Quick reminder for fanfic writers both on here and ESPECIALLY on AO3…
If your main character has a name and described appearance, DO NOT use the character x reader tag. Like…seriously.
That is an OC. Use the “x oc” or “x original character” tag. Stop using the “x reader” tag. It will not give you more reach because people looking through the “x reader” tag aren’t going to read it. Three guesses why.
You are also making the filtering system null and void, which is harmful ESPECIALLY for archival sites like ao3 where the tags and filtering system are specifically there to make things easier. It’s basic fandom etiquette guys. Common sense and consideration for others. It won’t kill you to tag things correctly.
BG3 Companions reacting to you being stood up (when they have a crush on you) + Rolan & Raphael
This has never happened to me guys, definitely not using any recent experiences to help write this, not me, no, not at all
Karlach:
Karlach finds out by accident.
You’re lacing your boots near the fire, humming to yourself, when you mention it casually—too casually—like it’s nothing worth noticing.
“Oh, by the way, I’m heading into town tonight. I’ve got a date.”
If Karlach were less honest with her emotions, she might have hidden it better. As it is, the reaction flashes across her face before she can stop it: the way her grin falters, the way her shoulders stiffen, the brief, stunned pause like someone’s knocked the air clean out of her chest.
Then she recovers. Mostly.
“Oh!” she says brightly, a little too brightly. “That’s—yeah! That’s great. Awesome. You should, uh—have fun. Big fun. Tons of fun.” She gives you a thumbs-up that looks like it might snap off from how hard she’s holding it there. “You deserve it.”
You don’t miss the way her tail flicks once, sharp and unsettled, before she forces it still. Or how she suddenly finds the ground fascinating.
She even helps you straighten your collar before you go, fingers warm and lingering just a heartbeat too long.
“Knock ’em dead,” she says, voice soft. “Literally—no, wait. Metaphorically. You know what I mean.”
You do. And for a moment, you wonder if you should say something. But you don’t.
You’re back far sooner than anyone expects.
The campfire’s still burning when you step into the clearing again, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the ground like you’re hoping it might swallow you whole. You don’t say anything at first—just drop your cloak onto a log and sit down hard, staring at nothing.
Karlach notices immediately.
She’s on her feet in two strides, boots thudding softly against the dirt as she crouches in front of you, eyes searching your face.
“Hey,” she says gently. “What happened? You’re back already.”
You shrug, the motion small and defeated. “They… didn’t show. I waited. An hour. Asked around. Turns out they left town this morning.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Karlach straightens slowly, firelight catching in her eyes as something fierce and incandescent ignites there.
“…Oh.”
She plants her hands on her hips, jaw tightening. “Fuck them.”
The sheer, immediate certainty of it startles a weak laugh out of you.
“No, seriously,” she continues, already pacing. “Fuck. Them. You get dressed up, you put yourself out there, and they just—what? Decide you’re optional? Nah. Absolutely not.”
She stops in front of you again, crouching so she’s eye-level, her expression softening but her voice still burning with indignation.
“Listen to me. You are way too beautiful to be stood up. That’s on them. Entirely.”
You blink at her. “Karlach—”
“Not done,” she says, wagging a finger. “Because here’s what’s going to happen instead. We are going out. Right now. On the town. Drinks, food, noise, the works. You don’t get banished to sulk-camp because some little shit didn’t have the spine to show up.”
She grins then, sharp and feral and so Karlach.
“And if I see them? I will stamp on them. Just a little. As a treat.”
That does it—you laugh, really laugh, the heaviness in your chest easing as her warmth presses in around you like a shield.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say, though you’re already standing.
Karlach’s smile softens into something gentler, something almost shy. “I want to. Plus,” she adds, rubbing the back of her neck, “I’d hate for someone else to have all the fun tonight.”
You look at her—at the hopeful spark she’s trying not to show, the way she’s offering herself without pressure, just presence—and your heart aches in a different way now.
“…Okay,” you say. “Let’s go.”
Her grin lights up the clearing. “Hell yeah.”
She throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as she steers you toward the road, tail flicking happily behind her.
“Tonight,” she says, “we’re making new memories. Better ones.”
And for the first time since you walked back into camp, you believe her.
Minthara:
Minthara hears it the same way she hears most things that matter to her now: accidentally, and far too late to prepare herself. You mention it in passing while tightening a strap on your pack, voice light, almost cheerful.
“I’m heading into town later. Going on a date with someone I met there.”
For half a heartbeat, something sharp and unwelcome twists in her chest. It shows—just barely—in the way her hand stills on the hilt of her blade, in the fractional tightening of her jaw. Then the mask snaps into place, smooth and cold and practiced.
“Do as you wish,” she says coolly. “I fail to see why that concerns me.”
Her tone is flawless. Detached. Unbothered. You don’t see the way her eyes follow you as you leave camp, or how she stands there long after you’re gone, irritation simmering beneath the indifference. She tells herself it’s foolish. You are not hers. You have never said you were. Whatever this feeling is, it is inconvenient—and therefore to be ignored.
You return much sooner than expected.
Minthara notices before anyone else, because she always does. Your footsteps are uneven, your laughter too loud for the quiet camp, and when you stagger into the firelight there’s a flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with warmth. You sway slightly where you stop, blinking as though the world has betrayed you by refusing to stay still.
She’s on her feet instantly, irritation giving way to something far more dangerous—concern.
“You’re back,” she says, sharp. “And intoxicated.”
You grin at her, broad and unfocused. “Yep! Turns out my date never showed. So I decided to drink for both of us. Very generous of me, I think.”
You laugh at your own joke and wander past her, already humming a tuneless little melody as you search the camp with exaggerated seriousness.
“Now,” you announce, “where do we keep the good stuff?”
Minthara watches, jaw clenched, as you stumble toward Shadowheart’s pack with all the determination of someone on a sacred quest. You crouch, triumphantly unearthing a bottle of wine, holding it up like a prize.
Before you can even tug the cork free, Minthara snatches it from your hand.
“No,” she says flatly. “You are done.”
You frown at your now-empty hand, then at her. “Hey! That’s rude. I wasn’t finished being miserable yet.”
“You are going to bed,” she replies, voice brooking no argument.
You roll your eyes dramatically. “You’re not my—” you pause, squinting as another thought occurs to you, “—well, you’re not my boss.”
You reach past her, clearly intending to find more alcohol.
That is when Minthara’s patience finally snaps.
In one smooth, efficient motion, she bends, hoists you over her shoulder, and straightens again as if you weigh nothing at all. You yelp in surprise, then immediately begin protesting, thumping weakly against her back.
“Minthara! Put me down! I am a grown adult with feelings!”
“Then act like one,” she snaps, already striding toward your tent.
You grumble the entire way, voice wobbling with drink and frustration, until she finally lowers you onto your bedroll. The moment your feet touch the ground, the dam breaks. You shove at her chest, clumsy and unfocused.
“I waited,” you sob suddenly, the words tumbling out as your composure collapses. “I waited like an idiot. I dressed up and everything. And they didn’t even bother.”
The anger drains out of you all at once, leaving only hurt. You curl in on yourself, crying hard enough that your shoulders shake.
Minthara stiffens, clearly out of her depth.
“Enough,” she says, though her voice is less sharp now. “Pull yourself together. You are far too pretty to be making such an awful noise—especially over some gods-forsaken surface dweller.”
You sniff loudly, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand.
“…You think I’m pretty?”
She freezes. There it is—the slip. The truth she hadn’t meant to bare.
Minthara exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose, then straightens with a look of resigned irritation—as if annoyed not at you, but at herself.
“Yes,” she says finally, voice quieter. “I do. You are… infuriatingly beautiful. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen, if you must know.”
You stare at her for a moment, then your expression softens into something warm and relieved and painfully earnest. Without warning, you surge forward and wrap your arms around her, hugging her tightly.
