∘₊✧──✧₊∘Seluney ∘₊✧──✧∘₊ @moonselune - Tumblr Blog

Apr 12

The BG3 men manhandling you to safety:

Astarion:

The battle had devolved into the kind of messy, sprawling chaos that made strategy feel like a distant memory. Mud clung to your boots, smoke stung your eyes, and the clash of weapons rang endlessly in your ears as you pushed forward through the press of enemies with stubborn determination. You were tired, bruised, and running purely on adrenaline, but the sight of the enemy captain retreating toward the far side of the field lit a spark of reckless resolve in your chest.

If you could just reach them—just land one decisive blow— oh, the rush to your ego was just too sweet, so you surged ahead. Blissfully unaware that, behind you, somewhere in the shifting haze of battle, Astarion had noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

He had been watching you for the last several minutes with mounting irritation, tracking your movements with sharp, predatory focus as you edged farther and farther away from the relative safety of your formation. He knew that look on your face—the tight jaw, the narrowed eyes, the absolute refusal to back down even when the odds tilted dangerously out of your favor.

It was, in his professional opinion, one of your most infuriating traits and one of the most terrifyingly attractive.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, already moving. You didn’t hear him. You were too busy chasing the fleeing captain, weaving between clashing bodies, breath burning in your lungs as you closed the distance step by step. Victory felt tantalisingly close, just within reach.

Then the world shifted. A second enemy stepped into your path and another moved behind you. Before you could react, the careful rhythm of the fight collapsed into sudden danger, the space around you tightening like a trap snapping shut.

Astarion saw it all unfold in an instant and his stomach dropped.

“Oh, you absolute fool,” he hissed and instead of retreating back to safety, to make this someone else's problem, likely karlach's, he did something that surprised even himself, he ran towards the ugly fray.

Not with his usual lazy elegance, not with the theatrical grace he cultivated so carefully, but with raw, urgent speed that cut through the battlefield like a blade. He shoved past an opponent without breaking stride, ducked under a swinging mace, and closed the distance between you just as one of the enemies lunged. You barely had time to register the movement before something slammed into you from the side.

Hard.

The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as Astarion’s shoulder drove into your ribs, sending both of you stumbling sideways through the mud. The enemy’s strike whistled through empty air where your head had been a heartbeat earlier.

You gasped, disoriented. “What—”

His hand clamped around your arm like a vice. “-What,” he snapped, voice tight with fury, “do you think you are doing?”

You blinked up at him, still catching your breath. “I almost had them—”

“-You almost had a sword through your spine,” he shot back.

Before you could protest, he yanked you sharply backward, dragging you out of the fray with startling strength. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your sleeve as he hauled you step by step through the chaos. You resisted immediately, you were so close to winning.

“I can still fight—”

“No.”

“Astarion, let go—”

“Absolutely not!”

You twisted, trying to wrench free, but he anticipated the movement instantly. With a sharp, irritated sound, he shifted his hold—one arm sliding around your waist—and physically lifted you just enough to disrupt your footing. Your boots left the ground for a split second and you let out a startled noise. “Astarion!”

“You are coming with me,” he said through clenched teeth, dragging you behind the shattered remains of a stone barricade. You squirmed, like a child being dragged in for dinner, by their parent who had not had enough wine to deal with you.

“I was fine—”

“You were being spectacularly stupid. You reached new levels of stupidity that not even I was aware of. You-” You opened your mouth to interject in his ranting and twisted as you did. That was when it happened.

There was a tiny, horrifying sound. A faint, delicate crack. Everything stopped. Astarion froze mid-step and dropped you onto the ground with the ceremony of a sack of potatoes. Then slowly—very slowly—he looked down at his hand.

You followed his gaze from the floor, heart wrenching as the tragedy came into focuse.

One of his long, immaculately groomed nails had split clean across the tip, the smooth edge now jagged and uneven. For a moment, the battlefield noise seemed to fade into the background entirely. Astarion stared at the damage as if the world had personally betrayed him.

“…No,” he whispered.

You blinked.“…Is that—”

“-My nail,” he said faintly with the echoes of lament.

You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. He turned his hand slightly, inspecting the break from every possible angle, his expression shifting from shock to genuine outrage.

“I just finished shaping these this morning,” he said, voice tight with disbelief. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain standards in the wilderness?”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest despite yourself. You tried to swallow it. Failed tremedously.

Astarion’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You think this is amusing?”

You bit your lip, shoulders shaking. “A little.”

His expression darkened instantly, indignation flaring like a spark catching dry tinder.

“Oh, splendid. I risk life, limb, and manicure to rescue you from your own suicidal impulses, and you find it entertaining.”

You wiped at your eyes, still trying not to grin. “You broke a nail saving me.”

“Yes,” he snapped.

You tilted your head, studying him. “That’s rather heroic. We should be sure to tell Volo when we return to camp.”

