Nerds Welcome

Angst: 💧

NSFW: ❤️‍🔥

Marvel

Moon Knight

Moon System NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

Moon System Pretending to be Your Boyfriend

Moon System Giving Gifts

Doctor Strange

Dating Stephen Strange Headcanons

The Hobbit

Thranduil

Thranduil NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

Thranduil x Monarch! Love Interest pt.1

Thranduil x Monarch! Love Interest pt.2

Being Thranduil’s Closest Friend/Confidant

The Witcher

Jaskier x Noble! Lover Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

Jaskier NSFW mlm Drabble ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Chronicles of Narnia

Prince Caspian mlm drabble ❤️‍🔥(ish)

Baldur’s Gate III

Rolan

Gone Again pt.1 💧

Gone Again pt.2 💧

Gone Again pt.3 💧

Rugan

Tav as Rugan’s Ex-Spouse Headcanons

Star Wars

Poe Dameron NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

Dune

Leto Atreides I

Leto Atreides NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

House of the Dragon

Aemond Targaryen

Aemond NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Lyonel Baratheon

Lyonel NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

Making Lyonel Mad NSFW Headcanons ❤️‍🔥

Ser Duncan the Tall

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-Everything with Lyonel is a dance, a spar.

-There is nothing he hates more than being bored. It sits under his skin and makes him restless, needing to expunge it somehow.

-It’s a self destructive tendency he has; when something is going too well, he can’t help but prod at it to see if it will give.

-It’s infuriating at first, until his partner realises that there is no malicious intent behind it. He wants to play.

-But grown men are not allowed to play without some measure of teeth.

-When they stop ignoring his prodding and start answering it instead, he’s both surprised and delighted.

-That is, until he discovers just how good they are at getting under his skin.

-They seem to know exactly what to say and do to make his blood boil, and he loves them for it. Even when it makes him want to bang his head against a wall, he loves them for it.

-The anger is real, but Lyonel’s nature is mercurial. He can go from being furious to jubilant in mere moments.

-Or, more likely, from furious to incredibly horny.

-Biting words become biting, heated kisses in the closest thing to ‘privacy’ that’s available.

-Clothes are pushed aside, Lyonel’s hand slipping down the front of their waistband to set his fingers to work.

-“You…are the bane of my fucking life,” he growls breathlessly in their ear as his free hand cradles them close.

-If he’s particularly overwrought, he will find the nearest surface to push them against and find the quickest way to get his head between their thighs.

-His hands grip their legs tight enough to leave bruises, his dark eyes looking up at them hungrily as they fuck his mouth.

-If there’s time, or more than a fifty percent chance they won’t get walked in on, he’ll bend them over at the waist and pound into them like a man possessed.

-He will cover their mouth with his hand to stifle their moans and cries, whispering filthy things in their ear.

-“You drive me mad. When we get back to our bed, I will take you apart until you can’t fucking walk.”

-When it is done, Lyonel kisses their cheek as a silent apology for any roughness, then smacks them firmly on the ass to let them know that they’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.

-If there is a bed immediately available, however, he loves seating them astride his lap and fucking them that way.

-He can reach everything; their ass, their hair, their chest; burying his ire against and inside their warm body.

-Being Lyonel’s lover isn’t for the faint of heart, and it can be incredibly trying at times.

-When he loves, he loves fiercely.

—————————————

-Honestly whoever he’s with, it isn’t just gonna be a one night thing.

-Dunc is loyal, and honestly I think he’d feel a bit used if he slept with someone and then they walked away

-Because gods know it wouldn’t be him walking away

-The first time, he would go to many lengths to make it as perfect as he can

-He’s very aware that he’s covered in dirt a lot of the time, so he would curry favour with Lyonel in order to get himself somewhere to bathe (and a bed for the night)

-Imagine him in a bath that’s much too small for him, limbs hanging out over the sides, twisting and turning to try and get himself clean

-After he’s clean, he’d wait awkwardly on the bed, nervous as all hell and fiddling with the sheets

-That nervousness would only get worse once his partner appeared

-Dunc is gentle; a little bit too gentle at first, but with some encouragement from his partner he’d stop treating them like they’ll break

-But he’s very aware of his size and strength, his grip strong but never rough, never putting his full weight on them

-I could see him bottoming for someone he’s been with for a while, but for someone he’s only just met the idea would make him !!!alarmed!!

-This man couldn’t talk dirty if his life depended on it, but when his partner does something he likes he makes the softest little sounds and gives them the most adoring smile

-His sincerity makes up for it

-The first time I don’t think he’d last very long. If he’s not a virgin, it’s been a long while

-He’d get all flustered and apologetic

-Once he’s more comfortable with his partner, he’d be more open to exploring what they both like

-He’d need practice to learn how to use his fingers and tongue properly, but he’d be determined to get good at it

-His favourite position would be having them in his lap so he can wrap his arms around them and hold them

-He also loves licking and sucking on nipples, I don’t make the rules, he just does

-He’s strong enough that he can just lift them up and down in his lap once their legs get tired

-Needs to cuddle after because he gets emotional gets cold, which usually ends up with his partner having a big ol’ Dunc arm or leg resting over them once he’s asleep

-Sleeps like a baby after sex, and somehow snores less??