“I wouldn’t know what to do without you,” you mumble into her shoulder.
Minthara stands rigid for a heartbeat, then—hesitantly—rests a hand between your shoulder blades, holding you just enough to keep you steady.
“…Me too,” she murmurs, so softly that you don’t quite hear it.
But the warmth lingers all the same.
Lae'zel:
You come back to camp long before anyone expected you to. The sun hasn’t fully dipped yet, the fire is only just being coaxed into life, and there’s still that soft, anticipatory hum in the air that usually greets you when you return from something pleasant. This time, though, you move like someone who has misjudged the weight of their own body.
Your boots drag. Your shoulders sag. You drop your pack by the edge of the camp with a dull thud and sink down beside it, elbows on your knees, staring into the flames as if they personally owe you an explanation.
You don’t notice Lae’zel at first, but she notices you immediately.
She’s sharpening her blade nearby, movements precise and rhythmic, but the sound falters the moment she looks up. Her eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but in assessment. You’re off-balance. Wrong. Not injured—but not whole, either.
She rises and approaches, stopping a few steps away.
“You have returned,” she says. “Earlier than planned.”
You give a short, brittle laugh. “Yeah. Didn’t feel much point in staying out.”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
You hesitate, then sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I got stood up.”
There’s a pause. Lae’zel blinks. Once.
Then again, slower, like she’s checking to see if the world has rearranged itself without telling her. “…Explain.”
You snort quietly. “We agreed to meet. They didn’t show. I waited. They never came. End of story.”
Her brow furrows, deep and sharp with genuine confusion. “This is illogical. Why would someone arrange a meeting and then fail to appear?” She studies you more closely. “Was the purpose not sexual?”
The bluntness catches you off guard, and a surprised gaffaw slips out of you before you can stop it. You lean back on your hands, shaking your head.
“Gods, Lae’zel—no. Not just that.”
“Then what?” she presses.
You stare into the fire again, the words tugging uncomfortably at your throat. “It was for… companionship,” you admit finally. “For attention. To feel wanted for an evening. I wanted to be flirted with. Swooned over. Chosen.” You swallow. “I wanted someone to look at me and decide I was worth showing up for.”
Lae’zel says nothing at first. Instead, she steps closer, boots crunching softly against the dirt. You feel her gaze on you—not predatory, not dismissive, but sharp and intent, like she’s cataloguing something important.
“Hm,” she says at last. “If you seek such attention, Astarion would no doubt welcome another opportunity to rehearse his seduction techniques.”
You smile faintly, the edge of the hurt softening. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m fairly certain I’ve heard every single one of Astarion’s lines. Including the ones he pretends are improvised.”
Lae’zel huffs. “A pity.”
Then, after a moment—long enough that you glance up at her—she continues, more slowly now.
“If attention is what you desire,” she says, “I could provide it.”
That makes you look at her properly. She’s closer than you realized now, arms folded, posture rigid as ever, but her eyes are searching your face with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.
She gestures vaguely. “Your eyes are swollen. Red. Puffy. You look as though you have been awake far too long—or crying.”
You prepare a defense for yourself but in the breath it takes to ready it, Lae'zel continues:
“And yet… even like this, they are striking. The redness only draws focus to them.” Her jaw tightens. “They are the most entrancing eyes I have seen.”
Silence crashes down between you. Lae’zel freezes. You can see the moment she realizes she’s gone too far—the slight widening of her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her mouth snaps shut as if the words surprised her as much as they did you.
She straightens abruptly. “—Your posture is atrocious,” she snaps, pointing at you. “You slump like a wounded animal. It is unbecoming. Sit properly.”
The whiplash is too much. You laugh—really laugh—doubling forward, pressing a hand to your face as the sound spills out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. The tightness in your chest finally loosens.
“Thank you,” you manage between breaths. “Truly. I feel significantly better after being emotionally validated and then immediately insulted.”
Lae’zel scowls, clearly flustered. “That was not validation.”
“Sure it wasn’t,” you say warmly, looking up at her with a smile that still carries a bit of rawness around the edges. “But it helped. A lot.”
She clicks her tongue, turning away slightly. “Good. Then you are no longer distracted by foolish customs.” She pauses, then adds, more stiffly, “And… anyone who would fail to appear for you is a fool.”
You soften at that. “Thanks, Lae’zel.”
She doesn’t respond—but she stays nearby, blade forgotten for the moment, keeping watch like she always does.
Shadowheart:
You barely make it back to camp before the ache in your chest turns sharp enough to sting behind your eyes. You don’t announce yourself, don’t linger by the fire, don’t even look to see who’s around. You slip straight for your tent like a guilty secret, ducking inside and letting the flap fall shut behind you with a soft, final sound.
You sit there in the dim, knees drawn up, forehead pressed briefly to them as you try to get a grip. You tell yourself you’re fine. That it was silly to expect anything. That you’ll laugh about it later.
You absolutely will not cry.
Outside, the camp carries on—low voices, the crackle of firewood, the familiar comfort of people who don’t yet know you’ve already come back, empty-handed and hollow.
Except one of them does.
Shadowheart had been pretending not to watch the path. Pretending very carefully. She’d told herself she was just being vigilant, just keeping an eye out, just… coincidentally glancing up every time footsteps might have been yours. When you finally appeared—too early, shoulders slumped, moving like you hoped the shadows would swallow you whole—her heart dropped straight into her boots.
“Oh,” she murmured to herself.
She didn’t follow you right away. She didn’t need to. The way you disappeared into your tent said everything.
So instead, she acted.
She ducked into her own tent first, emerging moments later with her good wine—the one she’d been saving, the one she absolutely pretended she wasn’t emotionally attached to. Then, without a shred of guilt, she veered toward Halsin’s tent. She slipped inside like a whisper, emerged with a small cloth bundle, and smirked to herself.
Honeycakes. Of course he kept honeycakes.
“Worth it,” she muttered, already heading for you.
When the flap of your tent lifted again, you scrub hastily at your eyes, hoping the low light hides the worst of it. Shadowheart steps inside without hesitation, arms full, expression infuriatingly gentle.
You blink at her. “What… what are you doing?”
She drops down across from you, arranging the loot between you like this is the most natural thing in the world. Two goblets appear. The wine is uncorked with practiced ease.
“Drinking,” she says lightly. “With you.” She nudges the bundle of honeycakes closer. “And eating these before Halsin realizes I stole them.”
You stare at her, caught off guard, emotions still too close to the surface to hide properly. “You… stole from Halsin?”
She lifts a brow. “Please. I liberated them. Now—” she tilts her head, eyes sharp but kind, “—are you going to join me, or are you planning to rat me out?”
For a moment, you just look at her. Then your shoulders sag, the fight draining out of you. You swipe at your face one last time, inhale, and nod.
Shadowheart smiles, soft and victorious. “Good.”
She pours the wine and hands you a goblet, her fingers brushing yours just briefly—warm, grounding. Then she settles back, legs folding comfortably beneath her.
“Now,” she says, voice lowering conspiratorially, “tell me everything about this stupid human being.” Her lips curve, dark and amused. “Preferably in great detail, because I am absolutely going to imagine finding them tomorrow morning and killing them to shake off the hangover.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it—surprised, shaky, but real. You take a sip of the wine, let the warmth spread through you, and then you start talking.
You describe the way they’d spoken, the stupid confidence, the way they’d promised to be there. Shadowheart reacts to every bit of it with escalating commentary—snorts, eye-rolls, muttered insults that grow increasingly creative.
“Gods, what an idiot,” she says at one point, shoving a honeycake toward you. “Eat. You can’t properly slander someone on an empty stomach.”
You do. You drink. You complain. And with every shared laugh, every exaggerated insult, the weight on your chest eases just a little more.
Shadowheart watches you over the rim of her goblet, jealousy still there—but softened now by something warmer, steadier. She doesn’t say anything about it. She doesn’t have to.