He scoffed sharply, turning away as if the word 'heroic' physically offended him.

“Hardly." Astarion scoffed, eyes narrowing at his brutalised nail. "It was an act of self-preservation. If you insist on throwing yourself into danger at every opportunity, someone has to intervene before you ruin everything."

You watched him closely, warmth stirring quietly in your chest despite the lingering adrenaline. You picked yourself up off the floor and smiled at him. “You came after me.”

“Of course I did,” he said immediately. The words slipped out before he could stop them. He froze.

You raised an eyebrow and his jaw tightened. Then, almost violently, he pivoted away from the moment, anger rushing in to fill the space where something softer had threatened to surface.

“This,” he said sharply, gesturing accusingly at you with his uninjured hand, “is precisely why I cannot allow you any independence whatsoever. You are reckless, impulsive, and clearly determined to die in the most inconvenient manner possible and bring my own innocent hands down with you.”

You crossed your arms. “I had it under control.”

“You had nothing under control.”

You took a step toward him and he stepped back immediately, still glaring, still clutching his injured nail with exaggerated offense as if shielding it from you, so not to allow further damage.

“And now look,” he continued, voice dripping with dramatic despair. “Permanent damage. A tragedy. A catastrophe. Truly, history will remember this day.”

You laughed softly and he scowled harder.

“Stop smiling,” he muttered, trying to ignore the way it made his dead heart flutter.

“You’re worried about me.”

“I am worried about my manicure.” He emphasised by showing off his broken nail and pointing at it with flair. You took another step closer.

He held his ground this time, but his expression flickered—annoyance warring with something far more vulnerable that he clearly had no intention of acknowledging.

You reached out gently and took his hand, the one with the broken nail and he stiffened immediately. Looking at you like he was trying to understand what audacity had overcome you.

“You risked yourself for me,” you said quietly.

His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and guarded. He scoffed, pulling his hand back just enough to reestablish distance, retreating behind irritation like a shield.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said briskly. “I simply refuse to let you die before I’ve had the opportunity to use you for all your apparent worth.”

You smiled again and he rolled his eyes dramatically, already turning away.

“Now stay here,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Try not to endanger yourself—or my grooming routine—again.”

Gale:

The deeper chambers of the Sharran temple possessed the sort of oppressive quiet that made every sound feel intrusive, as though the place itself disapproved of living things disturbing its long-abandoned halls. The stone underfoot was cold and worn smooth by centuries of passing feet, the walls etched with the dark, elegant iconography of Shar—crescent moons, shadowed figures, and carvings that seemed to drink in the dim torchlight rather than reflect it. The air was cool and carried a faint scent of damp stone, dust, and something else beneath it all, something sweet in a way that felt distinctly out of place among the gloom.

Gale walked beside you, his hands clasped loosely behind his back in the posture he adopted when his mind was particularly occupied, his eyes flicking over the architecture with scholarly interest while he murmured half-formed observations under his breath about Sharran religious symbolism and the lingering magical residue saturating the temple. Every so often he would gesture vaguely at a carving or faded mural, clearly itching to launch into a proper lecture but restraining himself in favor of focusing on the task at hand, scouting out for Raphael's enemy.

You, meanwhile, were only half listening. Because you had spotted something far more interesting.

You stopped walking abruptly, crouching down near one of the pillars where the stone floor dipped slightly in a shallow depression.

“Gale,” you said thoughtfully.

“Hm?” he replied absently, still scanning a row of carvings along the wall.

“Look at this.”

He glanced over with mild curiosity, then saw what you were looking at. His entire expression shifted instantly from idle interest to deep, immediate concern.

Lying on the stone floor between the pillars was a spider. Not a small one either, but a thick-bodied creature the size of a boulder, its legs curled tightly inward in the unmistakable posture of death. Its glossy amber abdomen reflected the faint light of Gale’s staff. You leaned closer, resting your chin in your hand as you studied it with growing fascination.

Gale frowned.

“Why,” he asked slowly, “are you looking at it like that?”

You tilted your head. There was a scent drifting faintly from the thing—not the rot of decay, but something strangely sweet, almost honeyed, with an undercurrent that tickled the back of your mind in a way that was both intriguing and vaguely intoxicating.

“…Interesting,” you murmured.

Gale’s frown deepened. “Interesting how?”

You didn’t answer immediately; instead, you leaned forward slightly. And before Gale could process what you were about to do, you reached down and gave the spider a quick experimental lick.

There was a moment—long and terrible—of absolute silence.

Gale’s brain appeared to have completely stop functioning. Very slowly, as though afraid that moving too quickly might somehow make the moment more real, he turned his head to look at you.

“You,” he said faintly, “licked a dead spider.”

You blinked up at him.

“Yes.”

“Dead,” he repeated carefully. “Spider.”

“Correct.”

“You licked it.”

“That is also correct.”

