I Will Find Lesbians In Any Piece Of Media

I’m not stealing my sweet, murderous, thieving, angel baby’s things!

very fun as a rogue to just go from vault to vault taking literally everything in the counting house high security zone while glitterbeard is right behind us going "would you stop :/" very halfheartedly

i love being a 30+ woman in fandom. reblog if you also love being an old dame in fandom

A hug from Karlach would cure my depression.

AH-mazing!

She is quiet. Sharp tongue stilled. The noises she makes are soft and contented, never mind how Jaheira’s teeth scrape, how the bruises bloom. When Jaheira’s mouth moves lower, her breath hitches, her fingers tangling in Jaheira’s braids, and still she does not speak. “What?” Jaheira raises her head. “None of the Guildmaster’s trademark quick wit?” “A good commander knows when to shut the fuck up and do what needs doing,” Astele breathes, “and I am a good. Fucking. Commander.”

have had this sequel planned since i wrote the first fic :") very happy to finally finish it!

rb to tell prev they're being so brave right now and pat their head a little please

Greenfinch, Green Witch

"You think you're a darkness, Astele. Only a shadow; a ghost in my life—but can't you see you're really the moon? The light that brings me out of that blackness and guides me home?"

I just stared at you after you'd said it, mouth agape, and chose to focus on the gold flecks in your hazelnut eyes instead of saying anything. Because how the fuck was I supposed to answer that, Harper? What the fuck was I supposed to say? You waltzed into my fucking Guildhall, noticebly unholed, then talked to me like I was the love of your fucking life? How the fuck should I have responded, Harper?

Should I have told you that you're the only brightness in my supposedly cold, dead heart? That you're the sun to my moon and the dawn that greets me every morning? What the fuck should I've said to you?

Probably all of those things. But you changed the subject before I could snap my mouth back shut. I don't even remember what you said afterwards - your words were too busy gnawing away at me, hollowing out a hole for them to take root in like you'd just cast a vine spell directly into my chest.

But… none of that matters now. Now I'm trodding along the dusty brown dirt path that leads up to your little cottage in the forest, bag of holding thrown over my shoulder. It's a charming little place, deep within the woods, small and cozy. The walls are covered in thick green vines that twist and twine wild around the cottage, climbing up to the thatched roof to reach towards the rays of sun that barely break through the dense tree canopy. White smoke rises in thick clouds out of the chimney, lush green and purple herb beds line the walk and front of the cottage, and patches of pink, white, and yellow wildflowers sprout here and there.

Grandmother, my sweet Jaheira, my green witch. All green things grow for you and all animals call you friend. I call you my love.

As my feet carry me ever closer and my eyes dart around to take in every ivy covered tree and moss coated rock, I realize I'm quietly singing and wonder how long I've been at it with a shake of my head. It's a tune I'd written for you after the first time we'd kissed:

Amidst the forest green

I seeketh me a rose

Within the sunny brambles

Where the elder oak tree grows—

I meet within the wood

A maiden bright and fair

With eyes of golden honey

And silver gray of hair—

I sayeth to the maiden

You're the most beautiful rose

And I hold her to my breast

Where the elder oak tree grows—

Stupid, I know. Such a silly little thing to have warbled at you. I didn't even sing it to you until a month later, and when I did, you kissed me even sweeter and called me your greenfinch.

I stop to watch a black and gold bumblebee awkwardly dance around one of the pink pops of blooms that lines the path. It buzzes and sways in the air before almost crashing in the middle of a blossom to load its legs up with bright yellow pollen. There weren't bumblebees in the Guildhall. Beer, gnats, liars, and thieves. There was the occasional flower there though - you.

The admission, although mental, makes me chuckle because when the fuck did I start talking like that? Nine-Fingers Keene, ruthless Guildmaster and famous rogue.

Retired.

Retired and moving into the forest to live with her ancient Druid and retired High Harper girlfriend. I can hear the echoes of laughter that would have filled the Guildhall if anyone other than my Ladies Court would have ever found out. I tried not to love you, I did. But you - you made me fall for you with your smile as soft as light and your skin smelling of moss and fresh rain. How could I not fall head over heels?

Mol, the tiefling that once sought shelter in the Guildhall as a girl has replaced me. She's even smarter and more cunning than me if anyone can believe it. She'll do more than well there. None of that matters to me anymore. Nothing but your enchanting smile matters to me anymore.

Suddenly, I find myself surrounded by a little army of bunnies you've created for yourself. A spy network, I tell myself, as a brown and white spotted one with long, floppy ears rears up on its hind legs to sniff my trousers. I let it take a good, long whiff, and then it's off, racing towards the cottage like I'm here to set you on fire. Maybe I am. I watch the little rabbit run right up to your wooden front door. It turns to face me and looks me right in the eyes while it lifts its little brown back leg and thumps on the door in rapid succession. Tattletale.