Tonight, she’s here. And that’s enough.
Jaheira:
Jaheira knows something is wrong the moment you return to camp. Not because you say anything—you don’t—but because you come back too early, and you move like someone trying not to be seen. Your shoulders are tight, your steps careful, as if you could fold yourself small enough to slip between the trees and disappear. You don’t stop by the fire. You don’t greet anyone. You just angle straight for your tent with your head down.
Jaheira watches from where she sits, fingers stilled around her mug. She exhales slowly through her nose. “So,” she murmurs, already on her feet, “that’s how it is.”
She doesn’t follow you immediately. Jaheira has never been one to crowd pain the second it appears. She gives you a moment—just long enough for you to think you might have gotten away with it. Then she moves, steps purposeful but quiet, ducking into your tent without ceremony.
You startle slightly when the flap lifts. “Oh—Jaheira. I was just—”
“Saving me the trouble of pretending I didn’t notice?” she says dryly, settling herself down across from you. Her eyes sweep over you in one quick, assessing glance: the stiffness in your posture, the way your hands won’t quite still, the faint redness around your eyes you definitely think you hid better than that.
She clicks her tongue once, sharp and displeased. Not at you. At them.
You huff out a weak laugh. “It’s fine. Really. They probably just—forgot. Or something came up.”
Jaheira’s brows draw together, her expression going flint-hard in a way you’ve seen directed at far more dangerous foes. “People do not ‘forget’ when they have arranged to meet someone,” she says. “They choose. And that is very different.”
You open your mouth, ready to deflect, to soften it, to make excuses the way you always do—but she lifts a hand, stopping you.
“No,” she says firmly. “Don’t diminish it. Not to spare them.”
There’s a pause. The tent is quiet except for the sounds of camp outside, distant and unreal. Jaheira’s voice softens when she speaks again.
“Did you wait long?”
You hesitate. That alone is answer enough. Jaheira sighs, long and slow, and leans back, rubbing a hand over her face.
“Gods above,” she mutters. Then she looks at you again, and this time there is no sharpness left—only something steadier, older, and unexpectedly gentle.
“You know,” she says, “I have survived gods, tyrants, and more fools than I can count. And still, I am perpetually surprised by how casually people can wound one another.”
You swallow. “I just wanted… I don’t know. To feel wanted, I guess.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “You are wanted.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Jaheira seems to realize it a heartbeat later. Her jaw tightens slightly, and she clears her throat. “By people with sense,” she adds, a little gruffly. “Which admittedly narrows the field.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
She allows herself a faint, satisfied huff. Then she reaches out—not touching you yet, but close enough that you feel her presence grounding you.
“You took a risk,” she continues. “That takes courage. Being disappointed does not mean you were foolish—it means you cared. And I will not have you shamed for that.”
You look down at your hands. “Still feels stupid.”
Jaheira snorts. “Of course it does. If it didn’t, I’d be worried.” She pauses, then adds, more quietly, “But for what it’s worth… if someone stood me up after being given the chance to spend time with you, I would consider it a staggering lapse in judgment.”
You glance up at her, startled.
She meets your eyes, steady as a mountain, and though she doesn’t smile, there’s warmth there—real, unflinching. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return.
“Well,” she says briskly, standing and offering you a hand, “come sit by the fire. You can brood in isolation if you like, but I’d prefer you do it with decent company. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell them you had better plans.”
You take her hand.
As she helps you up, her grip lingers just a second longer than necessary—protective, reassuring—and though she says nothing more, the message is clear:
You were not wrong to hope. And you are not alone now.
Gale:
You come back to camp with your jaw set and your heart in pieces, which is a frankly awful combination.
You don’t go to your tent. You don’t go to the fire. You grab an axe and head straight for the perimeter like the trees have personally wronged you.
The first strike bites deep into the log with a vicious crack. The second is harder. The third harder still. Wood splinters fly, your shoulders tense, breath coming sharp through your nose. Each swing is too forceful, too angry, too desperate to be felt—and it shows.
Wyll notices almost immediately.
He watches you from a distance, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin as the axe rises and falls again and again. “That,” he says carefully, “is not how someone chops wood when they are well.”
Karlach follows his gaze and winces. “Oof. Yeah. That’s a ‘don’t talk to me or I’ll bite’ chop.”
Wyll turns to her, hopeful. “Karlach, perhaps you could—”
She cuts him off instantly. “Nope. Absolutely not. I like my limbs attached, thanks. I’ve seen that look before.” She squints at you. “They’re sad and angry. That’s dangerous. You need loverboy.”
There’s a pause.
Gale, mid-sip of tea, sputters violently. “I beg your pardon—”
“Oh,” Wyll says, eyes lighting up. “That’s brilliant. A wonderful idea. An inspired one.”
Gale splutters again. “Wyll—”
“This is the perfect opportunity,” Wyll continues cheerfully, already steering him by the shoulders. “You’ve been meaning to say something for ages.”
“I have not—”
Karlach grins, nudging Gale forward. “Go on, wizard. If you die, I’ll avenge you.”
“I would prefer not to require avenging!” Gale protests, but his heels dig uselessly into the dirt as he’s propelled closer and closer to you. “This is highly irregular—emotionally volatile individuals and edged tools—”
Before he can finish, he’s there.
Standing directly in front of you.
You lift the axe again, breathing hard, eyes bright with unshed tears and fury. Gale freezes for half a heartbeat, instinctively flinching—then forces himself to stay put.
He swallows. “Ah. Hello.”
You stare at him like you don’t quite recognize him, like he’s wandered into the path of a storm.
“Are you—” Gale begins gently, “—are you alright?”
Something in his voice—soft, earnest, utterly unconcerned with his own safety—snaps the last thread holding you together.
You let the axe fall.
It hits the ground with a heavy thud, embedding itself into the dirt inches from Gale’s boots. He startles despite himself—but then he sees your face crumple, your shoulders hitch, and the anger drains out of you all at once, leaving only raw, shaking hurt.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You don’t even manage a word before you’re crying—properly crying, the kind that steals your breath and makes your chest ache. Gale doesn’t hesitate for a second. He steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you in firmly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, the other pressing you close to his chest.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs immediately. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You don’t need to be strong right now.”
You clutch at his robes, fists bunching in the fabric as you cry into him, tears soaking through. Gale rocks you gently, a steady, grounding motion, murmuring nonsense reassurances and quiet comforts, his voice low and warm and constant.
He lets you cry as long as you need.
Eventually, the sobs quiet into shuddering breaths. Your grip loosens. Gale shifts slightly, just enough to look down at you.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me a moment, will you?”
You hesitate, then lift your head.
The world changes.
Suddenly, the camp is gone—replaced by a soft, endless night sky. Stars bloom into existence around you, dozens of them, then hundreds, glowing gently in familiar constellations. The air seems calmer here, quieter, like the universe itself has leaned in to listen.
Your breath catches. “…You did this.”
Gale smiles, small and fond. “I did. I remembered you like this one. You once said it made you feel… less alone.”
You let out a watery laugh, wiping at your cheeks. “You remembered that?”
“Of course I did.” His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, wiping away a tear without even thinking about it. “I’m very glad to see that smile again. It suits you far better than swinging axes in a murderous rage.”
You snort despite yourself.
Gale’s expression softens further, eyes warm and earnest. “Whoever failed to show up tonight,” he says quietly, “is a fool of the highest order. Anyone who could miss the chance to make you smile like that…” He shakes his head. “Well. It’s their loss entirely.”
The stars shimmer softly around you, and for the first time since you came back to camp, the tight knot in your chest loosens.
And Gale stays right there, holding you, as if there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
Astarion:
You’re nearly finished getting ready when Astarion makes his presence known in the most irritating way possible—by saying absolutely nothing.