-Making love against a tree is one of his favourite things when a bed isn’t available (which is most of the time)

-But he won’t do it anywhere near the horses, he doesn’t want them watching

-Oh you know this man is passionate in bed

-Lyonel isn’t the type to have sex half-heartedly

-He’s more dominant when he’s the one receiving, because he’s competitive

-Which means that when he’s on bottom, he’s a power/bossy bottom

-“If you’re going to fuck me, put your fucking back into it!”

-He’s more submissive when he’s on top, though he’d never admit to that

-It’s in the little things, like how he loves getting his hair pulled when he’s on top, and how he admires the marks his partner leaves on his neck and shoulders

-“You scratched me up properly - are you a human or a cat?”

-He’s a very vocal top, moaning and cursing in his partner’s ear

-Always likes to have his body as close as possible to theirs. He likes the warmth, the way he can hear and feel everything

-While sober-ish, aftercare isn’t really his forte, the most anyone is likely to get from him is a quick clean up and a kiss on the head/smack on the ass

-But when drunk, he’s a real cuddlebug after sex. Good luck to anyone trying to extricate themselves from his arms, they ain’t going nowhere

-His dirty talk is more of a stream of consciousness, especially if he’s had a lot of wine

-One moment it’s; “you feel so fucking good, that’s it, fucking scream for me”

-The next he’ll stop what he’s doing for a moment and murmur; “did I leave my coat in the fucking tent?”

-He swears a lot, a LOT

-It’s constant

-If he has a whole evening where he knows he won’t be interrupted? Edging

-He absolutely loves edging his partner until they’re squirming and writhing and begging

-If they let him tie up their wrists, even better

-He won’t stop until they’re shaking, and then he will fuck them into bed until they forget their own name

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the second time in three months, Rolan was stood before the broken body of someone he admired.

Or -in this case- had once admired.

When he had finally entered the city of Baldur’s Gate, it had felt as if an iron vice had been pried off of his chest. Like he could breathe at last. Yes, the Steel Watch were unnerving, but nothing compared to the Shadow Curse. He could live with the prickle of unease if it meant that they were all finally safe.

And yes, the people of the city had given him suspicious stares and muttered scornfully towards his siblings. It wasn’t something that they were unused to.

Again, he’d swallowed the churning in his stomach and plastered on a smile for Cal and Lia. Because everything was fine - it had to be. After coming so far from home, after each awful turn, it had to be.

It hadn’t been until the first time that Lorroakan’s fist had slammed into his cheek and sent him sprawling that he’d realised the truth; the nightmare had never ended. Not for him.

And it was that, not the pain, that had him fighting back tears as he’d picked himself up and kept his eyes down.

A rabbit. He’d thought of that after one night when Lorroakan, drunk, had landed a blow that cracked something wetly and left a dull pain in his side that grew sharp when he breathed too deeply. He’d laid in bed with his arm curled around himself, and he’d thought of a rabbit.

A rabbit, gnawing at its own leg to escape a hunter’s trap. The snare would tighten, the fur matting with blood, but at last it would be free. Then, limping desperately to shelter, it delivers itself straight into a fox‘s den.

The image had made him laugh wanly, then hiss through his teeth as the movement stabbed his insides. He had managed to rest enough to cast a healing spell on himself the next day, but he had never forgotten.

‘Keep your head down, rabbit,’ had echoed through his mind every time he saw that searching gleam in Lorroakan’s eye, ‘let the fox nip at your heels, so that it stays away from your neck.’

Yet now that he saw Lorroakan sprawled out on the floor -back twisted at an odd angle, jaw hanging open and dishevelled red hair splayed about his head- Rolan allowed himself a small, twisted smile.

“Not so much a fox as a pup,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

The voice at his side gave him a start. He looked up from the body and into the eyes of his hero - when had he started thinking those words with fondness rather than bitterness?

Their eyes still had a trace of the fury he’d seen before - when they had come to Sorcerous Sundries, when the light had caught his face and revealed the purpling bruises on his cheek.

To say it had taken his breath away would be a disservice. Seeing the thrumming, boiling rage darkening their face and realising; it’s you. Of course it’s you.

Perhaps he should have felt ashamed - here they were once again, swooping in to save his sorry hide. But he hadn’t the energy to even pretend at pride.

And, it dawned on him as he looked at the shadows on their face, neither did they. Yes, the rage still smouldered in embers, but the fire was starving.

The truth struck him as true as any spear or arrow; *you can’t keep going much longer, can you?*

Rolan’s eyes found a trickle of wet crimson, barely concealed by the cuff of their armour.

“You’re hurt,” he said softly.

They barely gave a glance, shaking their head and stretching their lips into a poor imitation of a reassuring smile.

“It’s nothing.”

Nothing - it probably was nothing. They’d been through worse, and he knew that from first hand experience.

The image of them lying lifeless on the floor of Last Light Inn seized him, and before he could stop himself his hand shot out and grasped their uninjured arm.

“You’re bleeding,” he replied, his voice sounding stronger than he felt, “it isn’t nothing.”

Their eyes focused, widened in surprise, on his fingers - but they made no move to pull away.

“I have no more potions,” they murmured.

“And I have no more energy for magic,” Rolan countered, his tail swishing slightly with impatience, “but we can make do. I’m sure that there’s something of use in this tower.”

When they hesitated still, Rolan cast a desperate look to Karlach, who had stopped wiping her axe blade to listen to the conversation.

“We’ll be fine,” she said quickly, “we can survive without you for an evening.”

“Speak for yourself,” the white-haired elf drawled, only to receive a swift kick in the shin; “Ow.”

