#nonbinary tav

There was a frantic energy to them tonight that seemed to go beyond mere desire, but their mouth was on his once more before he could inquire further. Sasha's every movement was sharp with reckless abandon.

Nails dug into his skin as if they were trying to claw their way inside of him.

Teeth clacked against his and tugged at his lips as if they were attempting to devour him whole.

Their limbs continued winding tighter, as if they endeavored to merge their being with his.

"Stop." Astarion commanded, his body going stiff and arms dropping to his sides.

Sasha recoiled as if struck. They stared at him, eyes moistening as teeth pressed down on their lower lip in a bid to refrain from crying.

"Much as I adore your enthusiasm—truly, I do—there's an air of…undeniable desperation about you tonight. It pains me to turn down a romp but you do not appear to be of sound mind to initiate."

"I am! Look how I burn for you." They did look feverish as their hand trailed down their body to grab their swollen cock, but there was a wide fear in their eyes that made Astarion queasy.

"Burning so hot I fear you may turn to ash and flutter away with a soft breeze. Talk to me, taran; I thought we ended the soirée on good terms. I saw you having quite the animated conversation surrounded by ladies…"

Astarion hadn't been jealous. Not one bit. He had merely been…all right, he was jealous. Even though he knew without doubt Sasha was not attracted to any of them, the Marquess couldn't be certain that they weren't still resigned to settle for a double life with the most palatable woman.

But mostly Astarion had felt proud to see his lover pull themselves out of the panic and turn the party into their own personal press junket, rubbing elbows and snatching hearts. Oh, how the women swooned; he could practically see the hearts floating above their heads!

But none of those women had a key to Sasha's apartment. None of those women knew they enjoyed wearing dresses—wore them better than the women, in Astarion's completely unbiased opinion.

None of those women knew what it was like to kneel before Sasha, the salt of their spend spectacular on Astarion's tongue while they gazed down at him with breathless adoration, as if Astarion were some god of sex blessing them with every pleasure they'd ever fantasized about.

"It's nothing. My blood simply burns extra hot tonight." The darting of their eyes revealed the lie.

Astarion threw them a smolder, stepping closer. "Is that all?"

Committed to the ruse, Sasha did not falter. "Aye. That is all." Another flit to the side.

The Marquess palmed their hips and was rewarded with an exaggerated moan that worked like a beckoning finger to his cock, but with a hard swallow he steeled himself to remain steadfast. Sasha all but melted into his embrace as he leaned forward, breath hot in their ear.

"Good pets don't tell lies," Astarion whispered, following the words up with a nip at their earlobe. "And bad pets don't get spankings."

Sasha's cock twitched hard enough to slap against Astarion's stomach; it was all he could do to bite back a groan of his own.

"I thought bad pets did get spankings?"

It's Mephistopheles.

AND I HAVE SO MANY PLANS TO TORMENT JAMIE AND ASTARION ABOUT IT.

tl;dr: Blood sorcerer Jamie got their innate magic boosted by Mephistopheles, archdevil and progenitor of vampires. They're now a sorcerer/warlock with extra vitality and powerful spells. Meph also facilitated their gender transition as part of the pact boon. In exchange, Jamie must kill any vampire Mephistopheles tells them to and he may control/manipulate their thoughts, emotions, or body as he sees fit in service of that goal. But he's been abusing his power over Jamie, so they turned to drugs and alcohol to keep him out of their mind. He now wants them to kill the Absolute as a fuck-you to the Dead Three because he himself is trying to become a dark god. Jamie's powers are currently limited as punishment for failing Meph's orders in the recent past.

Aaaand here are all the details in case you have one million hours of free time!

CWs for these mentioned themes: thought/memory fuckery, possession/body horror-y stuff, drugs/alcohol, past captivity/medical experimentation, lots of blood

My adjustments to Mephistopheles

In addition to being an archdevil, he's also a vampire — the first vampire, in fact, the progenitor of vampirism. He became a devil during a failed attempt to ascend to vampiric godhood thousands of years ago. Though he's undead, infernal, and can't walk in the sun, he now enjoys more power than a vampire lord and more power than an archdevil. A win, really.

Most vampire lords have that ambition in common, that desire to be something greater. A spawn aspires to be a lord, and a lord by nature can never be satisfied once they have achieved that. So lords get creative. Those lords then often answer to Mephistopheles, who wants to keep vampires, his children, at a lower status than his own. If that gets too difficult, he wants them destroyed so he can absorb their power and add to his own.