You catch his reflection first, lounging against a tree with all the casual elegance of someone who has absolutely nothing at stake. Arms folded, one boot crossed over the other, red eyes following your every movement with pointed interest. The silence stretches just long enough to become deliberate.
Finally, he clicks his tongue.
“Oh my,” he says lightly. “Look at you. Polished. Preened. Almost radiant. One might assume you’re trying to impress.”
You don’t turn around. “I am.”
That earns a slow, lazy smile. “How tragic. And here I was hoping this was all for me.”
You snort and reach for your cloak. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Impossible,” he replies, pushing himself upright and circling you like a bored cat. “You’ve clearly put thought into this. Clothes chosen with care, hair fussed over, perfume—gods, is that perfume? Someone’s serious.”
He leans in just a little too close. “Do I need to remind you how dreadfully unreliable strangers tend to be?”
You finally look at him. “You’re one to talk.”
He places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Darling, I’m exceptionally reliable. In my own way.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and shoulder past him. “I’ll be back later.”
“Mmm,” he hums, eyes tracking you as you walk away. “Do try not to be murdered. Or seduced. Or worse—disappointed.”
You laugh it off, but you miss the way his smile falters the moment you’re gone.
When you return, it’s well past dark.
You don’t stride confidently into camp. You stumble.
Your steps are uneven, your cheeks flushed with too much drink, your eyes rimmed red and glassy. You pause near the fire as if unsure where you meant to go, then sink down heavily, shoulders slumping as the weight of the evening finally crashes in on you.
You stare at the ground. Then your hands. Then nothing at all.
Astarion notices immediately.
He’s on his feet before he realizes it, crossing the distance with uncharacteristic urgency. The teasing expression he’d worn earlier evaporates the second he sees your face.
“…Well,” he says more gently than he intends. “That was quick.”
You don’t answer.
He crouches in front of you, tilting his head, studying you closely. “That bad, hm?”
You sniff. Once. Then again. “They didn’t come.”
His jaw tightens. “Didn’t come.”
“I waited,” you say thickly. “Like an idiot. I thought maybe they were late. Or nervous. Or—” Your voice wobbles. “—or something.”
Astarion feels something twist in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. It makes him angry in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle.
“Forget them,” he says immediately, voice edged with heat. “An absolute fool. Clearly lacking vision.”
You laugh weakly, then drag a hand over your face. “I liked them, Astarion. I thought they liked me too.”
That ache deepens, settles somewhere uncomfortably close to his heart.
He scoffs reflexively, trying to smother it with cynicism. “Darling, please. It was probably a con. Someone charming you just long enough to get something out of you. Or lure you somewhere unpleasant. Or sell you out. Or kill you.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “You dodged an arrow.”
You blink at him, processing through wine and hurt. “…So I’m not even worth being tricked, kidnapped, or murdered?”
He freezes. “That’s not—”
“Fantastic,” you interrupt, pushing yourself to your feet with wobbly determination. “I see my destiny now. I’m going to dig a hole. Live in it. Become some strange little hole creature. No expectations. No dates.”
You start toward the tree line.
“Oh no you don’t,” Astarion mutters.
He’s up instantly, catching your arm and smoothly redirecting you toward your tent instead. “Absolutely not. Hole creatures don’t get blankets or decent wine, and frankly I refuse to watch you commit to that lifestyle.”
You grumble but let him guide you, leaning into him more with every step.
“We’ll deal with this properly in the morning,” he continues darkly. “Track them down. Decide whether to trick them, kidnap them, or murder them. I’m open to suggestions.”
You nod solemnly, then abruptly turn and throw your arms around him, clinging tight as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
He stiffens—just for a heartbeat.
Then he exhales and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, one hand settling protectively between your shoulder blades. His voice softens despite himself. “Alright. I’ve got you.”
You stay like that for a moment, breathing him in, grounding yourself.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing gently beneath your eyes, wiping away tears with surprising care. “Honestly,” he murmurs, “absolutely wasted, emotionally devastated, and still far too charming for your own good. It’s infuriating.”
You huff a small, broken laugh.
“Now,” he says, guiding you into your tent, “into bed with you. I’ll fetch some water. We cannot have you waking up with a headache when we have such brilliant revenge fantasies to plan.”
As you lie down, he pauses at the entrance, glancing back to make sure you’re settled—really settled.
And when he returns with the water, he lingers just a little longer than necessary, sitting nearby, watching over you like he’s guarding something precious… even if he’d never admit it.
Wyll:
Wyll is already in full heroic mode before you’ve even finished getting ready.
He leans against a crate near your tent, arms folded, a grin bright enough to be seen from the Hells, watching you pace and fuss with your clothes like they might betray you at any moment.
“You look incredible,” he says for what must be the fourth time. “Truly. Any fool would be lucky to spend the evening with you.”
You stop pacing long enough to groan. “You’re biased.”
“I am correct,” he replies easily, then softens when he sees how tightly you’re wound. “Hey. You alright? You’ve been chewing your lip for ten minutes.”
“I’m nervous,” you admit. “What if I say something stupid? Or they don’t like me? Or—”
Wyll lifts a finger. “Hold. I’ve got this covered.” He steps closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Here’s the plan. You go. You give it an honest shot. And one hour in, I check on you.”
You blink. “Check on me how?”
“I’ll find an excuse,” he says smoothly. “Urgent hero business. Camp emergency. Karlach accidentally set something on fire again. If you’re having a terrible time, you latch onto the excuse and we make a dramatic exit.”
You laugh despite yourself. “And if it’s going well?”
“Then I vanish,” he says, smile just a touch tighter than before. “And I’m very happy for you.”
He means it, even if it costs him something.
An hour later, Wyll steps into the tavern, already rehearsing his cover story—and stops short when he sees you.
You’re sitting alone at the bar, shoulders hunched, staring into a drink you haven’t touched much. Your face is flushed, but not with excitement. Mortification clings to you like a second skin.
He’s at your side in an instant. “Hey,” he says gently. “What happened?”
You look up at him, eyes shining. “They… never came.”
His smile drops. “What?”
“I waited,” you say, voice small. “Asked the bartender. Apparently they weren’t even planning to show. Just… didn’t bother.”
For a heartbeat, Wyll is utterly stunned.
Then something resolute settles into him, like a shield locking into place.
“…I see,” he says carefully. “And you’re telling me this person willingly chose to miss an evening with you.”
You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Seems so.”
Wyll straightens, fire lighting behind his eyes. “Well. That simply will not stand.”
Before you can protest, he sets a coin on the bar and offers you his hand. “Come on.”
“Wyll—”
“Tonight,” he says firmly but warmly, “you are not going to sit here wondering what you did wrong. Because you didn’t do anything wrong. And I intend to prove it.”
He pulls you onto the floor when the music swells, spinning you into a dance before you can overthink it. He laughs when you stumble, steadying you easily, praising you for every step like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He compliments your laugh. Your smile. The way your eyes light up when you relax. He fetches you water, then another drink when you want one, fussing just enough to make you feel cherished instead of pitied.
For the first time that night, you forget to feel embarrassed.
You have fun. Real fun.
By the time the two of you make your way back toward camp, you’re laughing freely, legs aching pleasantly. When you finally admit you’re tired, Wyll crouches in front of you without hesitation.
“Up you go,” he says.
You climb onto his back, arms around his shoulders, and he carries you the rest of the way, talking softly about nothing and everything just to keep you smiling.
At the edge of camp, you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For tonight. For… everything.”
He freezes for just a second, then smiles—soft, sincere, a little bittersweet.
“Anytime,” Wyll says. “Truly.”
And if his heart feels a little too full as he carries you the last few steps home, well… that’s a burden he’s more than willing to bear.