Gale stared at you in the way one might stare at a catastrophic magical anomaly that had just appeared in the middle of the room.

“That,” he said after a long pause, “is something that happened.”

You shrugged lightly. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, exhaling in the deeply weary manner of someone whose day had just taken a deeply unexpected turn.

“I think,” he said carefully, “we need to get you some air… and perhaps have a long conversation about unresolved childhood issues.”

You snorted at that, clearly unrepentant. And then, because the thought had already taken root in your mind, you leaned forward again toward the spider.

Gale made a strangled sound. “Stop licking the damn thing!—”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist just before your tongue could reach its intended target for a second time.

“What,” he demanded, his voice climbing an octave, “is wrong with you?”

You pouted immediately. “It tastes funny.”

“That is not a justification!”

You attempted to lean forward anyway. Gale tightened his grip instantly, hauling your arm back toward him.

“No!” Gale responded, his face twisted in absolute horror of your disposition.

“Just one more,” you insisted, pouting slightly

“For the love of Mystra, no.” Gale told you, his grip on you tightening.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I'm being dramatic?!" Gale's voice pitched up a few octaves at the accusation. "You licked a corpse!”

“It’s barely a corpse.”

“It is very much a corpse!” Gale stressed as he pulled you further away from it by your arm, and you couldn't help but giggle. And that was when Gale realized something else was wrong.

Your laughter was slightly too loose, your expression flushed in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment, and when you looked up at him your pupils were blown wide, swallowing nearly all the color of your irises.

Your breathing had quickened and there was a strange, restless energy humming through your movements that definitely had not been there moments earlier.

Gale’s stomach dropped.

“…Oh dear,” he murmured. You were still trying to lean toward the spider. He grabbed your shoulders this time and physically pulled you backwards. “No more licking mysterious temple wildlife!”

You laughed again, clearly delighted by his distress.

“Why not?”

“Because it is deeply disturbing behavior!”

But now that strange warmth was spreading through your limbs, a buzzing heat that made the air feel thick and your thoughts pleasantly fuzzy. Everything around you seemed sharper somehow—brighter, more vivid.

And Gale was holding you very tightly and standing very close.

Very close indeed.

You looked at him slowly, your gaze drifting over the lines of his face, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the soft curl of his hair falling slightly into his eyes. Gale shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked cautiously.

You leaned more into his touch, relaxing in his hold of you. He froze, as if suddenly realising he was manhandling you and an awkwardness settled in his chest as he suppressed his own feelings for you. Luckily, he did not have time to dwell on it as you spoke again.

“You’re very pretty,” you said sincerely.

His brain short-circuited.

“I—what?”

Then, without further warning, you leaned forward to kiss him. Gale reacted purely on instinct. He released you only for his hand to come up immediately, pressing gently but firmly against your face and pushing it to the side before your lips could reach him.

“No!”

You blinked in surprise. “…Rude.”

“You are not in your right mind,” he said softly but firmly, now holding you at arm’s length. Which did not stop you from trying again.

He caught both your shoulders.

“Stop that.”

You giggled again, clearly unbothered.

Gale’s concern was rapidly turning into full-blown alarm. The sweet scent from the spider drifted through the air once more and the pieces clicked together in his mind with horrifying clarity.

“…Succubus enchantment,” he muttered. You were still attempting to lean toward him.

“Just one kiss.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You pouted dramatically and then abruptly attempted to dart past him—back toward the spider. Gale reacted immediately.

“Oh no you don’t.” He grabbed you around the waist and hauled you bodily away from it. You squirmed and protested loudly.

“Let me go!”

“You have already licked it twice!”

“It’s interesting!”

“It is cursed!”

You laughed helplessly, the entire situation clearly far more amusing to you than it was to him. Gale, meanwhile, was beginning to look like a man being slowly driven to madness.

“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is precisely the sort of situation wizard training does not prepare you for.”

You attempted to twist free again. So Gale did the only thing he could think of. He picked you up. Entirely.

You squeaked in shock as he hoisted you over his shoulder with surprising determination and strength.

“Gale!”

“You are coming with me.”

You kicked your legs indignantly.

“Put me down!”

“No.”

“This is kidnapping!”

“This is damage control!”

You wriggled and twisted the entire way out of the temple, attempting several times to lean down and kiss the back of his neck, which caused Gale to nearly trip more than once while he tried very hard not to think about the warmth of you against his shoulder. He had plans, a whole starry sky full of plans to woo you, you being horny from dead spider meat was not in those plans.

“Oh for the love of Mystra—stop that!”

You only laughed harder. By the time the distant glow of the campfire came into view through the trees, Gale looked like a man who had aged several years in the span of a single hour.

“You,” he declared breathlessly as he carried you toward camp, “are never allowed near enchanted wildlife again.”