Rolan watched a smile - a real one, tired as it was - break out over his hero’s face, their shoulders dropping.

“Fine,” they conceded at last, eyes softening when they met his own. Rolan’s heart jumped, heat climbed up the back of his neck and into his ears.

“Right. Good,” he coughed, “come on.”

As he led them away from their companions, they still made no move to pull their wrist from his grasp. In fact, they turned their arm over so that they could hold him in return. Their hand was strong and gentle, and even through the singed sleeves of his robe his skin rose in goosebumps to meet it.

It was unspoken - a silent moment that had his stomach warmly dancing; at least, it was silent until he caught Karlach out of the corner of his eye, sending both of them a horrifically unsubtle wink.

“Haularake,” he cursed through gritted teeth. Soft laughter bubbled behind him.

“Don’t mind Karlach. She’s…well, Karlach.”

Rolan couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t either irritable or idiotic, so he squeezed their forearm and held his tongue. His mind was spilling over, but the loudest peal of all was ‘finally alone’ - despite knowing full well that there were things he should care far more about.

Oh well. Prioritising had never been his greatest strength.

————

The room that he led them to was a small, enclosed bathroom on the west side of the tower. It was not as spacious as the main wash room, but it was more than comfortable enough for two -or even three- people. There was a single circular window that the setting sun shone through, and the places where the light didn’t touch were illuminated warmly by the golden chandelier above.

“There should be something in here,” he said as he closed the door behind himself and sealed them away from the rest of the world, “I come in here to lick my wounds. Or…I used to, I suppose.”

They gave him a pinched look as they perched on the edge of the cream coloured claw foot bathtub.

“Oh, please don’t look at me like that. You know I can’t bear to be pitied,” he gently chastised.

“I’m not pitying you. I just…if I’d known how he was treating you, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”

Rolan scoffed, tail flicking in displeasure. They were being sincere, and he knew it - he hated it.

“I admit I do not know you as well as your companions do, but I’m sure that they would agree that no one could accuse you of wasting time.”

They looked down at their hands. Whatever wound was hidden under their sleeve was steadily dripping blood onto cerulean blue tile.

“I don’t think that’s always true,” they whispered, so quietly that he had to strain to hear. Quiet settled heavily over the room, like a world encased in snow, as their eyes emptied before him.

It was too much. It reminded him too starkly of-…

A cold shiver passed down Rolan’s spine. He abandoned his search and turned on his heel, marching over to them and falling to his knees. The hard floor sent a jolt up his thighs, but he bore the pain no mind.

“Stop,” Rolan whispered, taking both of their hands in his own. One of them was slick and warm, the other rough and trembling.

“You’ve already done more than enough. More than anyone had any right to ask of you. I know - I know,” he said to their pointedly arched eyebrow, “I’ve given you shit about ‘playing the hero’ before. But I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong.”

He squeezed their hands tighter, dared to draw a little closer.

“I am sorry. I never got the chance to say it. I was frightened and drunk, and not thinking clearly. I said that you were putting heroic ideas into their heads - I know them better than that. I never imagined that you would…”

Rolan hesitated. He struggled to speak of it even now, but he knew that he must.

“If I’d known you would run off and get yourself killed, I wouldn’t have said those things.”

Their face gave nothing away - meeting his eyes for a moment and then glancing away. Their expression shifted constantly; one moment stalwart, the next faltering. As much as he longed for them to say something, he knew that for once he had to stay silent.

Finally - finally - they simply whispered;

“I’m so tired.”

The shadows under their eyes seemed to have deepened tenfold, and they looked far older than their years. No tears shone unshed - they were beyond tears now.

Rolan did not know what else to do, so he leaned up on his knees and pulled them into his arms.

They smelled different than they had before. The city smoke had settled over them and muddied their scent. He felt a tug of longing for Last Light Inn - something he thought he would never feel in a thousand lifetimes, but for how the scent of the cold had lingered in their hair. It had been the only thing he’d smelled for weeks that felt truly alive.

They made a soft sound in their throat that tugged at his heart, their arms curling around his back as their face pushed against his chest.

“I know what I have to do to end this,” they said, muffled by his robe but with an edge of finality that prickled at his skin, “the Absolute - everything.”

Rolan could feel the weight of their words. It should be a relief. So why did his chest feel as if it were filled with ice?

“And you?” He asked quietly. “What happens to you?”

“I won’t fail. I can’t.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

They went very still for a moment. Then he felt their head shake an ‘I don’t know’ against his shoulder. Rolan closed his eyes tightly and took a slow breath, his arms tightening around them as if it would make a difference. As if his body alone could stand between them and the wretched designs of evil gods.

“And if…” his voice trembled, “…if you were to-?”

He couldn’t speak it out loud. He had a terrible feeling that if he did, it would make itself into reality.

“I don’t suppose there would be a chance of another miracle?” Rolan forced out. In his mind it was an attempt at humour, but it came out too bitterly.

They pulled back from him to look into his eyes. The space between them yawned with thick silence, punctuated by the soft drip, drip, drip of blood splashing onto the floor.

“It’s so many people, Rolan,” they said, “it’s a handful of lives against the entire sword coast. Maybe even all of Faerûn. There’s no contest.”

Every part of Rolan began screaming. It wasn’t the soft, hopeful pull he’d felt at the party. It wasn’t the surge of relief pushing him forwards at Last Light.