Halsin:
You make it back to camp under the cover of early night, the fire already lit, its glow spilling outward in warm, familiar shapes. Laughter drifts toward you—Karlach’s booming joy, someone groaning theatrically at one of Astarion’s remarks, Gale’s voice weaving in like a calm thread. It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
Your steps slow as you take it all in, your chest tightening with something sour and heavy. You know the moment you step into the light they’ll look up. They’ll ask how it went. They’ll care. And right now, that feels unbearable.
So you don’t let them see you.
You turn away instead, slipping past the perimeter of camp and into the woods, the shadows quickly swallowing you whole. The sounds fade behind you, replaced by the soft creak of branches and the hush of night insects. The air smells of damp earth and leaves, grounding and cool, but it does little to settle the storm churning inside you.
You stop near a fallen log, pressing your palms to your face and breathing hard through your fingers. Your shoulders shake despite your efforts, tears slipping free no matter how fiercely you try to will them back.
“Idiot,” you mutter to yourself. “Gods, you knew better.”
You swipe at your eyes angrily, pacing a few steps, then stopping again as your breath catches. You’re so focused on not falling apart that you almost don’t hear the footsteps behind you—soft, deliberate, unmistakably familiar.
“Hells,” you say, turning away sharply as you recognize them. “Damn it, Halsin—don’t.”
He doesn’t retreat.
Instead, his presence fills the small clearing, solid and steady as a great oak. “You disappeared,” he says gently. “I thought you might need company.”
You shake your head, covering your face. “I’m fine. I just needed a minute.”
He steps closer anyway, the forest seeming to make room for him. One warm, calloused hand closes gently around your wrist, not forcing, just asking, and he lowers it from your face so you can’t hide anymore.
“Look at me,” he says, low and calm.
Reluctantly, you do.
Your eyes are red and swollen, lashes clumped with tears you haven’t quite managed to stop. Halsin’s expression shifts immediately, concern deepening into something heavier, more personal.
“How are you?” he asks.
You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “Clearly not well. My date never showed.”
For a moment, Halsin says nothing. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s tamping down a spark of anger, and lifts both hands to your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes, wiping away tears with such care it nearly undoes you all over again.
“They are a fool,” he says, voice firm and unyielding.
You scoff weakly and look away. “You’re just saying that because you’re you.”
His hand slides to your jaw, guiding your gaze back to his. “No,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “I am not.”
There is no indulgence in his tone. No gentle lie meant to soothe. Only conviction.
“I mean it,” he continues. “Anyone who could arrange to meet you and then choose not to show—without explanation, without honesty—has revealed their character. And it is lacking.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow, blinking hard.
“You did not imagine the connection,” Halsin adds. “You did not do something wrong. Their failure is not a reflection of your worth.”
He leans closer, forehead resting briefly against yours, his presence grounding, his warmth undeniable. “You are thoughtful. You are brave enough to hope. That alone makes you extraordinary.”
The forest feels quieter, like it’s listening, holding the space for you. Your shoulders sag, the fight finally draining out of you as the hurt settles into something softer, easier to bear.
Halsin’s arms come around you then, broad and sure, drawing you against his chest. “You don’t have to be strong out here,” he murmurs. “Not with me.”
And for the first time since you turned away from camp, you let yourself believe him.
Rolan:
You’ve been sitting at that table long enough that the chair across from you feels accusatory.
The candle has burned low, wax pooling unevenly, and the tavern’s hum has shifted around you—patrons coming and going, laughter rising and falling, the bartender polishing the same glass for the third time while pretending not to pity you. You stopped watching the door a while ago. There’s no point now.
That’s when Rolan spots you.
He’s meant to be enjoying a rare pause in his relentless studies, spellbook closed for once, sleeves rolled up, trying very hard to look like a wizard who knows how to relax. He doesn’t—never really has—but seeing you alone, shoulders drawn inward, gaze fixed on nothing at all, makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t have a spell for.
He knows you. Well enough to know something’s wrong.
He hesitates only a moment before crossing the room.
“…You look like someone who’s been waiting,” he says gently, stopping beside your table.
You glance up, recognition softening your expression immediately. Your smile comes out of habit—polite, practiced—but it falters at the edges. “Oh. Rolan. Hi.”
He pulls out the chair across from you but doesn’t sit yet. “Are you alright?”
You don’t bother lying. “No,” you say, with a little shrug. “But I will be.”
Rolan’s brows knit together at once. “That,” he says firmly, “is simply not good enough.”
You laugh under your breath, rubbing at the rim of your glass. “It’s fine. Really. These things happen.” You look up at him, eyes bright with unshed disappointment. “Actually—why don’t you sit? I want to see what you’ve been working on lately. Your new spells.”
He stares at you for a second. Then he snorts softly. “Now I know you’re not fine.”
You tilt your head. “And how’s that?”
“No one who’s fine tries to distract themselves with magical demonstrations,” he says, sitting at last. His tone softens. “That’s what I do.”
You smile, sheepish but warm. “Please?” you ask again, quieter this time. “I’d like to see.”
Rolan exhales, lips twitching despite himself. “How am I supposed to say no when you ask like that?” he mutters, ears warming faintly as he looks away. “You know I can’t refuse you.”
He lifts a hand, murmuring a careful incantation. Light blooms between his fingers, spilling outward in delicate threads that weave themselves into small, floating sigils—tiny illusions that shimmer and drift like fireflies, changing color as they move.
You watch them, shoulders slowly relaxing, something in your expression easing as the magic dances between you.
“They’re wonderful,” you say softly. “You’ve gotten so good.”
Rolan ducks his head, embarrassed and pleased all at once. “I had an excellent reason to practice,” he says before he can stop himself.
Then he clears his throat and adds, more quietly, “Whoever stood you up is an idiot.”
You glance at him, surprised. He meets your gaze this time, unflinching.
“You deserved better than that,” he says. “At the very least, you deserved honesty.”
Your smile this time is small, but real. “Thank you, Rolan.”
His heart stutters at the sound of his name on your lips, and he looks away again, pretending to focus on keeping the spell steady.
“Stay,” he says after a moment, casual as he can manage. “At least until the lights fade.”
And for the first time that evening, you don’t feel quite so alone waiting at the table.
Raphael:
You decide, quite sensibly, that if you’re going to be abandoned like an unwanted side quest, you might as well enjoy yourself.
The tavern is warm, loud in that comforting, lived-in way—mugs clinking, a fiddle whining somewhere off-key, laughter bursting out in uneven waves. You slide onto a barstool and order something strong, then something fruity, then something strong again just to prove a point to no one in particular. You’re not drunk—far from it—but there’s a pleasant looseness in your limbs, a soft buzz behind your eyes that takes the edge off the disappointment.
You lift your glass in a private toast. To me, you think. For showing up.
That’s when the air shifts.
It’s subtle at first—like the tavern has inhaled and forgotten to breathe out. The candle flames bend ever so slightly, shadows stretching where they shouldn’t, and then a familiar, infuriating voice curls around your ear like smoke.
“Well, well,” Raphael purrs, appearing beside you as if he’s always been there, crimson smile sharp and satisfied. “It seems the little mouse scurried all the way to the trap… only to find no cheese waiting.”
You close your eyes and sigh into your drink. “Oh gods. Not tonight. Go away, Raphael.”
He places a hand over his heart in exaggerated offense. “And leave my favorite adventurer to drink alone? How dreadfully impolite of me.” He slides onto the stool beside you without asking, coat immaculate, presence far too large for such a mundane space. “Honestly, you wound me.”
You squint at him. “Fine. Stay. But you’re paying.”
A snap of his fingers and the bartender stiffens, nodding faintly as if compelled. Raphael smiles smugly. “Anything for you.”
You take another sip, eyeing him sidelong. “So. What do you want?”
He studies you for a moment longer than strictly necessary, gaze sharp but oddly attentive. “I was curious,” he says lightly. “What could possibly possess someone as… interesting as you to waste an evening mingling with a mortal so painfully dull?”