Mephistopheles is still chasing his own dream of ascension. He aims to become the God of Blood.

He wants to surpass the dark gods Bhaal, Bane, and Myrkul, who he sees as selling themselves short: why be the lord of murder, tyranny, or bones when one could be the lord of blood? All living things, and many dead ones, have blood. Family, life, death, all are connected by blood. The god of blood is the god of all that is or will be.

That's his endgame re: the Absolute; he wants it vanquished because the Dead Three must be defeated for him to rise. He knows the Absolute plot from the start and sends Jamie to end it.

I shifted my lore a little again after reading Astarion's Book of Hungers, which I know is controversial but I really liked the retcon that Cazador worships Mephistopheles. Meph always has two Chosens: a vampire and a mortal. Cazador Szarr and Jamie Cross are his current Chosens, helping him to achieve godhood, but they don't know about the other. That's gonna be fun to discover in the dungeon 🙃

Pact details

Mephistopheles smelled Jamie's magic blood all the way from Cania the first time they ever bled. He kept an eye on them as they grew up and started casting with their innate magic. Blood sorcerers were fairly rare and exciting to him, but still, not all of them were of value. But when Jamie was dying in the cult of Talona during an escape attempt gone terribly wrong, he saw just how potent their magic was and realized what a waste it would be for them to die before he got his hands on it. He made a rare trip to the Material Plane and enhanced Jamie's existing blood magic on the spot.

That extra energy saved their life, gave them the power to kill their captors, and let them escape the cult. In fact, they got to leave Melvaunt entirely! For the first time, they learned that food literally grows on trees, that the sun feels nice when it can touch your skin without fighting through a sea of smog, that fresh water feels better in your body than polluted sludge...

Mephistopheles can't function on the the Material Plane for long (it's too gods-damned bright and warm), so having a mortal warlock and a Material-dwelling vampire to do his dirty work is necessary. He revealed himself and pitched a warlock pact while Jamie was reveling in the new, free world. Jamie refused until Mephistopheles pressed into their mind and learned what they really wanted: he offered to rebuild their body to be more masculine/androgynous, too. That changed their mind. Now they've transitioned and gained incredible blood abilities.

But of course, there's a cost.

The rules:

Jamie is not supposed to feed, befriend, or sleep with a vampire, much less fall in love with one. (This is not the primary part of their pact but I put it first because. I mean. oops lol)

Jamie's main powers: ability to manipulate their own blood into objects/weapons that do additional magic damage, ability to cast blood spells and turn their blood into other substances or damage types while casting, 13x the life essence of a normal half-elf's blood (granting them insane vitality and constitution but also making them extra delicious and nourishing to vampires), cannot be Turned by a vampire besides Meph, superior darkvision

In exchange, Mephistopheles can send Jamie out on missions anytime he wants. Those missions are almost exclusively vampire hunting: Jamie has to find and kill any vampire lord who crosses Mephistopheles, who aspires to usurp or betray him, or who just gets too big for their britches in any kind of power grab (vampires are territorial and Meph is no exception lol).

If Jamie tries to ignore or delay an order, Mephistopheles can possess them and force them to do it. Jamie's thoughts, feelings, and personality disappear entirely and they'll have a choppy recollection of the events at best once Meph relinquishes them. Or, he could just make them bleed Tarantino-style from any/every orifice, stop their heart, kill them, Turn them... he's got options.

Mephistopheles can also: read Jamie's thoughts and memories in real time, implant thoughts and emotions into Jamie's head (so Jamie can't tell if it's their own or not), remove other emotions/memories, shapeshift Jamie's body at will, other vampiric things

He plans to Turn Jamie once Jamie turns 33. Jamie doesn't know this.

Although this sounds adversarial, they actually have a decent but complicated relationship. Mephistopheles sees the value in Jamie and Jamie sees the value in the pact; they usually do what he asks and he usually doesn't do his worst to them. Sometimes, he'll even delete a bad memory Jamie asks him to, or he'll remind them of important things by implanting useful thoughts.

At first, Jamie finds him annoying but not abusive or threatening. Mephistopheles kind of considers Jamie his favorite child or an extension of himself. The thought implantation and spying gets to them, though, over time—and Mephistopheles quickly begins making Jamie do things they feel less comfortable with than taking out power-hungry vampire lords, rooting through their head at all hours, implanting thoughts or disabling emotions to cause chaos and violence, and interfering with what they do/how they spend their time. That was not part of the agreement — Jamie was meant to live their life how they wanted except for when Mephistopheles called upon them. He used more and more of his power over them, but they learn that when they're high enough, he can't get into their mind. Now they spend as much time as possible intoxicated. The tadpole also blocks Mephistopheles from entering their thoughts.