It was desperation; clawing, rising up his throat like burning bile. How could they? How could they just accept their death, as if it were an inevitability? As if it wouldn’t matter?

The words that he wanted to say raced through his mind in a whirlwind, but when at last he spoke, there was only one that felt right;

“Bullshit.”

Their eyes widened, and satisfaction curled amongst the ire to see the shocked look on their face. It was brief - too easily snuffed out.

Rolan’s hands moved to their shoulders, gripping them tightly.

“I told you back at Last Light - if you die again, I will bring you back just to kill you myself. And now that this tower is mine, I will make good on that threat. After everything you and I have been through, I will do it as many times as it takes you to understand - you stupid bloody self-sacrificing arsehole - that I cannot lose you again!”

Rolan realised that his voice had raised to a shout and forced himself to take a breath, though it did nothing to slow his racing heart.

“Hang Faerûn,” he continued in a voice that trembled with the effort to stay gentle, “hang the world. I can’t lose you again.”

When he was done, he felt raw. Exposed. A skinned rabbit hanging in a butcher’s window.

They were searching his face for something - he didn’t know what for. He had knelt before them and laid his heart out, still bloody and beating, right before their eyes. What more could they want?

Rolan’s tail thrashed. It was more than he could bear. He opened his mouth to try and salvage this, to apologise.

Instead, he was silenced by a pair of lips crashing into his own.

Rolan froze. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, because he had to be dreaming. He had to be.

Then he felt their hands tighten in his robe, heard the soft sound in their throat, and he knew instinctively what it meant; ‘please’.

It was real. He’d been too afraid to move, scared that if he did, he would wake. But it was real.

The realisation shot through him like a bolt, and he surged upwards to meet them. He kissed with every ounce of his starving, frantic adoration. Their hands cupped his jaw and cradled him closer, his found their shirt and held them closer still. It wasn’t enough - never would be enough.

Rolan had thought that falling in love would feel like when he had reached out to the Weave for the very first time. Serene, yet vibrating with anticipation. But this hungry, clawing animal inside of him bore no resemblance to the cusp of Mystra’s realm. It keened and begged and panted, it was wretched, and now he truly understood why the poets both despised and revered it.

He kissed, and kissed, until they were both breathless. At last the need for air parted them for a moment, clutching each other as if one of them might be ripped away at any moment.

“Stay,” he gasped against their lips, “please, stay.”

Rolan only meant ‘stay’. He wanted them near, to hear their footsteps and their breathing, to feel the weight of their presence. But by the soft intake of breath he heard, they’d read something else into it entirely.

“I’m-…”

“Yes,” they whispered.

He didn’t know which god he had appeased enough to make him the luckiest bastard in Faerûn, but he would make sure to give them one hell of an offering.

Before he could go too far down that train of thought, though, they abruptly pulled away from the embrace with a quiet ‘shit!’

“What?” He asked, alarmed.

“I’ve got blood all over you,” they replied sheepishly, “I’m sorry.”

In all honesty, he had completely forgotten about their wound. Rolan turned his head to inspect his shoulder. Their blood had soaked the fabric of his robe, a trail of red speckles leading up to his shoulder. In that moment, he recalled the Grove; how he had been so concerned with being presentable, how making a good impression on Lorroakan had seemed so vital.

Now, it all seemed so absurd that he couldn’t help but laugh.

“This robe is ruined anyway,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and I’m sure that the new master of Ramazith’s Tower can afford one that isn’t half burnt and covered in road dust.”

That earned him a bright smile. And if referring to his shiny new title made him puff up with pride a little, that was his own business.

“I’m sure that he can,” they said with that teasing glint in their eye. Charitably, Rolan elected to ignore it.

“But first, I should bind your wounds so you don’t bleed all over that new robe.”

As Rolan went - albeit reluctantly - to leave them and get his medical supplies, a tug at his lower back halted him. He looked down and realised with horror that his tail had wound itself tightly around their thigh.

For fuck’s sake.

Rolan groaned loudly and brought his hands up to shield his burning cheeks from view. The pealing laughter it drew from them only made matters worse.

“That’s sweet,” they said, and he could hear the smile in their voice.

“It’s not,” he mumbled. They clearly knew nothing about tiefling body language, or they would understand exactly why he was so mortified.

“I think it is.”

Well - perhaps he shouldn’t argue the point. If they thought it was a sweet gesture, then he could allow them to believe it for now. He could always tell them the real meaning of it later. This was his thought as he unwound his tail from around their thigh - still to the sound of their giggling - and half heartedly sulked as he searched for his medical supplies.

Later. The idea that there was a later with them in it sent a thrill through him. Not a far-off, distant daydream but a reality. Between now and the battle that they would have to face, there was a time for the two of them. For languid, unhurried kisses tangled up in the finest bedsheets either of them had ever touched, the pink light of dawn spilling out over the city and through the windows to caress their skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rolan hadn’t stopped drinking since his siblings had gone to bed. Lia had said she would stay, but her eyes had deep shadows under them and she could barely stand; he knew she couldn’t have slept while they were imprisoned under Moonrise.

No - he couldn’t ask that of her. Especially not when he truly wished to be alone and drink until it either wiped his memory or killed him outright.

Every time he let his mind wander, he saw their body lying on the dirty, cold floor. He wept silently, soaking the sleeves of his robes as he wiped his face dry in vain. Then, he drank. Then wept some more. Then drank enough that the sober part of his mind calling him pathetic was drowned into silence.