You scoff. “Why do you care?”
He gasps, hand fluttering to his chest again. “Care? Me?” His eyes gleam. “Darling, of course I care. You wound me twice in one night.”
You snort. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “here I am.”
You swirl your drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “If you’re so all-powerful,” you say casually, “why did my date stand me up?”
Raphael’s smile sharpens—not amused now, but intrigued. “Ah,” he says softly. “That sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a deal.”
You glance at him, unimpressed. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not bargaining my soul because some idiot couldn’t show up to a tavern.”
He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Perish the thought."
"How about if you tell me, I won't ruin the ambiance of this lovely place by trying to smite you." You smile at him, eyes narrowed and he nods his head in agreement. You study his face, searching for the trick, but he only looks… sincere. In his own infernal way.
“The truth, then,” he continues, voice lower. “Your would-be companion was a coward. Intimidated by you. By your presence. By the idea of being seen next to you.”
You blink. “You’re just saying that.”
“I assure you,” Raphael says, eyes flicking to yours with something dangerously close to honesty, “I am not.”
You huff a laugh, warmth creeping into your cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “Well. That’s flattering. Infuriating. But flattering.”
He lifts his glass in a toast. “To cowards who flee greatness.”
You clink your mug against his. “And to devils who know when not to push their luck.”
He smiles—slow, pleased, and far too fond.
Popping in to write my heart out, added rolan and rapahel as an offering of my love and gratitude of you all as I crawl back into my hole, hope you enjoy!! - Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
A tribute to the last patch of bg3 and in honour of starting my 12th playthrough (I haven’t finished a single one so far)
Pairing: Astarion, Gale, Gortash, Raphael (+Haarlep) x gn!reader
Summary: How do they express their love for you, their love language and a bonus scenario.
Genre: Fluff, slightly suggestive in parts
Words: 4.1k
Note: this is kinda popping off soo if you’re interested in receiving a written letter by your favourite character, I’m hosting a small event on my blog and anyone can participate!
(Not ascended)
Astarion Ancunín // The Pale Elf
Words — 1k
Nibbling and biting.
This one is quite obvious. Although Astarion sinks his fangs into your neck every now and then to enjoy a treat, he also enjoys nibbling on you just because. His favourite areas to do so are your hands and fingers, shoulder and cheek. Biting your fingers in boredom when you are in bed with him, in his arms, you not paying attention to him while flipping pages through a book.
What else is he supposed to do other than take your free hand and nibble on your finger while silently brooding about you being oh so busy. Your hand is also a pleasant alternative.
Your shoulder feels like the perfect place to trail featherlight kisses followed by small nibbles here and there, firm enough for you to arch into them but soft enough to not make you bleed. He doesn’t always have the need to chomp down and suck your blood out, you know.
That’s why Astarion sometimes leans down, bites and pull on your cheek a little instead of placing a small kiss. It’s silly, but it makes you giggle and wince in surprise so that’s perfect reason to keep doing it, especially when you expect a kiss and not him to bite you.
“I can’t help myself dear. You are too delicious for me to resist, with or without blood, although a little snack would be a good bonus. If you’ll let me…”
Words of affirmation and/or sweet nothings.
You are used to Astarion flirting with you all day and night, but you notice how they slowly became less and less shameless and more sincere, in a way. Not that they weren’t sincere before.
His eyes soften as they glaze over your face, his hands hesitating to reach out and run through your hair while your head rests on his chest, his lip quivering as he hesitates to speak his mind. Astarion’s brain is foggy from all the warmth and fuzziness pooling in his stomach and his heart racing uncontrollably from you simply being here. His mouth begins to talk without him having control over it.
His words may be flirty and sultry but you can tell that they aren’t just flattery. He rambles about how incomprehensibly gorgeous you are, how your info dumping and intelligence is unbearably attractive and how he could listen to you all day, how your eyes resemble the starry night sky, your grin that could make him fold over in an instant and so many other things he cannot get out of his damn brain about you.
Damn you for making him utterly weak and stupid for you.
“I cannot stop my damn mouth around you. It’s— Stop grinning at me like that! I can’t concentrate when you do that, darling.”
Physical touch.
At first, Astarion forced himself to constantly touch you. It felt good for you and for him, sure, but he mostly pushed himself to touch and feel you in order to make you feel seen and loved by him. He did it in order to get protection and support from you against Cazador and whatever other horrors come across your way. But after unfortunately falling head over heels for you, touching you is something he cannot go without.
His hand always lingers on your back for support, your waist to pull you closer and show to everyone with that you are his and he is yours, holding your hand while strolling the streets and roads and almost childishly swinging your arms back and forth like a happy-giddy couple. Letting himself get pulled into your arms after a long day in the privacy of his closed off tent and cuddling closely against you is probably the closest Astarion ever got and will get to pure bliss.
His cheek getting squished by being pressed up against your chest, his hands tightly gripping your waist as if fearing you might disappear on him. There is a soft, giddy grin spreading on his face.
Bonus scenario.
You thought he did it on purpose at first— After all, he is a vampire spawn and you can tell that his bloodlust overpowers him every now and then, but Astarion genuinely looks panicked as the flesh of your hand begins to bleed slightly, two holes buried into the skin right below your thumb. You watch as your boyfriend rushed around his tent to grab a cloth and wipe the blood.
“Astarion, I’m fine—“ He shushed you by holding his finger up while facing your back before finally spinning around on his heel and presenting the hand-embroidered handkerchief he had been worming on during the quiet evenings in camp. Immediately and without hesitation, he pressed the delicate cloth against your wound.
His face was etched in guilt and worry. “I’m so sorry darling, I didn’t mean the bite to be so…” You noticed how his eyes drifted away from how the blood began to soak the handkerchief. “It was meant to be harmless, I swear!”
“I know, I know.” Your free hand cupped his cheek and your lover immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as his features softened slightly. You can tell how much it ripped him apart in the inside despite it being such a little injury, you know how Astarion always is careful with his biting when doing it on you, respecting your boundaries and always asking for consent beforehand. He would never, ever hurt you in any way. And yet he just did.
“It happens, it’s okay. I’m not seriously hurt.”
Lifting the cloth off your wound yourself and revealed how the blood already began to dry. His eyes drifted back to the puncture wound in your hand. His lip quivered. “I…”
“I’m still sorry. I should’ve been more careful.” Astarion watched your face, expecting some kind of negative reaction. Fear, anger, anything really. Instead, you leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
A wave of affection hit him the same way the club of an angry orc would, but it was much more pleasant. He huffed and angled your face for him to kiss you properly.
(Mortal)
Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep
Words — 1.1k
Info-dumping and rambling.
If there is a new topic Gale has been exploring and reading about, you will definitely hear all about. Probably more than once, too.
Before you Tara was the victim of his endless info-dumping, him gesturing around and doing his eureka! pose every now and then while proudly explaining how he already inhaled every piece of literature there is about this new topic. Now you are his victim.
Gale feels a little insecure about it though, afraid he might be boring or annoying you. So, you’ll have to assure and encourage him and make it known that you do want to know how you can reason and communicate with some mimics to the point of making them non-hostile. He adores to have his head rest on your lap while your hand fiddle with some loose strands of hair, him rambling on and on about something he happened to come across in the library today.
Since you tolerate his rambling so well, he’ll of course listen to yours with eagerness. Gale’s eyes twinkle slightly as he watches you talk, noting every movement in your face and hand, how the edges of your eyes crease a little when you explain a particularly fun fact to him. His heart flutters to see you being so passionate about something, sometimes he can’t help himself but let that affection out and give you a cheeky little kiss while you are distracted by talking, causing you to be completely thrown off and now confused on where you left on.
Gale also loves debating with you. The topics could range from when does a powerful wizard begin to live off cheese and wine to if eating a tressym’s wings be considered as fried bird, fried cat or fried tressym (although Tara was quite offended by that debate you held). He likes talking about nothing and everything about you and might just seek excuses to hear your voice. Getting the opportunity to info-dump about his interests is a mere bonus.