You hummed happily, clearly unconvinced, and Gale sighed the long, exhausted sigh of someone who already knew, deep in his soul, that this was absolutely not the last time he would have to physically drag you away from something profoundly ill-advised.

Wyll:

The battle had turned into a storm of steel and shouting, the kind of chaos where dust hung thick in the air and every sound felt too loud, too close, too urgent.

You were in the middle of it—of course you were—boots sliding in the churned earth as you pressed forward with stubborn determination, blade flashing in the dim light. The enemy line wavered ahead of you, and you saw your chance, that tantalizing sliver of opportunity that whispered if you just pushed a little farther, just a little harder, you could turn the tide.

So you did. You pressed forward, heart pounding, ignoring the shouted warnings from behind you as adrenaline burned hot in your veins. The world narrowed to the swing of your weapon, the clash of metal, the rush of movement—

And then everything went wrong. A horn sounded somewhere to your left. Reinforcements.

More enemies poured into the fray, closing the gap around you with frightening speed, their weapons raised, their movements coordinated in a way that made your stomach drop as you realized—too late—that you had gone too far ahead.

You turned, searching for your allies but the distance between you and safety had grown. Fast.

Across the battlefield, Wyll Ravengard saw it happen in an instant.

He had been fighting with his usual flair—blade moving in clean, practiced arcs, posture straight even in the chaos—but the moment he spotted you surrounded, his focus snapped sharply into place. The easy confidence on his face hardened into something fierce and protective, his instincts screaming louder than reason.

You were in danger and that was all that mattered.

He moved, not cautiously, not hesitantly, but with the bold, sweeping urgency of a hero charging into the final act of a grand tale. He cut through the battlefield with powerful strides, parrying one blow, then another, his cloak snapping dramatically behind him as he forced his way toward you.

You didn’t see him coming. You were too busy fending off the attackers closing in around you, breath coming fast and uneven as you tried to hold your ground. Your muscles burned, your footing slipped, and for the first time, doubt flickered in the back of your mind.

Then suddenly— A strong arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

You barely had time to gasp before you were pulled sharply backward, lifted clean off your feet as the world spun in a blur of motion.

“What—!”

You collided against a solid chest, the scent of leather and smoke and something warm and familiar filling your senses as you were swept out of danger in one smooth, decisive movement.

“Easy,” Wyll’s voice said close to your ear, steady and reassuring even over the roar of battle.

You blinked, disoriented, as he carried you several long strides away from the press of enemies, his grip secure and unwavering. One arm held you firmly against him, the other wielded his blade with effortless precision, deflecting a strike that came too close for comfort.

Your heart hammered wildly in your chest.

“Wyll—!”

“I’ve got you,” he replied, calm but firm.

The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, warm and steadying in a way you hadn’t expected. He didn’t set you down immediately.

Instead, he continued moving, guiding you through the chaos with confident purpose, his hold protective without being rough, his posture straight and unyielding as he carried you toward safer ground. It felt—absurdly, impossibly—like something out of a storybook, like the kind of dramatic rescue sung about in taverns by bards who believed in happy endings and heroic gestures.

You finally found your voice.

“You can put me down,” you protested, breathless.

“In a moment,” he said smoothly. You glanced up at him, and the sight nearly stole your breath all over again.

Dust streaked across his cheek, his braids slightly dishevelled from the fight, but his expression remained composed, focused, utterly determined. There was a spark of concern in his eyes, softened by something warmer, something gentler that made your pulse stutter.

He looked like a knight straight from a romance novel. Strong. Dashing. Completely unflappable. You swallowed and you could feel your preteen self practically swooning.

“I was handling it,” you insisted weakly, if not to him, to yourself.

His mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile.

“I have no doubt,” he replied, voice rich with reassurance. “But even the bravest heroes deserve a rescue now and then.”

Heat rushed to your face. He finally slowed, reaching the relative safety behind a line of fallen stone where the rest of your companions were regrouping. Only then did he lower you carefully back onto your feet, his hands lingering just a second longer than strictly necessary to make sure you were steady.

You swayed slightly. His hands tightened instinctively at your waist.

“Are you hurt?” he asked immediately, concern sharpening his tone. You are breathing quite heavily-"

"I'm fine!" You said a bit too quickly, and you took a deep breath in to steady yourself. “No. Just—startled.”

His gaze softened. “Good,” he said quietly.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. The battle still raged in the distance, steel clashing and voices shouting, but here, in the small pocket of safety he had carved out, everything felt strangely still.

You became suddenly aware of how close he was—how warm his hands felt where they rested at your sides, how steady his presence was, how easily he had carried you as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You didn’t have to be so dramatic about it,” you said, attempting to sound casual.

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his expression.

“Dramatic?” he echoed lightly.

You nodded, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in your chest.

“Yes. Very heroic. Very… theatrical.”

A soft chuckle escaped him.

“Well,” he said, releasing you at last, though his gaze lingered warmly on your face, “if I’m to be accused of anything, I would much rather it be heroism than negligence.”

