tightened your grip on his hair, urging him to continue.

He obliged, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming deeper, more insistent. He braced one hand against the tree beside your head, the other sliding down your abdomen, pressing firmly just below your navel. You gasped as you felt his fingers dig slightly into your flesh, a possessive mark that sent a shiver of pure sensation through you.

He watched your face intently as he thrust, a dark, almost predatory smile spreading across his lips as he saw the subtle bulge his movements created in your lower belly. It was a primal display of dominance, a visual confirmation of his possession, and it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

"Mine," he growled, the word a possessive claim that echoed in the stillness of the woods. He continued his relentless assault, his gaze fixed on the evidence of his penetration, the slight distension of your abdomen a visible testament to your joined state.

The intensity built, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You cried out, your body convulsing around him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Halsin roared his own release, a primal sound that shook the very trees around you, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into you, hard and deep against the rough bark.

Even as the waves of pleasure subsided, he held you tightly against the tree, his breath hot against your neck, his hand still possessively pressed against your lower belly. The curse might have ignited this raw, untamed hunger, but the possessive gleam in his golden eyes felt undeniably, thrillingly real.

damn is it hot in here or what? I hope you guys liked this, I get much more writer's block with smut which is why I don't write it as much so I hope you guys enjoy this!! - Seluney xox