Gifts and trinkets.
Whenever he stops by the library or market, you have to physically withhold him from wandering off and going after that shiny twinkle he just saw from the edge of his eyes, in his mind already having hundreds of ideas on what it might be and if you would like it.
Gale has a habit of hoarding things in his wizard tower, but after getting his orb and getting rid of most the weave infused artefacts, he now had space for more trinkets: things that remind him of you.
Your wizard begins bringing you something every time he comes back from somewhere. Sometimes it’s a book from the library he thought might interest you, sometimes it’s jewerly Gale thought might fit most your outfits, but every now and then it’s a shiny rock he found in the corner of a street. He thought the colour resembled your eye colour and the way it shone in the sun almost blinded him, just how you blind him with love every time you’re near.
It’s silly but at least half the shelves are now filled with shiny rocks, books and a newly acquired wooden figure of a goat he found at the market. Gale said your stubbornness and persistence reminded him of one and didn’t get why you found it a little offensive to get compared to one.
“Whatever are you talking about? Goats are very graceful creatures and so are you! I find it quite the accurate comparison on my part.”
Physical touch and cuddles.
There is nothing better in the world than melting against your warm body after a good glass of wine and being surrounded by tombs, scrolls and books all day and Tara being curled up by your feet. His hand lazily tracing your waist and sneakily finding their way between your legs. Not for any improper reason, just to warm his hands up.
Speaking of your thighs, Gale is this close to begging on his hands and knees for a chance to have his rest between your plush flesh. The feeling of gently being squished while his fingers busy themselves by drawing intricate patterns across your skin or simply interlock with yours. Your wizard considers cuddling as some way of recharging his energy, both arcane and bodily.
He needs his morning cuddles before starting his day, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck while you brew some coffee or him refusing to let you leave the bed by positioning himself on top of you. He sneaks himself into your daily routine and tries not to interrupt whatever you are doing right while scooting himself right next to you, his chin on your shoulder while Gale watches you do whatever.
Also, thanks to you, this man can’t ever sleep without having you in his arms ever again. You spoiled him too much, he complains. Your body perfectly fitting together against his like it was always meant to be. But that also means whenever you get up in the middle of the night for some water, Gale is right behind you, sleepily following your steps.
“I can’t sleep without you, might’ve as well follow, right?”
Bonus scenario.
You did insist that your boyfriend should’ve stayed in bed while you dragged yourself to the kitchen for a glas of water. It’s not even early morning and the sun was still well below the horizon and yet Gale followed close behind. It kind of reminded you a cat that followed you into the bathroom in the middle of the night for no reason other than making sure you don’t get attacked by mice or something.
“Mhh. What time is it?” Gale scratched his chin sleepily as he leaned against the counter next to you. You shrugged and sipped your glass of water. He opened his eyes and glanced over to you, his arms slowly wrapping around your waist and pulling you against his oh so warm body.
You melted right into him, a groan escaping your throat as you buried your face in his hot neck, allowing yourself to take a deep breath. His scent was familiar.
Your eyes slowly drooped close and you felt yourself almost let the glass slip out of your hand but before it could, you placed it on the counter behind your very sleepy wizard.
As you did, your hands began to wander and trace the warm muscles of his back. You noticed how they have softened over time. After everything that had happened you and him began to live a more comfortable life without the need to lift a sword, or rather, a wizard staff.
Before you could point the softening muscles, how much you appreciate your life with him, how silly it is to think about what you went through together mere months ago, a snore interrupted your thoughts.
Did Gale fall asleep leaning against the cabin with you in arms? Seriously? And snoring like that as well?
And he is always the one that complained about your snoring.
Enver Gortash // Chosen of Bane
Words — 1k
Gift giving.
He literally cannot help himself for the love of the gods. Enver, as he ordered you to call him, swears he is not actively seeking for gifts to shower you in, they just come to him. Or are being brought to him by his Steel Watch and others.
Whatever had your attention for more than a fraction of a second you can expect to stare back at you in an instant, now presented on your nightstand or bed instead of the boutique you saw it in or the catalogue you flipped through. Somehow he always knows what you fancy without even needing to speak to him.
Enver also tends to send you little handmade trinkets during especially long and stressful periods of him being away. Despite what he likes to think himself, he doesn’t always work on papers in his office. When the files pile up and glare at him disapprovingly, Enver turns to the mini broken machinery tucked away in his desk and begins tinkering with it, working and trying new things out until it finally functions again.
Or he makes it look prettier and that it was before and lets it be delivered to you. Little reminder that he always thinks of you. He totally didn’t squeeze a miniature scrying eye into at least one of the trinkets to spy on you.
“Oh, it is nothing. Mere small tokens of my affection, no need to dwell on them.
Inserting himself into everything you do and annoying you.
Like a toddler, Enver follows you around and tries to insert himself into everything you do to try and stay close to you.
Cooking yourself a snack in the kitchen? You’ll feel his chin on your shoulder as he stared down at what you are cooking. “Give me a piece of that.”
In the bathroom to take a quick shower? He is already behind the curtain and turning the water on, filling the room with steam.
God forbid you are in bed, alone without anyone to cuddle onto? Yeah, you best believe he immediately sneaks up on you and makes sure you won’t be able to physically leave this bed, not until you pry his arms off your body. Enver is like a cat, he doesn’t openly ask for affection most of the time but invades your personal space whenever he wants to silently ask for it.
Besides acting a little child when wanting your attention and affections, Enver also enjoys showing you how much he loves you by purposefully annoying you a a little. He pokes your cheek over and over when you’re busy and watches you get more and more upset with his teasing until you finally slap his finger away. How unfairly you are treating him— Enver has been nothing but good to you!
“I’m simply making my presence known to you since you failed to acknowledge it until now. You shouldn’t be annoyed, rather happy to see me, love.”
Physical touch.
You know well that your lover is sleep deprived, dehydrated, touch starved, affection starved and whatever else you can be physically deprived off. You seem to fix all of these problems by simply slipping into his arms and using his soft chest as comfortable pillows and your legs tucked between his warm legs. Enver can’t suppress the blissful grin spreading on his face and couldn’t fight his eyelids slowly drooping close, his chin resting on your head.
He could remain like this for hours, days, in some form of hibernation. But he can’t. His duties are calling.
So, he’ll take you with to his office to continue the cuddles. You’ll be comfortably seated on his lap as he writes and flips through papers. The situation isn’t even sexually charged as in you are perfectly seated on his lap in a way that could make him moan and thighs shiver, rather you are there so he can take little breaks by hiding his face in your neck and groaning in frustration every now and then.
Sometimes he’ll be too tired to cuddle, so Enver’ll rind where you are currently resting and just laying down on top of you, letting his weight slightly crush you beneath him. He is a selfish man and needs his daily (hourly, really) head pats, hair strokes and back scratches.
Bonus scenario.
You felt Enver’s stare drill itself into your skull. You were just brushing your teeth and examining yourself in the bathroom mirror and getting ready for bed. You tried to ignore the looming presence behind you as much as you tried to avoid looking directly at him in the mirror.
“Are you ignoring me?” You heard the amusement in his voice. Yes you are trying to ignore him because of how much he has been getting on your nerves today, purposefully interrupting your doings, asking you to meet him in private and pulling you away from duties just for him to ask you to kiss him. A child is what he is.
“My love.” Enver called out again, now moving to stand beside you. His eyes never left your face. You didn’t spare him a single glance.
“Darling.” He started again. “Or do you want me to call you kitten?”
That one made you shoot him a glare. Aha! A reaction. Enver smirked at himself and lifted his hand, his index finger now reaching out to pole your cheek but before he could touch you, you gently pushed his hand away. But not backing down, he reached out again.