You felt your lips tug into an involuntary smile.

He stepped back then, drawing his sword again as his attention returned to the battlefield—but not before giving you one last steady look, equal parts reassurance and quiet promise.

“Stay close this time,” he said gently.

And somehow, after being swept off your feet like that, you found yourself very willing to listen.

Halsin:

The forest had turned against you.

What had begun as a routine skirmish along the edge of the wilderness had spiraled into something far more dangerous, the undergrowth thick and uncooperative beneath your boots, branches clawing at your armor as you pressed forward with stubborn determination. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves, heavy with the sharp tang of sap and the distant metallic scent of blood, and somewhere above the canopy the wind howled through the treetops like a warning you had chosen, perhaps unwisely, to ignore.

You refused to retreat.

Even as the situation shifted—enemies closing in from multiple directions, the terrain growing treacherous, the ground slick with mud and scattered debris—you dug in your heels and fought harder, your breath coming fast and hot in your lungs, your muscles burning with the effort of holding your position. You could hear your companions calling out behind you, voices strained with urgency, but you blocked them out, focused entirely on the opponent in front of you and the stubborn, unyielding conviction that you could handle this on your own.

Then the ground gave way.

It happened in a heartbeat—a sudden collapse of loose earth beneath your feet, the edge of a concealed drop crumbling under your weight as you stepped forward to strike. The world lurched violently, your balance disappearing as the soil slid out from under you, sending rocks and dirt tumbling into the steep ravine below. For one terrifying instant, your stomach dropped and your arms flailed for purchase, fingers grasping at empty air as gravity threatened to drag you over the edge.

And then—

You were seized.

A massive hand clamped around your upper arm with crushing strength, halting your fall so abruptly it stole the breath from your lungs. Before you could even gasp, a second arm wrapped securely around your waist, hauling you backward with irresistible force. Your boots skidded across the unstable ground as you were dragged away from the crumbling ledge, your body lifted clear off your feet as though you weighed nothing at all.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were pulled firmly against a broad, solid chest, your back colliding with something warm, immovable, and undeniably powerful.

“Enough.”

The word landed like a thunderclap. You froze. There was no mistaking that voice—deep, resonant, and usually so calm it carried the steady reassurance of ancient stone—but now it was edged with something sharper, something fierce and unmistakably angry.

Halsin.

He did not release you. If anything, his grip tightened, one arm locked securely around your middle while the other steadied you by the shoulder, holding you firmly in place as the last of the loose earth tumbled into the ravine below. You could feel the tension in him, the coiled strength beneath his skin, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled, measured breaths that spoke of restraint rather than calm.

You twisted slightly, still disoriented, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

“I had it,” you protested weakly, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then he turned you. Not gently. Not carefully. But firmly—hands gripping your shoulders, guiding you around until you were forced to face him directly. His expression stopped you cold. You had never seen him like this before.

Gone was the patient warmth, the soft kindness that usually lived in his eyes. In its place burned something fierce and protective, his jaw set tight, his brow drawn low, the quiet authority he carried every day sharpened into something far more intimidating.

“You had it?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate.

Your mouth opened and quickly closed again. Because the look on his face made it very clear that this was not a conversation you were going to win.

“You nearly fell,” he continued, his tone rising slightly, frustration bleeding through the calm he usually wore so effortlessly. “You ignored every warning, every signal, every call to retreat, and you placed yourself in needless danger.”

The reprimand hit harder than any blow. You blinked at him, stunned—not by the words themselves, but by the sheer force of emotion behind them.

He was angry. Not irritated or mildly concerned. Truly, deeply angry.

“I was trying to hold the line,” you said, your voice quieter now, defensive but uncertain.

“And you would have held it from the bottom of that ravine?” he shot back immediately.

The sharpness of the retort caught you off guard. He had never spoken to you like this before. Never raised his voice. Never allowed his frustration to show so openly. And yet here he was, towering over you, his hands still planted firmly on your shoulders, his grip strong enough to keep you steady but impossible to ignore.

“You are not expendable,” he said, the words landing with heavy finality. “Not to this battle. Not to this cause. And certainly not to me.”

Your breath caught. The forest seemed to go very still around you, the distant sounds of combat fading into the background as the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.

You should have felt chastened. Embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed. Instead—Something warm and unexpected unfurled low in your chest.

Because there was something undeniably compelling about this side of him—the fierce protectiveness, the unyielding authority, the raw intensity of his concern. The way his deep voice rumbled with restrained anger, the way his broad shoulders squared as he held his ground, the way his presence filled the space around you like an unmovable force of nature.

It did something to you.

Your lips twitched. Then, despite every ounce of common sense you possessed— You smiled. Just a little. The reaction was immediate.

“Do you find this amusing?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You tried—truly tried—to school your expression into something more appropriate.