But then the door opens and there you are. Your halo of gray hair, left down to be wild and free like your spirit, spills over your shoulders like a waterfall of silver stars.

"Astele," you gasp as if you didn't think I'd come. Of course I'd come for you, Harper. You've got some green witch enchantment on me. That's what I'd told myself all those years, after all, before I finally admitted that your face was the last one I imagine every night before I fall asleep.

My arms are swiftly full of my Jaheira; full of the warmth and brightness of the sun in all its splendor, and when your pillowy lips meet mine there's an eclipse. The yellow moon that is encased in my heart thrums and pounds in my chest, tight against the bones that cage them that ache and shiver only for you.

"You're finally here, my little greenfinch," you ghost against my lips.

How could I resist?

For @ixievee - thank you for the inspiration!

The moon is shy (revised), 2025- mixed media (watercolour and colour pencil) on hand made cold pressed paper.

This painting was inspired by a beautiful photo by @raethanbhanneth.

Some lore: in my sapphic, tumblr ridden soul, the sun and moon are lovers. They get to see each other for only a few hours each day in the quiet hours of dawn and dusk. And when they part, the sun leaves golden kisses on her lovers skin, a tender reminder etched in the freckles on her cheeks. ❤️

Fanfiction writers be like:

"here's the immensely time consuming 100K word novel-length passion project I'm working on between my real life job and family! It eats up hundreds of hours of my one and only life, causes me emotional harm, and I gain basically nothing from it! Also I put it on the internet for free so anyone can read if they want. Hope you love it!" :)

Menzoberranzan Waltz

Karlach x Minthara fic that’s been sitting in my drafts

Read under the cut or on ao3 for funsies

Rain came down in sideways sheets - hard and angry - reminiscent of a broken lover’s tears. The quick flooding caused by the downpour had turned most of their Rivington campground into deep muddy sludge, umber brown and unforgiving, curling fingers of darkness trying to drag Minthara back down to the Underdark. Her small wisteria frame shivered at both the thought of returning to a home in which she was no longer welcome, and the chill from the cold rainy air that was soaking into her marrow. Her heavy boots became caked with sticky earth as she made her way from her tent to the rickety wooden barn where the other adventurers were gathered.

The Drow’s pointed ears flicked upwards at attention as she neared the barn. A cacophony of noise emanated from the barn, the loudest of which being a lively tune Tav was playing on the violin. Finding shelter under a wooden awning, Minthara stopped for a moment to listen. The upbeat tune was high and fast, coaxing whooping and shouting from those within the barn who were excitedly encouraging Tav to continue. Peering into a window, Minthara spied Wyll dancing a lively jig with Astarion – likely a dance they had learned from Karlach. Aylin and Isobel were there as well, swaying in a corner to their own music, while Halsin clapped his hands along, and Shadowheart animatedly explained dance moves and mechanics to Lae’zel, who likely didn’t understand what the dance was or why it even mattered. Jaheira had secreted herself away in her tent with a book and a bottle of wine – something Minthara should have done herself if not for her curiosity getting the better of her.

Minthara trudged on in the gloom, mud sloshing up over her boots and onto her greaves. She wasn’t in the mood for lively dancing or cavorting with her younger companions. Orin had made an appearance in Rivington and that was the sole topic on her mind - the pain of what she had done to her when Minthara was under her enthrallment, the shame of feeling tricked and betrayed by one she thought she could trust, and the fear of what Orin could do to her if she were to fall into her grasp again. The horrors of what she had done in the name of the Absolute would forever scar her. It was fair to say that she had committed just as many atrocities in the Underdark, but at least that was because it was the culture of her homeland and on her own volition. She had no excuse for her barbarism on the surface, neither political nor personal, except that she was deceived, used, then thrown away like a broken plaything.

Dark thoughts continued to plague her mind as she ducked under trees and foliage for refuge from the storm. A few feet from the barn stood another wooden shack which was barely standing in the deluge, but sturdy enough that no rain leaked through the roof or walls. A reddish-orange glow emanated from the doorless entry, pulsating heat and steam. Minthara hid in the opening for a few moments, observing the heat source – Karlach. The Drow’s ruby eyes rolled over Karlach’s body, taking in her scars, her tattoos, and the ridges of her skin along with the vents embedded in her. Her eyes followed up the line of Karlach’s arm. The Tiefling was laying on her back holding Clive aloft in front of her with outstretched arms. Although the stuffed bear was held out in front of her face, Minthara noticed that Karlach’s eyes seemed to be focused elsewhere, fixed on nothing, a thousand miles away. A thought fluttered into Minthara’s brain, surprising her as it formed: the Tiefling was more beautiful than the evening sun and the rising stars.