Time passed - though it meant little in this cursed land, and even less when he had enough drink in him to fill the Chiontar. The fire in the centre of the room dwindled to embers, then was relit once more. The steady pale light streaming through the rafters shifted, but would never turn to day.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, head slumped across the bar, because he started awake at something cold touching his cheek. Rolan dragged himself to his senses, just enough to realise that it was a hand. The weight of it was gentle - soothing.

“Lia?” Rolan guessed, then winced at how sticky the sounds felt in his throat. His mouth tasted of bitter saliva and settled dust. The back of his neck was damp with congealed sweat; somehow his hair had come loose and was splayed over his face and shoulders.

That would be fun to de-tangle later. Gods, at this point he would be lucky to present himself to Lorroakan at all, let alone respectably.

The hand on his cheek brushed his hair back behind his ear, and Rolan couldn’t help the smile that flitted over his lips, nor the sleepy sigh that left them.

“Rolan?”

Rolan’s heart stopped. Not Lia. Not Cal, either.

He knew that voice.

His eyes flew open. His vision was all dark spots and blurry light for a few moments, a seething fog that he couldn’t pierce. He sat up to try and clear it, and that’s when he saw;

Those eyes.

As they had been on that wonderful night in the camp, not glassy and lifeless. With that glimmer in them like a distant, burning star. His mouth fell open, heart jolted back to life with vengeance. It pounded on his ribs, trying to break free.

“I’m dreaming,” he whispered. It was the only explanation.

He had seen the wounds - smelt them. Yet here they stood, skin unblemished, a slight tilt to their head and a frown on their brow.

“I’m dreaming,” he said again, lifting his trembling hands towards their face, “you…you’re…”

Rolan wouldn’t think of touching them, of bearing his heart so plainly. But this was a dream. A cruel, wonderful dream.

His palms cupped their jaw, fingers curled so that his claws wouldn’t break this fragile illusion. But they did not feel fragile - not like glass or crystal, liable to shatter under so much as a wayward glance.

Their skin was beautifully, mercifully warm. So utterly apart from the cold of their dying flesh that it pulled a whimper from his throat.

And yet, it felt as just as real.

“You’re not dreaming,” they said gently, the kind of sweetness reserved for soothing a wounded, frightened animal.

It was that very notion, that he was some injured bird that ought to be held, that made Rolan realise that what they said was true. Because of course he was just another thing that they needed to save. That was so typically, awfully them.

And in a moment, the breathless awe holding him nearly aloft crashed back to earth, shattered - and became rage.

“I see,” he said tightly, dropping his hands and straightening up despite his back aching in protest, “all better, then?”

They blinked rapidly, no doubt alarmed by his sudden shift in manner.

“Well-…yes?”

“Good.”

Rolan threw a punch at their chest. He should have thought it through, because they were wearing armour, and he realised that when pain jolted through his knuckles and into his wrist.

“Damn it!” He swore, cradling his hand to his body. Ever the hero, they reached towards him, but he glared at them sharply.

“Don’t. Don’t. You come in here, acting as if nothing happened, as if I have no right to be upset!”

“I didn’t say-…”

“You didn’t have to! For gods’ sake, I’m not another pathetic creature baying to be saved! I didn’t ask anyone to come in here and pity me, least of all someone that was DEAD!”

Rolan’s voice steadily rose until it was reaching even the high ceilings above. He could see a few curious faces peering out of doorways and out from behind columns, wanting to see what the commotion was about. He didn’t care - all of his ire was focused on the person right in front of him.

“YOU were DEAD! Do you understand that?!” He shouted, pushing his hoarse voice to the point of cracking. His blood was pounding in his ears, hot and fast.

“I saw your body! I-I held your hand. I felt…you were cold…”

Rolan wanted to keep shouting. Truly - he wanted nothing more. But his throat was being squeezed shut, and he could barely breathe. His vision started to blur and burn, and he couldn’t take in enough air, even as he pulled it in faster and faster-

Then warmth enveloped him. Arms encircled his shoulders, crushing him to a firm body. The armour dug into his skin but he buried himself into it anyway, breath catching and hitching in his chest.

Rolan threw his arms around them and held on as if they would vanish. This could still be a dream. He might wake up and they would be gone, forever. Even the thought made him pull harder, harder, until all of the air was nearly pushed out of him.

“It’s alright” they whispered in his ear, “breathe slowly. I’m here.”

The rumble of their voice was like a purr, rippling through him and quelling the storm inside his chest. His claws dug into their back as his breathing slowed, probably puncturing the cloth over the armour, but he couldn’t care less about that.

His head was nuzzled into the side of their neck, and he could feel their pulse. Irrefutable proof that they were alive once more, beating steadily against his cheek. He closed his eyes to better feel it, to memorise it so that he would never have to be without it again.

‘Gods, I’m so fucked…’

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmured, trying and failing to sound stern, “I don’t know if I’d survive it a second time.”

They laughed, and he felt it vibrate through his own chest; and if he curled in a little closer, that was his own bloody business. They couldn’t know just how true his words were.

The Descent, the deaths of the other tieflings on the road, the ambush by the Absolute; the only thing that had shaken him as badly was when his siblings had been taken.

He’d thought that as long as he had Cal and Lia, he could survive anything. Now - now he didn’t know if that was true anymore.

“I can’t make any promises,” they replied, though only half joking. He could tell by the way their voice lowered - how closely had he been watching them and not even realising it?