“I—no,” you said quickly, though the warmth lingering in your gaze betrayed you. His jaw tightened.

“You are smiling,” he pointed out, clearly unimpressed.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

There was a beat of silence. Then your smile widened despite yourself, a faint flush creeping up your neck as the realization settled in.

Gods. You liked this.

You liked the firmness in his voice, the way his hands remained steady and grounding on your shoulders, the protective anger burning in his expression. You liked the way he refused to back down, the way he held you accountable, the way he looked at you as though your safety mattered more than anything else in the world.

It was incredibly attractive. And he saw it.

The exact moment he realized what was happening flickered across his face—confusion first, then dawning recognition, followed swiftly by a fresh surge of exasperation.

“Incredible,” he muttered under his breath.

Your smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew softer, more open, your eyes lingering on his face in a way that made his frustration deepen rather than ease.

“You frightened me,” he said suddenly, the words slipping out rougher than before. The honesty in them made your chest tighten.

But still— You couldn’t stop looking at him like that.

Couldn’t stop the small, stubborn warmth curling in your stomach. His hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize the seriousness of his next words.

“This is not a game,” he said firmly. “You will listen when I tell you to fall back. You will trust that I am acting to protect you. And you will not throw yourself into danger simply because your pride refuses to yield.”

You nodded slowly.

“Yes,” you said trying to sound convincing, but the soft smile remained.

His eyes narrowed again, frustration simmering dangerously close to the surface.

“You are still doing it,” he said.

“Doing what?” you asked innocently.

“Looking at me like that.”

You tilted your head slightly, feigning confusion, though the warmth in your expression gave you away completely. He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to say something more.

Something harsher. Something he would likely regret.

Instead, he released you at last, though his gaze lingered, heavy and watchful, as though he fully expected you to charge back toward the danger the moment his hands left you.

“Stay close,” he ordered.

The command was firm. Uncompromising. And, to your own quiet surprise— You found yourself smiling again.

Rolan:

The explosion of magic came out of nowhere.

One moment you were locked in a tense standoff, trading careful strikes and measured spells with the enemy forces pressing in from the edges of the ruined courtyard. The air was thick with dust and the sharp tang of ozone, the ground beneath your boots trembling faintly from the force of arcane power being hurled back and forth. You had been focused—intensely so—tracking movements, calculating distance, preparing your next strike.

Then a fireball detonated against the far wall.

The blast sent a shockwave tearing through the courtyard, rattling loose stones from the crumbling masonry and filling the air with choking smoke and swirling debris. The force knocked several fighters off their feet, and for a brief, disorienting moment, everything dissolved into noise and confusion.

You staggered but kept your footing, pushing forward through the haze, squinting against the smoke, determined to regain control of the situation before the enemy could capitalize on the chaos. Your instincts screamed to keep moving, to stay aggressive, to hold the line no matter what.

Behind you, unnoticed in the turmoil, Rolan saw exactly what you were doing and he did not hesitate. The tiefling had been stationed near the rear, hands glowing faintly with residual magic, mind racing as he assessed the battlefield with sharp, anxious precision. Normally, he preferred distance, control, and careful calculation.

Normally. But then he saw the enemy preparing another spell and he saw your foolish beautiful self walking straight into its path and something inside him snapped into place with sudden, startling clarity.

You took another step forward, coughing lightly as smoke burned in your lungs, your vision still blurred from the blast. Shapes moved in the haze ahead—enemies regrouping, weapons raised—but you pressed on stubbornly, determined to finish what you had started.

You never saw the spellcaster lift their hand. Never saw the gathering surge of arcane energy coiling into a tight, deadly sphere. Rolan did, however, and his heart lurched into his throat.

“Move!” he shouted. You half-turned at the sound of his voice, confusion flickering across your face.

“What—?”

The spell was released. There was no time. No room for careful planning. No chance to think about dignity or appearances or the fact that this was very much not the sort of dramatic heroics he wanted to display for you of all people.

Rolan ran fast—faster than you had ever seen him move—boots pounding against the stone as he sprinted straight into the heart of the danger without a second thought.

You barely had time to register the blur of motion before something slammed into you from the side. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as arms wrapped tightly around your torso, hauling you off balance and dragging you bodily out of the path of the incoming blast.

The spell struck the ground where you had been standing an instant later, exploding in a violent burst of light and heat. You stumbled, disoriented, your ears ringing as the world tilted sideways.

“What the—?”

“Gods, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Rolan snapped. You blinked. Your vision cleared just enough to focus on the face inches from yours—flushed, breathless, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and irritation. But you recognised that voice of worried distain anywhere

Rolan. You stared at him. “Rolan?”

“Yes, Rolan,” he shot back, still gripping your arm with surprising strength. “Who else would be foolish enough to sprint into a blast zone after you?”