How it affects the party

For most of the adventure, Jamie can't share who their patron is or reveal the details of their pact (much like Wyll!). That's not actually part of their pact but a temporary limitation Mephistopheles has imposed at this point because he's angry with them. Recently, Jamie got so high that they failed a job killing a vampire lord in Cormyr. Meph had to appear and save Jamie from death. He then possessed Jamie's body for thirteen months—more than a year of their life gone. Some of the memories and experiences are coming back to them throughout the adventure, slowly and in broken pieces. Many of them are horrifying.

As punishment, Jamie can't say his name or use much of the power he gave them until someone else says Mephistopheles' name in their presence. They're nerfed in combat, but not useless at all. Nobody is going to guess correctly (and Jamie can't give hints) because a warlock pact with Mephistopheles is super rare, super risky, and not generally something a good-aligned half-elf would do.

Party members are frustrated and/or just super curious about Jamie's patron. It's also wild to them that Jamie keeps grumbling about not having their full powers right now when they're already so strong. What are they when they do have full powers??

Astarion is aware that Jamie's blood is special, but because he hasn't drunk the blood of thinking creatures before he isn't actually clear on how much different it is to normal people's. The smell is intense and incredible, and he's definitely smelled other people's blood so he knows Jamie's smells tastier, but he doesn't understand why. When he actually drinks it, he's overwhelmed by how much stronger he feels, but he chalks that up to having been starving. He doesn't realize how powerful Jamie's blood is and they can't tell him for some time.

Jamie has common experiences with Astarion (vampiric master although Meph is way less abusive), Shadowheart (complicated memory fuckery), Wyll (warlock and sort-of monster hunter), and Karlach (fighting battles they don't want to fight). You might also argue their time in Talona's cult is similar to Shadowheart/Shar and Lae'zel/Vlaakith and Minthara/Absolute but Jamie wasn't actually a believer at any point. But because of their current punishment, they can't really talk about those similarities. They also have... interesting... dynamics with Raphael and Cazador we'll explore later.

OKAY THERE IT IS YAY

Gale had dismissed his mage lights thirty minutes ago but in truth he didn’t need them to begin with. His darkvision spell still endured as expected. The journal of Ilyn Toth’s apprentice was as clear as daybreak pressed against his chest. The meandering prose, however, was anything but. If one gave a wide berth, and Gale certainly did quite liberally, there was a general direction to the day-to-day recounts; though the same could not be said about the interwoven memories so sporadic they might as well have been added at random. Not once but too many times to count, Gale had to flip back a few pages to reread what he had just read. The contents lost in the ether somewhere between recognition and remembrance. Yet, he wasn’t sure if the documentation was truly discursive or if his own mind was to blame. 

He was only reading with half his attention, perhaps maybe a quarter. The wine he had consumed much too readily still muddled his thoughts at the fringes, but more than that, he was still thinking about Maria. He was convinced every snap of a stick or brush of foliage was his friend creeping into the night to meet Astarion for their tryst. It seemed that the more he tried to waylay his envy, to assuage the growing hole in his chest, the greater both became.

He had watched Maria walk up to Astarion, had watched them flirt with him. He had watched how the vampire had run his fingers over their arm, how he had looked at them as if they were something to consume rather than someone to be cherished. Though even as his knuckles had whitened about his wine goblet, he couldn’t help but reprimand himself. He, if he was going to be wholly honest with himself, was not much better. He told himself his intentions were pure–as pure as such intentions could be–but in truth his own hunger roared beneath his skin like a starving animal, and it only heightened every day and every night. 

How many nights had he reached his climax, imagining the feel of them wrapped around his cock, stifling his cries of pleasure beneath his palm? How many times had he finished onto himself like some perfervid adolescent, feeling an all-too-brief moment of intense shame only to be pumping into his fist again a couple of heartbeats later? 

Too many nights. A frankly embarrassing number of nights, and a couple of regrettable days as well. 

And then, of course, there was the unescapable and entirely deserved shame he felt about the reason he could not please them. It was not that they weren’t interested in him. They had made that incredibly evident at any appropriate opportunity. They had practically declared it in the Weave those few nights ago. No, the obstacle between him and his foolhardy, mortal desires was him. It was his hubris, and the constant reminder of it that gouged an omnipresent and depthless crevasse through what was his very soul. 