He pulled back to look into their eyes, and his breath caught once again - this time, because of the way that his stomach dropped. The last time he had been this close, it was at the campsite party.

He felt the same as he had then; heart racing, mind empty of any meaningful thought. Only a longing gnawing at him, urging him to just lean in a little closer.

“Well, if you die again, I’ll bring you back. And then I’ll kill you myself,” he said with a weak chuckle.

Closer. Closer.

No - he couldn’t. They couldn’t possibly feel this way too. He was just some tiefling wizard who had a bark worse than his bite.

Besides…it wasn’t the right time.

“How did you come back, anyway?” Rolan asked out of a desperate need to change the subject. He averted his eyes, and missed the flicker of disappointment that passed over their face.

“I have my resources,” they said mysteriously.

“Resources - I see. Well, whatever they are, I’m glad you’re…alive. Again.”

Rolan coughed as a flush climbed up his cheeks and into his ears. Words came so easily when he was angry, why couldn’t they come when he felt anything else? Curse him and his stupid heart.

“I am too. I think.”

They stepped back, and he instantly missed the warmth and weight of their body. Even if they smelled a little of sweat and leather, he didn’t mind. In fact, he quite liked it.

Stay.

Rolan felt his tail curling towards their thigh and quickly grasped it and held it in place. He leaned against the bar, trying to act as if his stomach wasn’t in knots.

They paused at the edge of the bar, and for a second they looked as if they might say something. Their body was tense and poised, caught halfway between leaving and remaining in place.

They opened their mouth, and Rolan leaned forward on his stool eagerly-

Then a voice called their name. That damn Waterdhavian wizard, waving frantically as if he were trying to flag down a ship.

Damn that stuffy son of-

“I should-…uh, that seems urgent,” they stammered, blinking away whatever thought had been growing behind their eyes.

“Hmph,” Rolan grumbled, “well, go on then. Run off and be a hero. I’ll just be here.”

The glimmer of mirth in the corner of their lips almost made it worth it. His eyes were stuck on them for a moment too long, tracing the swells and curves of their mouth. Despite everything, they still looked so inviting. How was it fair for someone to have such lovely lips on a road such as this?

“I’ll see you, Rolan,” they said, before turning on their heel and racing over to their companions.

“See you,” he sighed for his own benefit. Once they were out of sight, he swivelled on his stool and buried his face against the bar and his own folded arms, releasing a deep and pained groan.

To say that his mind was whirling was like saying that the Hells were a tad warm. The Hero of the Grove was dead - now they were alive again. He’d felt their breath ruffling his hair and their hands on his shoulders, they smelled of leather and metal.

And he’d squandered yet another chance.

“You stupid bloody mragrashem,” he growled under his breath.

Seeing Cal and Lia again, alive and intact, was such a rush of relief that it nearly knocked Rolan off of his feet. Even if they were dirty and worse for wear, they were here. They were really here!

Rolan slid off of his barstool perch and ran - well, stumbled - towards them. He threw his arms around his siblings with a choked sob, drawing them both in close.

He expected Lia to call him out for smelling of booze, for Cal to get all watery and try in vain to get a word in edgewise. He expected babbling, tears and lighthearted scorn.

Instead, all he got was silence. Rolan pulled back to look at them, his drunk mind tripping over itself to try and understand what the look they exchanged meant - all frowns and sullen eyes.

“What?” He asked. When they didn’t immediately answer, he felt the ground sway under his feet.

“What?” Rolan pressed, gripping both of them urgently; “What did they do to you? Are you hurt? I swear upon all the hells-!”

“Rolan,” Lia sighed, not quite able to meet his eyes, “we’re fine. It’s…it’s…”

In the end, she didn’t have to say it. He saw one of their companions, the tall one with the single horn and red skin, helping one of the medics to carry a stretcher. Her face was set like stone, her usual cheery disposition utterly absent. Even the flames that licked at her chest seemed subdued.

And on the stretcher, a body. Something - someone - lying painfully still.

And Rolan knew. He knew. But he couldn’t let himself believe it.

Suddenly, it was as if he hadn’t had so much as a drop to drink. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, he could hear how his breath rushed raggedly between his numb lips.

“Who…?” He asked, his voice guttering out like a candle flame drowning in too much wax.

“Rolan, I’m sorry. It all happened so fast,” Cal said solemnly.

“They put themselves between us and the cultists to buy time. We didn’t think…it wasn’t until we got on the boat that we realised how bad their wounds were.”

Rolan’s legs moved before he could think. His siblings didn’t stop him as he chased after the stretcher - they knew better than to try. His eyes roved over the covered figure wildly, trying to find any sign, any possibility that it wasn’t them.

Please, gods, don’t let it be them.

One of the guards - Fist Something-Or-Other - put his arm across the door in an attempt to stop him from entering the makeshift ward. He shoved his arm aside with a snarl;

“Get out of the way!”

The commotion made the one-horned woman look his way, and he hated how her expression tightened as she looked at him, crouched over the stretcher on the floor.

She stood to her full height and stepped in front of the body. There was no way that he could move her by force - not without using Thunderwave. The worst part was the pity - gods, the pity. So damn well meaning and concerned.

“Let me see,” Rolan demanded, trying to sound more sure than he felt.

“Rolan, mate, I really don’t-…” she started. So she knew his name - he didn’t have the capacity to feel embarrassed for forgetting hers.