You opened your mouth and promptly closed it again. Because you were still trying to process the fact that he was holding you—firmly, decisively—dragging you backward through the chaos with a grip that brooked absolutely no argument.

You stumbled slightly as he pulled you behind a half-collapsed stone pillar, his hand tightening instinctively to steady you.

“I had it handled,” you protested weakly.

He stopped abruptly. Turned to face you. His expression was incredulous, similar to the look he had given to you back at the Last Light Inn when you said you would be the one to help him bring his sibling back.

“You were about to be incinerated.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were!” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the sharp edge of fear slipping through despite his best efforts to maintain composure. You blinked at him, caught off guard.

Before you could respond, another distant explosion rattled the courtyard, sending a fresh cascade of dust drifting down from the broken walls. Without hesitation, Rolan grabbed your wrist again and pulled you farther into cover, positioning himself squarely between you and the open battlefield.

The movement was instinctive. Protective. You couldn't help but stare.

“Since when,” you managed, still breathless, “do you charge into danger like that for someone you despise like me?”

He froze for half a second, clearly realizing what he had just done. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.

“I—well—someone had to,” he said stiffly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You tackled me.”

“I did not tackle you.”

“You absolutely tackled me.”

He bristled immediately. “I rescued you,” he corrected, drawing himself up with wounded dignity. “There is a distinction.”

You couldn’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escaped your throat. It was still surreal—being manhandled to safety by Rolan of all people, and yet here he was.

Standing close. Still holding your arm. Still breathing a little too fast. Still watching you with unmistakable concern.

“You ran straight into that,” you said quietly. His gaze flicked away for a moment, jaw tightening.

“Well,” he muttered, “you were being reckless.”

The words were defensive, but the tremor beneath them gave him away. You studied him, something warm and unexpected stirring in your chest.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He blinked. The simple sincerity of it seemed to throw him completely off balance.

“I—yes—well,” he stammered, color creeping up his neck. “Try not to require such dramatic interventions in the future.”

You smiled faintly. “I’ll do my best.”

Raphael:

The fight had begun as so many of yours did—loud, messy, and entirely under your control, or so you believed.

Steel clashed in sharp, ringing bursts that echoed through the ruined hall, each strike reverberating up your arms and settling deep into your bones as you pushed forward with relentless determination. Dust drifted lazily from the fractured ceiling overhead, disturbed by the force of spells detonating against stone pillars and shattered walls, while the air itself seemed to hum with tension, thick with heat, smoke, and the lingering bite of magic that prickled unpleasantly across your skin. It was chaos, yes—but it was a chaos you understood, one you had learned to navigate with stubborn confidence and an almost reckless refusal to yield.

You advanced another step, breath coming hard but steady, your focus narrowing to the enemy directly in front of you. Their guard faltered under the pressure of your assault, their footing slipping slightly across the debris-strewn floor as you drove them backward with a sharp, decisive strike. Victory felt close—so close you could practically taste it—and the familiar surge of adrenaline pushed you onward, urging you to finish the fight before anyone else could interfere.

That was when the battle shifted.

It was subtle at first—a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, the faint whisper of leather against stone behind you, the quiet repositioning of an opponent you had momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment. But you were too focused, too determined to press your advantage, and the warning signs slipped past your notice like shadows in the dark.

Someone else noticed.

From the far side of the hall, just beyond the immediate clash of weapons and magic, Raphael watched with an expression that hovered somewhere between mild amusement and growing irritation. He stood perfectly composed amidst the chaos, doublet untouched by dust or blood, as though the violence unfolding around him were nothing more than an elaborate performance staged for his personal entertainment. His sharp gaze tracked your movements with unsettling precision, lingering not on the enemies themselves but on you—on the way you pressed too far ahead of the others, on the way your attention locked forward while danger gathered quietly behind your back.

He saw the blade rise. Saw the intent behind it. Saw how little time remained. A soft, exasperated sigh escaped him, barely audible beneath the din of battle.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured, voice smooth and low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like concern despite the dry humor lacing his tone. “You truly do make a habit of this and it simply will not do.”

You never saw the attack coming.

The enemy behind you moved with sudden, lethal speed, their weapon arcing downward in a clean, deadly line aimed squarely for the space between your shoulders. Your focus remained fixed on the opponent in front of you, your muscles already coiled to deliver the next strike, completely unaware of the danger closing in from behind.

Then the world shifted.

Without warning, a powerful arm wrapped around your waist, firm and unyielding, hauling you backward with startling force. Your feet left the ground entirely, the momentum of your forward motion abruptly stolen as you were yanked out of the path of the descending blade. The weapon sliced through empty air where you had been standing an instant earlier, its edge biting uselessly into the stone floor with a harsh, grating screech.

The sudden movement knocked the breath from your lungs.

“What in the hells—?!”