“I’m a godsdamned fool.” He muttered to himself. 

Snap.

The crack of a stick drew his musings out of his head and to the forest just behind him. He had grown learned in the discernment between the crackling of dying embers and the breakage of fallen timber. This was surely, unfortunately, the latter.

The fist that clenched his heart only tightened further. 

“Go to sleep, Gale.” He urged himself. “You’ve done it thousands of nights before. Just close your eyes and go to sleep. It’s not your business what they do. It’s not your business who they find comfort in.”

But it could be you. His traitorous thoughts countered. Gale let the journal fall onto his chest, rubbing his eyes, trying to force weariness into them. It could be you they find comfort in, if you were just braver. 

If I were more reckless, more’s the like. He countered internally. The Orb thirsted for Maria as much as it did any other magical object, and he would not subject them to consumption; as if their Patron would allow it to begin with. No, knowing what he did of their Patron—this Entity—It would kill him and level the entire Sword Coast before having their power siphoned. Not that that outcome was particularly desirable either. 

No, it’s best to stay away. Best for everyone if I stay away.

He dropped his arms to his sides and stared up at the apex of his tent. His mind would not silence, not as he could hear the shuffling of the attempt at quiet footsteps breaking through the hum of nocturnal insects and the chittering of their animal counterparts. Not as his all-too-creative imagination began to create the impending scenario in his mind. Except in his thoughts, Maria was not sneaking off to meet Astarion. They were sneaking off to meet him.

“No.” Gale hissed to himself, clenching his fists. “By the Weave, Gale, get yourself together.”

But he couldn’t. He was already untethering. He could feel the edges of his weakly held constitution loosening with every retreating footstep. A tension between his legs began to coil.

He took the poorly written journal and placed it beside him, tossing himself to his side aggravatedly. He closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would burgeon given the correct circumstances. But the only thing that bloomed behind his eyes was Maria.

Gale pictured the way they had looked that very night. How the silvery moonlight had shone off their platinum hair, how the warm firelight had doused them in a honey-sweet glow. How their cheeks had become rosy with drink and laughter, how their smile practically encapsulated them in an aura so beautiful it made his breath catch. As far as he was concerned, they were divinity incarnate.

He tucked his blanket closer, curling in on himself in an effort to relieve the pressure quickly building in his loins. 

“You have no idea the power you hold over me.” He whispered.

A papery murmur slid through the night and met him, followed by something he wished he didn’t hear. 

Gods above and below.

It was unmistakable. 

As if the night itself were cursing him, a lull in the nocturnal melody gave way to the carousing just beyond the camp. 

A breathy, needy call that tried so fruitlessly to be an exhale.

Maria’s moan. 

It was undeniable, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was simply the whisper of a breeze through the canopy. His body knew it as if it were a wordless command. His cock twitched at the sound, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. His body flooded with myriad emotions spanning, quite confusingly, everything from indignation to pleasure. He bit into his finger.

He groaned in irritation, and if he was being quite honest with himself, arousal. His erection was beginning to press against his breeches, every touch against it becoming far more compelling. And it didn’t help that now his attention was honed in on every sound of the night with a terrible alertness. 

“Fine.” Gale growled to himself dejectedly though part of him elated. 

He flipped onto his back and began to untie the laces at his waistband. And as if they knew, as if they could possibly know, he heard Maria again. Another moan of utter pleasure. 

“Gods forgive me.” He exhaled. His body flushed with anger and need. 

He began to stroke himself, letting his imagination run rampant. His other hand slid up his chest to his mouth where breathy gasps of his own were escaping him.

Gale imagined them as they likely were. 

Naked and goosefleshed, lit by the intermittent glow of milky moonlight. How it cascaded over them, illuminating their golden skin and casting shadow along all their edges. How their glass-like, sea green eyes likely resonated with the celestial light like prisms. How they would look at him with those same eyes as he lowered them to the ground. How those same eyes would burn with heat as their chilled fingers would brush against his skin. Out of nervous habit, he would recoil at their touch but would settle into it as their skin warmed against his. It had been so long since he had been touched by another in this way, but gods, he had needed it more than anything he could have possibly conceived.

He bit into the meat of his palm to stifle a moan as his hand pumped up-and-down his length, as his pleasure beaded at his tip. He lifted his hand to his lips to catch his spit. He wanted more. He needed more. 