“Let me see,” he repeated, trying to spit out all of the venom he felt welling up inside of him. But his traitorous voice wavered, broke under the weight of it. After a long silence, he squeezed out one more word;

“Please.”

The one-horned woman hesitated for a moment longer, her hands flexing and clenching at her sides. Then she bowed her head in a single nod and stepped aside.

“It’s- I know it looks bad. It is bad. But it’ll be alright. I can fix it. I will fix it.”

Her trembling words were lost on Rolan as he saw them at last. The sheet had fallen aside just enough for him to see a limp hand. It lay at the edge of the stretcher, knuckles grazing the cold floor. It looked almost as if it were reaching for him.

Rolan sank to his knees. With one hand, he gently slipped his fingers through theirs. The flesh was not yet fully cold, a whisper of warmth still clinging to it. But the sliver of hope it gave him quickly diminished; he could feel it fading away under his fingers.

With the other hand, he slowly peeled back the sheet.

It was them. The hero of the Grove lay statuesque before him. Their eyes like painted marbles were open but unseeing, their lips parted for a breath that wouldn’t come. The skin of their right side was charred and blackened, curls like tendrils of smoke crawling up their neck. The acrid, red hot stench of fire magic clung to their skin; he would know it anywhere.

Just last night - last night - they had been bickering with him at the bar after his ill-advised rescue attempt. Gods he’d been such an ass. He’d been meaning to apologise, to let them know that he was grateful for their help; truly.

But no. No, he couldn’t keep his bloody mouth shut, could he? He’d blamed them for putting ideas in Cal and Lia’s heads, as if it were their fault the Absolutists…

Just thinking about it made the ale in his stomach lurch into his throat. Asharak’s cries of agony, the scent of blood thickening the air like a fog, the screams of the children. Now this-

A bucket appeared helpfully at his side, an unseen and likely experienced hand shoving it towards him. Rolan swallowed hard, fooling himself that he could hold it back even as the bile rose into his mouth. It was no use of course - he threw his head into it just in time for all of the ale he’d gulped down to come spewing out.

Someone patted his back lightly and he swatted them away. His eyes returned to the frozen face in front of him and he felt another lurch - not in his stomach this time, but his chest; as if a hand had reached into his ribs and given his heart a sharp yank. His fingers tightened around the bucket, his claws scraping the wood too loudly in the silent room.

“How did this happen?” He rasped out. His voice sounded far away.

“It…we were rescuing everyone from Moonrise,” the one-horned woman replied, “things got dicey when the gnomes knocked out the wall. It’s just- this has never happened before.”

“You don’t say?” Rolan sneered, whipping his head around. He must look ridiculous, curled over a bucket of his own vomit with a scowl on his face, but this felt right. It felt natural to expunge the ache in his heart through his tongue.

“I thought that was the whole reason that they kept you lot around. You’re all supposed to ‘protect each other’, aren’t you? What is the bloody point of you if you just let them d-…”

The word stuck in his throat, a cold stone that he choked on. The fight drained out of him in an instant, leaving him slumped and wilted. Just like every other thing in this awful, cursed place.

The one-horned woman - Karlach, he thought with a bolt of clarity - pressed her lips together tightly for a prolonged moment before muttering;

“You done?”

Rolan merely nodded as best he could. His head ached, and it suddenly weighed a tonne.

“Right.”

Karlach bent down and drew the sheet back up over the body. She might as well have slammed a door in his face with how his body jolted.

“We’ll fix it. Just…hang tight, yeah?”

Fix it. How could they possibly fix this? Revivify would not work on a corpse so damaged, and he doubted that anyone here was accomplished enough to cast True Resurrection.

If only he had gotten over his fear and written to Lorroakan before the Descent. Perhaps he could have gone to Baldur’s Gate that much sooner, he would have mastered his craft by now. He could have ‘fixed it’ in an instant.

He didn’t realise that he was crying until a tear slid between his lips, wet and tasting of salt. A cold, writhing thing had made its home between his belly and his chest, with tendrils that gripped his insides strangle-tight.

At some point Cal and Lia came to his side, but he couldn’t say how long he had been there. His knees ached from the hard floor, and his tail was raw from thrashing against the wood. They pulled him to his feet and he didn’t have the words to protest, even as his traitorous tail curled around his leg and reached towards the body on the floor.

He didn’t hear their reassurances as they led him away. His feet barely moved. They might as well have been dragging a wooden dummy. His eyes burned from not blinking, but every time he closed his eyes he saw their face.

They took Rolan into one of the scant unoccupied rooms of the inn, but it didn’t matter. He was not here, in this half dead place. He was somewhere with warm evening air and fireflies buzzing above a river, with drunken singing floating on the breeze and merriment in his heart.

Their eyes - they had been anything but empty that night. They had glittered like the colourful bursts he produced for his siblings, like the very stars in the night above. Their laughter had been so musical, and he remembered thinking how much younger they looked with a smile on their lips.

He remembered the warmth he’d harboured, knowing that he was the reason for that smile.

But most of all, he remembered a moment. When the party was starting to die down, the quiet settling like a comforting blanket over them, and he had realised that they were alone. Their eyes had met, and they were alone, and his heart had leapt into his throat and it would have been so easy to just-

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t done anything but talk, because he was afraid. Just like he should have written to Lorroakan sooner. Just like he should have done a lot of things.

The dam burst, and the sluggish trickle of tears became a flood. A cry tore out of him as he doubled over. He felt Lia tense in alarm against him, but he couldn’t stop it now.