A sharp breath escaped her nose as she leaned, finally visible, against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You are not in the barn. I would have expected to see you dancing the night away, wet as it is,” the Drow spoke softly, almost as if she was just as far away as Karlach’s eyes.

Karlach drew her arms back in and sat Clive on the ground next to her. She didn’t look at Minthara when she replied, “Just wasn’t in the mood, I guess. Don’t have anyone to dance with anyway, so.” The metal vents in her shoulders scraped the wood as she shrugged against the floor.

Minthara hummed. She didn’t have to ask why and knew Karlach wouldn’t want to talk about it anyway. Ten years in the Hells only to enjoy a few months on the surface before she overheated and was gone for good. Or, alternatively, a return to the Hells. Neither was optimal. Nor was sulking in a decrepit shack in the middle of a monsoon. But Minthara understood her loneliness. Under the cold façade of Drow, she knew what it was to be utterly alone and helpless. In those days and hours that she fled the Goblin Camp for Moonrise Towers, she had felt that loneliness crawl into her own bones. Then, whilst being interrogated by Z’rell and Ketheric, and tortured by her jailers, she knew complete abandonment. Minthara went to take a step towards the Tiefling, but hesitated. The music was loud enough to be heard still, but the tempo was all wrong. The Drow reached out with her parasite to their half-Drow male leader, then she paused, scowled, and waited. A slower tempo floated into the room as her request was granted. Of course it was. Jaluk.

She finally approached Karlach and stretched out a hand towards her. “May I have this dance?”

Karlach sighed, “You don’t need to offer me a pity dance, Minthara.”

“I pity no one,” Minthara stated bluntly. She did not pity Karlach. She understood her. It was different, she told herself.

She continued to stand over Karlach, hand outstretched, until the Tiefling finally relented. Minthara was dwarfed by their size difference, something she had quietly admired ever since they had met at camp. Despite Karlach towering over her, Minthara took the lead. “Place one hand on my shoulder and one on my waist,” she instructed, “and stand so we are two hand widths apart.”

Minthara led her slowly: forward step, slide, close, turn, then step back, slide, close, turn and repeat. Karlach fumbled at first, stepping on Minthara’s foot more than once, but it was a slow enough dance that she picked it up quickly. After a while, they simply swayed along to the music, settling into the quiet intimacy of the moment, not realizing that they were no longer two hand widths apart, nor actually waltzing. Minthara’s arm had become tightly wrapped around Karlach’s upper body, whilst the other had dropped from the Tiefling’s hand in favor of resting up against her sternum. One of Karlach’s arms rested against her shoulders, while her other arm snaked around her slender waist, the hand pressed perfectly into the small of her back.

Eventually, Karlach worked up the nerve to tease her by remarking, “This sounds like a funeral dirge.”

Minthara chuckled low and replied, “It is! Isn’t it wonderful? It’s a Menzoberranzan waltz. I –” Minthara shyly looked away, but continued, “I haven’t danced like this since I left home.”

Minthara exhaled against Karlach’s chest. She didn’t know why she had admitted that, but it was the truth. The last time she had waltzed was at her mother’s birthday party when Minthara was still young enough to dance and fuck all night long, then do it all again the next day. She laid her head against Karlach’s chest, right over her infernal engine, and closed her eyes. She remembered that night as they swayed in the infernally-lit darkness. She had donned an ankle length dress of blood red with high heeled shoes to match. Her hair, much shorter than now, feathered around her face and bounced with her every step as she waltzed around the room with every available woman willing to take her hand. And most were more than willing to take the hand of a Baenre. She let another thought surprise her: she imagined Karlach illuminating the Underdark, taking her hand in a slow waltz and dancing until they were breathless and laughing.

Karlach’s voice drew her from her fantasy, “Did you dance a lot down in Menzo?”

She wanted to answer, ‘Not with anyone like you.’ Instead, she responded with a short, “Yes.”

They continued to sway even after their bard leader changed to another upbeat tune. The Drow was simply enjoying not only the warmth of Karlach’s engine, but also the strength of her arms engulfing her small body. Karlach had rested her chin on the top of Minthara’s white hair and was rubbing absent minded circles on the back of her neck with her thumb. “Minthara? You alright?” Karlach asked softly after their swaying had crossed into a second jig.

Minthara pulled back slightly and, smiling, dropped her arms awkwardly to her sides. “Yes, I… I apologize, Karlach.” She wanted to say more. So much more. But for someone as typically bold and outspoken as Minthara, she found herself suddenly almost shy around the Tiefling. She found herself caring about what Karlach thought about her, and in turn, the group’s decisions and her own desires for the future. Instead of saying any of that, she turned and walked back towards the doorframe. Before she left, she glanced over her shoulder and said, “Thank you for the dance.”

what’s a friend call if you’re not saying in increasingly desperate tones “i want to do unspeakable things to that old woman and the game won’t even let me kiss her”