They would kiss him hungrily as they stroked him, as their body begged for him. Their leg would hook around the back of his knee and urge him forward, his cock agonizingly close to their cunt as he seeped and throbbed for them. He would be losing himself in it, the sounds of his want melting out of him unbidden as their touch lit him like dry tinder. But he would not succumb to their advances, not yet. 

He would unwind himself from them and kiss every inch of their moonlit skin, mark every freckle on their body with his lips. And gods, it would take hours, days, weeks, but he would do it gleefully until they knew every inch of them was cherished with the fervency they deserved. He would make his way between their legs, shouldering their toned thighs until they were bared for him. And then gods forgive him, he would feast. 

Gale smothered another moan as he considered how they’d taste, how his tongue would lap at their entrance and up their center, how he would lick up their folds to their clit. How godsdamned delicious they would taste, because of course they would. The scent of them alone drove him halfway mad with desire. His strokes became more firm, faster. His hips met his kneading and the pressure within him tightened unbearably, every sensation heightened beyond what was comfortable. His breaths were ragged, near to gasping, and he hadn’t even made them come for him yet. He would have to slow down. He would have to. He would not rush it. With a groan he removed his hand, his hips bucking upward with residual motion or perhaps in plea. 

He would lap at their clit until they were dripping and even then he would be greedy. He would ignore their calls for his cock. He would ignore their desires to be filled. Only because he would give them more. He would glide his tongue through their slick until they were shivering with need, until every nerve was alight and every thought in their mind was trained on his tongue on their pussy. He would eat them until they did not moan or gasp quietly into the night, but sang for him as they met their release by his touch alone. 

And then, only then, if they so desired it, would he fuck them. 

He would slide his cock through their slick until they properly begged for him, moaned for him, their pleas muffled by his juice-soaked lips. They would grip his ass, slip a hand between the two of them to get his cock inside of them, but he would only take the privilege of touch away from them. He would take their hands and pin them over their head, making sure to roll his hips pointedly at their clit. He would endure his own quickly crumbling facade to make them pliant to him, to have them finally accept the idea that he only wanted to serve them. 

He licked a trail up his hand and grasped his cock again, immediately restraining another breathless cry from his lips. His climax was so close, dangerously close. He pumped thrice before he had to release himself again, his chest rising and falling with heaving breaths, sweat building at his temples. A whine escaped him and his brows shot upward in surprise. He had never bloody whined before. Not by his own doing, that is. 

He would keep fucking their folds until they had devolved into senseless jabbering, and then he would oblige them. 

And when he finally, blessedly would, it would be nearly impossible to hold himself together. His body would keel toward them as he dropped to his forearms, the feel of them wrapped around his cock a sensation not even the Outer Planes could begin to muster. Their cunt would squeeze around him as they tried to accommodate every languid, deepening thrust. His own moans would meld with theirs as he fucked them; the only reprieve for their campmates being that their lips were joined together, muffling the worst of it. Every bit of him would beg him to go faster, to take and take and take, but he wouldn’t, not yet. He would revel in this. He would laze in the adoration, the tenderness. They deserved it. They—

It was then that Maria’s voice rang through the night. 

They did not speak a word more than let out what he knew to be a sound of them reaching their climax. 

“Damn it all.” 

The icy heat of envy and pleasure raced through his veins and he could deny himself no longer. His body writhed under his touch as the last echoes of Maria’s desire met him. But the sound was razed into his mind. It replayed over and over and over again—the cadence of their breaths, a heaving, sharp gasp that made his every nerve quiver with want. 

Their eyes would be closed until they weren’t. They would burst open, their grasp on his hands tightening to something fierce. They would beg him to keep going, say his name over and over with that beautiful, lush voice. Their body would clench beneath him as their orgasm ebbed in anticipation. They would writhe beneath his touch, their hips meeting his as they sought their pleasure. But then his own would crest almost unexpectedly. He would finally release them as he sat on his heels, grasping not their hands but their hips as he ploughed into them until a growl of effort and carnal lust broke through him. He would press on them until their pleasure finally crashed over them, their cries for him echoing for miles, so everyone knew they were his. He would fuck them for as long as he could, helping them ride out the tide, but the ever-tightening coil would finally snap, euphoria would force him deeper inside them, seeking and—

“Oh Gods. Oh bloody Hells.” Gale proclaimed, the words hardly silent as his need overtook him. He came hard and fast, his hips bucking upward in furious thrusts as he pumped himself empty. Until the inferno of his desires died into embers. Until the only sounds of the night were truly that—insects, animals, sleep, his own bounding, still-boozy breaths. 