Such a fool. Such a bloody fool.

One pair of arms wrapped around him - Cal’s. Then Lia’s. They enveloped him tightly as he wept out all of the thorns in his heart; everything that had happened since the Descent had been one endless nightmare. Except for that one night. That night had been a star-bright, giddy dream.

-They’re the only one that he feels he can be vulnerable with.

-It’s difficult with Legolas; he’s his son, and their relationship is strained anyway. There are things he just can’t tell him.

-But with them, he can be all of the things that he can’t be with anyone else; tired, frustrated, unsure.

-One of his favourite things to do is drink wine with them in the evenings and just talk. He doesn’t have to be careful with his words for once, and it’s refreshing.

-When he’s with them, he finds himself laughing and smiling more than he has since his wife was killed.

-In front of others, it’s a lot of nonverbal communication.

-They’ve learned what each expression means, the subtle difference between ‘can you believe this?’ and ‘I’m starting to get irritated’.

-Secretive smirks, sidelong glances.

-In anything of importance, he wants them by his side; council meetings, battles, matters of state.

-He trusts their advice, their perspective.

-He likely has made them a member of his king’s guard.

Nights had always meant little more than darkness and bedtime. When Caspian was a child, it had meant being bathed by a fireplace, then tucked into bed by nursemaids as they sang him lullabies. When he was older, it meant thoughts that kept him sleepless and cold.

But of late, the nights had meant something else entirely. Whispered words, glimpses caught of a familiar face in a sliver of moonlight, kisses stolen under cover of darkness.

And tonight, he found himself entangled in soft limbs and his own bed clothes. Caspian lay heated, desperate kisses over his lover’s neck and chest. The air was filled with the sound of quiet panting and stifled moans.

Caspian’s hands paused at his lover’s hips, hesitating at the drawstring around them. A single tug, and everything that he wanted would be laid bare before him. Never had he stood to gain so much with so little resistance. So why, now, were his hands trembling?

“Are you alright?” His lover asked, reaching up to push a lock of his dark hair behind his ear. Caspian leaned into his touch, closing his eyes under the familiar weight.

“I’m fine, I just…” he couldn’t think of why, of what was making him stop when he wanted nothing more than to press forward.

“We don’t have to do this. It’s alright if you’ve changed your mind, Caspian.”

Caspian’s eyes went wide.

“No! No, no. I still- I really do want this. God, I do. But…” he had to avert his gaze as he felt burning creeping up his cheeks, “…I’ve never done this before. What if I’m not good at it? I want to be good for you.”

His lover gave him a soft smile and ran his thumb over his cheek in soothing back-and-forth sweeps.

“I’ve never done this either. But I love you, and I trust you.”

‘I love you.’ Caspian’s head still swam when he heard those words. The very first time, he had damn near fainted on the spot.

“Besides,” his lover continued with a mischievous smile, “we will both get better with practice. Lots and lots of practice.”

Caspian’s face broke into a boyish smile.

“That sounds like fun,” he said, leaning down until his lips were almost brushing the other man’s.

“Do you want to start practicing now?” His lover asked, his breath hitching slightly when Caspian’s hands went back to his hips.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

Caspian kissed him hard, rocking his body forwards until he was between the other man’s thighs. His fingers deftly untied the drawstring of his underwear, then tugged the fabric down over his thighs.

“I love you,” he whispered breathlessly.

“I love you, too.”

For once, they dared to remain together until morning broke, only parting once the light of dawn first touched Caspian’s bedroom windows.

After the prince lay back down in bed and nestled into the sheets as if he had been fast asleep the entire night, he traced the memories etched into his body with his fingertips. Nails digging into his shoulder, an open mouth panting against his throat, a grasping hand on his thigh.

Jaskier had been singing all night. Not an unusual turn of events for him, really - he’d been singing for his supper for years now. Usually he could scrape together enough for a bed and board, a decent meal and a drink or two. All in all, he would consider himself a decent performer.

However, even he would admit that he couldn’t compare to the sounds that the beauty beneath him was making.

It had all happened so quickly. A few flirtatious winks had turned into smiles, had turned into a hushed conversation over drinks, had turned into this; the son of a lord wrapped around him in a small, dark room lit only by a single oil lamp.

The table that the young lord was balanced on knocked rhythmically against the wall with each thrust of Jaskier’s hips. The air was filled with breathless panting, stifled moans, soft curses. And gods - he felt like luxury against Jaskier’s body. Soft pampered skin, warm lips that mouthed insistently at his throat, so- fuck, so tight…

Jaskier rocked forwards harder than he’d meant to, and the man below him let out a loud, beautiful keen. Jaskier quickly clamped his hand over his mouth, albeit with a tinge of regret.

“Shh,” he leaned down whispered, laughter dancing around the edge of his breathless voice, “as gorgeous as you sound, I don’t fancy getting caught and chased out of the province.”

The young lord’s eyes glimmered at him over the edge of his fingers before he jerked his head to the side, loosening the bard’s grip.

“I’d rather you silence me with your lips,” he replied indignantly, though his hoarseness ruined the effect of his glare; “Your hand smells of lute strings.”

“Oh, forgive me, my lord,” Jaskier drawled as he dug his fingers into his hips and tugged him forwards, drawing out a soft gasp; “I’m so terribly sorry that my profession causes you offence! I never-!”

“Shut up and fuck me,” the young lord growled, pawing at the laces of his shirt.