Your protest dissolved into confusion as you found yourself pressed against a solid, immovable chest, your back colliding with a figure who smelled faintly of musk, cherries, and unmistakable sulfur. The heat of him seeped through the layers of your armor, unsettlingly warm, and before you could fully process what had happened, a familiar voice drifted down beside your ear—silky, amused, and entirely too composed given the circumstances.

“Really,” Raphael murmured, his tone equal parts dry reproach and quiet satisfaction, “must you insist on turning every minor skirmish into a near-death experience?”

Your stomach dropped as recognition slammed into you.

You twisted immediately, bracing your hands against his chest in an attempt to push yourself free, indignation flaring hot and sharp in your chest. But his hold did not loosen. If anything, his grip tightened just enough to steady you, his arm locked securely around your middle in a way that made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of releasing you anytime soon.

“Let go of me,” you snapped, breath still uneven from the abrupt rescue.

“Mmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, as though considering the request with polite interest rather than immediate compliance. “I don’t believe I shall.”

Before you could argue further, he moved again—smoothly, effortlessly, as though the chaos of the battlefield meant nothing at all. The air around you seemed to twist and fold in on itself, reality bending subtly at the edges as he guided—no, dragged—you several paces away from the thickest part of the fighting. The shift was disorienting, the world blurring for a heartbeat before snapping back into focus as your boots touched solid ground once more.

You staggered slightly, caught off balance by the sudden displacement.

His arm was still around you. Still holding you firmly in place and entirely too close to you.

“I said let go,” you repeated, sharper this time, irritation bleeding into your voice as you struggled against his grip.

“And I heard you,” he replied calmly, unmoved. “I simply chose not to comply.”

Your temper flared. “I was handling that!”

Raphael finally released you then—but only enough for you to turn and face him fully. His hand remained on your arm, fingers curled securely around your sleeve, as though he expected you to bolt straight back into danger the moment he loosened his hold.

He regarded you with a faintly raised brow, his expression composed yet unmistakably skeptical.

“Handling it?” he echoed, voice smooth as polished glass. “My dear, you were moments away from being carved open like an overripe fruit.”

“I was not—”

“You were,” he interrupted, more firmly this time, the humor in his voice thinning just enough to reveal the steel beneath. “And while I admire your enthusiasm for dramatic heroics, I would prefer not to witness your untimely demise today.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You crossed your arms, bristling.

“I don’t need you stepping in every time things get difficult,” you shot back, frustration bubbling over. “I’m not your responsibility. I’m not your—”

“Pet?” he supplied smoothly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a knowing smile.

Your jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

For a brief moment, the teasing expression faded, replaced by something quieter—something more deliberate and unexpectedly sincere.

“No,” he said softly. “You are not.”

The simple acknowledgment caught you off guard, stealing the sharp edge from your anger for just a heartbeat.

But before you could respond, another blast of magic struck nearby, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor. Instinctively, Raphael stepped forward again, one hand settling against your shoulder to guide you back out of harm’s way. The motion was swift, decisive, and maddeningly protective.

You jerked away, irritation returning in full force. “I can stand on my own,” you insisted. His fingers tightened briefly, steadying you as you shifted your footing.

“Then stand somewhere less likely to get yourself killed,” he replied sharply.

For a moment, the usual theatrical arrogance slipped away entirely, revealing a flash of something deeper beneath the surface—an edge of genuine concern that unsettled you far more than his teasing ever could. The faint smile returned to his lips, smooth and composed, as though the brief crack in his mask had never existed at all.

“There we are,” he said lightly, stepping back at last and releasing you completely. “Safe and sound. A much more agreeable outcome, don’t you think?”

You straightened, brushing dust from your armor with more force than necessary, your pride still smarting from the unwanted intervention.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you muttered.

“No,” he agreed easily, hands clasped behind his back as he regarded you with quiet amusement. “You rarely do.”

A beat passed between you, the tension lingering in the air like the fading echo of thunder.

“I had it under control,” you insisted again, stubborn to the end.

Raphael tilted his head slightly, studying you with that same unsettling intensity. “Of course you did,”

You narrowed your eyes.“I mean it.”

“And I believe you,” he replied smoothly, his voice lowering just enough to carry a hint of something more earnest beneath the polished charm. A pause. Then, softer— “I simply chose not to risk being wrong.”

The words settled heavily in your chest, unwelcome and difficult to ignore. You exhaled slowly, frustration still simmering—but now tangled with something far more complicated, something you weren’t ready to name. You shot him one last glare.

“Next time,” you said firmly, “stay out of it.”

His smile deepened, slow and knowing, as though he had already made his decision long before you spoke.

“Of course, pet."

I simply could not resist doing the spider scene for gale, I know everyone else's was during battle but I just could not pass up the opportunity.

I really hope you guys enjoyed these! I have a similar concept to this in mind, but dithering on whether or not to do it for the dark!BG3 lot or the regular companions. Decisions, decisions. Anyway hope everyone is doing well 💜- Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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