The night was suddenly very cold. 

For a while, he laid there, letting the chill of night brush against his heated skin. He laid there until he shivered. Not with desire this time, fortunately, but at least the desire had made him forget. 

Forget that he was laying on the ground. Forget that he was not in Waterdeep. Forget that he was away from Tara, from his mother. Forget that he was inoculated with an Illithid tadpole. Forget that he was thrust into a war he wasn’t sure he could win. Forget that Mystra had discarded him. Forget that he still had the Orb. Forget that while he did, he was one lapse of control away from utter annihilation. Forget that while he did, he would not be able to love Maria the way they wanted, let alone the way he wanted. 

Forget that, in a word, he was not enough. 

With the swipe of the Weave, he cleaned himself off, the evidence of his failure eradicated. 

He adjusted himself, fixing his clothing so it sat more properly upon his person, and turned back over to his side. The darkvision spell was finally waning, the true depth of the hour settling upon him. For a moment, he watched as his vision became more human—the stacks of books fading into the inky black second-by-second, the rich purple of his tent joining right behind it.  

Low approval:

Are you sure you want to ask for my opinion? (said in a way that makes it clear whatever they will say will probably not be very nice)

Don't waste my time, you will regret it.

Neutral approval:

Make the chat interesting, yes?

Hm?

I'm always ready to help. What is it?

Medium approval: (smiling a lot more than in neutral/low approval)

Can I help you with anything?

Anything worth of note?

Let's walk and talk. There's a lot to do.

High approval (platonic):

You always have the most interesting things to say. Let's chat.

I'm listening.

Any burdens I can ease, love?

High approval (flirting): (those would be used on top of the platonic ones, that they would still use)

Hello, you.

Yes, love?

Tell me. What can I do to make your day better?

High approval (partnered): (also adding on the other High Approval ones)

I always have time, if it's for you.

Let me share some of the weight? I'm here for you.

"Can we talk about us?"

Always. And happily so.

When asked for a kiss:

I would even take a couple, since you're offering.

How about a hug, as well?

After a kiss:

Wish we had time for cuddles, too.

Mmh, yes. That feels good.

How about another?

Break-up: (In act II -will assume it's because they're unwilling to have sex, but will also worry that they may have fucked up in another way too, notably because in their arc, act II would be right after they'd gone through hypomania, and they would worry the player would consider them insane)

Well. You're hardly the first who cannot handle me, it's alright. Unless… did I hurt you? Or is it only because you want what I am not willing to offer? If the player confirms this is about sex, they will get angry/sad, saying something along the lines of "I feel sorry for you if this is all you want from companionship. Maybe we are not suited for one another, indeed." (This would get a -5 disapproval, too, ups. No disapproval for the other options tho. They're just extra hurt on this one, because they had made it clear before that sex wasn't an option, so it feels like a betrayal.) If the player instead implies that this is because of their erratic behaviour in late act I, and possible depression during act II, they will look ashamed. "I'm sorry. I try." If the player assures them it's neither of those things, they will look relieved, though maybe a bit doubtful. "As you wish. I hope I can still call you friend, at least?"

(In act III)

Oh. I see. Did I… hurt you, somehow?

Player has the option to back down from the break-up here. If they don't, this is what follows.

Well, they say heartbreak makes for the best stories, the one I will be able to tell after this will be legendary. (not said unkindly, with a sad smile)

Broken Up - Neutral/Medium/High approval:

What do you need, my friend?

I still trust you. What can I do for you?

Broken Up - Low approval: (the player would have to work reeaaally hard to get Low Approval after approval got high enough that a romance could been initiated, but I still wanted to include those)

I hope you're not here to add insult to injury. I might very well return it.

Don't fight me with words, dear. This is a battle you will lose.

When spoken to by someone other than the player character:

I do like to chit-chat, love, but maybe not now? Serious matters can be addressed with the boss, over there.

I have to add that they would call the player 'love' after high approval is reached, regardless of romance options. This would be addressed in the same way you can address the 'cub' greeting Jaheira gives you after the Minsc quest, and if the player objects, they would not use the term anymore.

The 'dear' they can give occasionally in the negative approval usually means trouble. (a bit like you know you're in trouble when your parents call you by your full name. same vibe. I mean, my parents never did that, but I've been told it means trouble lol)