“Gortash.” You scolded and turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Yes? That is my name.” Completely unbothered, he mirrored your pose to mock you almost. There was that shit-eating smirk on his face you are all too familiar with and the one you can’t help but let it get to you. You couldn’t fight your own grin that was fighting itself to appear on your face.
“Aha. A reaction. I was looking for that.” He grinned and lifted your chin with a small nudge beneath your chin before leaning in for a quick kiss on your lips.
Raphael // The Devil (cambion)
Words — 1k
Quality time.
Raphael’s time is valuable and choosing it to spend it with you should make you happy enough.
But alas, merely basking in your presence and getting drunk of your affections sometimes isn’t enough, so Raphael takes you out to fancy restaurants in different cities all across Faerûn and spoils you with a colourful, expensive cuisine. Afterwards he’d suggest to get some wine and enjoy it somewhere else together, maybe go back to the House of Hope and play some rounds of Lanceboard together.
He would never admit it to you but being adorably domestic with you and sipping some wine while talking about nothing important is one of his favourite things to do, ever.
Besides restaurants and wine, your cambion will ask if you’d be interest in going out to watch theatre plays. How can you possibly deny him when Raphael keeps reciting quotes and scenes, trying to sway you into finally giving in. It’s kind of endearing watching Raphael’s eyes light up once you finally agree.
Raphael enjoys spending his time outside of his House of Hope, partly because he knows that you, as a mortal, probably don’t want to spend all your time down in Avernus, so he’ll prefer to take you out on dates on the surface.
“If you’ll have me, I would love to take you out on a lovely play being held in Baldur’s Gate. I believe you could enjoy it as much as I will.”
Acts of service.
Raphael may spoil you with acts of service but those are not without strings— He’ll expect something back in return, things like a kiss on his cheek, a compliment or your time to spend on him.
His “services” consist of him hand-tailoring infernal contracts for people that have mildly annoyed you in the past, people you may not even remember. Raphael will make sure they will work as slaves in his house personally serving you for the rest of eternity.
He maybe is enjoying eliminating and enslaving your ex-lovers, people you mildly dislike, people you despite and whoever else he can get his fingers on a little too much, don’t you think?
Also, Raphael tends to be very theatrical when hosting future contractees and souls he might strike a contract with. But with you, he is actually sincerely caring. He pulls out a chair for you, he pours you a beverage before even needing to ask, he remembers every single detail on foods you like and dislike and just the way you like it. Raphael will always serve you like you are royalty.
“Sit. Eat. Drink. Let the world and everyone in it kneel for you, my love. You deserve nothing lesser.”
Physical affection.
Raphael enjoys your touch the most. Simple things like holding your hand and prying it off whatever you are holding when they are not available, having his hand rest on your waist during outings and his tail subconsciously wrapping around your ankles when he is not even paying any mind to you. He craves your closeness, no matter if he wants to or not.
If he can’t provide with his own body and cuddle you up, he’ll send Haarlep to do his bidding.
Haarlep more than willingly curls up in your lap and shields you with their wings as their arms snake around you. They might let their hands wander and get a little touchy with you, but after putting the incubus in their place and giving them a piece of your mind, Harleep will obey and simply serve as a cuddle pillow and replacement for his master. Almost a little too enthusiastically, one could think.
But at the end of the day only Raphael will banish the incubus from your shared bedroom and will affectionately-force you to satiate his need for your touch. He is never the little spoon though, the devil would never give up his position as the big spoon and loose the opportunity to create a make-shift cocoon with his leathery wings trapping you against him.
It was your biggest mistake to not go and use the bathroom beforehand, Raphael will never let you go now, not unless you sprinkle holy water on him or something.
“Where did you— No! Put that flask down you harlot! How did you smuggle holy water into my home?!-“
Bonus scenario.
You felt squished. Sandwiched. A little crushed but kind of pleasantly so.
Raphael had his arms wrapped around your your stomach as you snuggly fit into his hold, against his chest. You felt the infernal heat radiating off his body and his tail having its tight hold on your ankle. Does he even know that his tail was clinging itself onto you?
You weren’t really paying attention to that though with Haarlep clinging against your front. It was comfortably pressing itself against your torso, its race snuggled against your chest. Their eyes were closed in bliss while their hands gently massaged your thighs. Now, how did you manage to convince Raphael to allow his incubus to snuggle up against you like you are theirs and theirs only?
Then again you could sense how the owner of the House of Hope silently brooding behind you and having his face nuzzled into your shoulder while Haarlep happily purred against your supple skin.
“Oh, I have been missing out on this. I didn’t think he’d be so lenient with me.” Haarlep was clearly testing the waters on how far he can go before his master strikes him down and throws his body into the Styx. Raphael lifted his head slightly and raised his brow, shooting him a warning glare.
“Both of you better behave.” You sighed, one hand leaning back to cup Raphael’s cheek while the other was busy running fingers through Haarlep’s hair. Again, the incubus purred and smirked against your skin.
This is something you could get used to.
💠
Author’s note. Thank you for reading!
Ngl I’ve also been in the mood for some Cyberpunk again. Also I’m also trying my very hardest to do a Durge run but I always end up starting another playthrough after the goblin camp 😭😭 I’m trying to stay strong for the extra voicelines and scenarios and stuff for Gortash but I’ve never been strong enough so far 😔 also I was this close to including ketheric throm on this list
Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough.
Tame care of yourselves! Happy late Easter if you celebrate.
CWs: Possessive/territorial behavior, scent marking, the guys acting a bit feral. Considering the subject matter, it’s not a stretch to say that these may be somewhat NSFW, but not super explicit. All characters are aged-up.
LEO
Leo is lounging on the edge of the skate ramp, tossing one of his katanas in the air with practiced, bored ease. When he sees you enter, he flashes you that classic cocky grin. But the sword fumbles in his grip the second the wind shifts.
The silence that follows is deafening.
He drops from the ramp, landing silently, moving with the fluid grace of a red-eared slider. But the water is turbulent today. His eyes narrow, scanning you, zeroing in on the collar of your shirt. He smells his twin.
“Donnie?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. His voice is light, but there’s a razor blade hidden in the tone.
He circles you like a shark in open water. He stops behind you, and you feel his hand clamp on your shoulder, trapping you in place. Then, he slides both hands under your jacket, pulling you back against his chest. He noses at your hairline, inhaling the scent of his twin, and gives a mocking scoff.
“Boring,” he whispers, his lips grazing your earlobe.
He spins you around, pinning you with a look of intense, possessive heat. He drags his nose along your jawline, rubbing his cheek against yours, effectively wiping away the other scent. His hands wander lower, cupping you, pulling your hips against his to make you feel exactly how jealous he is.
“I’m going to ruin you for him,” Leo promises, his voice a sultry purr. “By the time I’m done with you, the only name you’ll be screaming is mine.”
He kisses you then, demanding and deep, intent on marking every inch of you until the scent of his brother is nothing but a distant memory.
RAPH
The moment you step into the lair, the air in the main atrium grows heavy.
Raph emerges from the projector room. He doesn’t greet you with his usual teddy bear warmth and snaggle-toothed grin. Instead, his nostrils flare, and a low rumble starts deep in his plastron. He stops inches from you, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“Leo,” he grunts. He doesn’t ask; he knows. The scent of his brother is a stain on your neck, a neon sign of a challenge.
Before you can explain, his large hand encases your shoulder. He crowds you against the nearest wall, his size effectively caging you in. Raph is an alligator snapping turtle—a creature of instinct and force. And right now, his pupils are blown wide, eclipsing his normally kind irises.
He leans down, burying his snout into the junction of your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply before letting out a sharp, angry hiss. “He thinks he’s slick,” he growls against your skin. “Leaving his mark on you like he owns you.”
He nuzzles you, the texture of his skin scraping deliciously against your pulse point, replacing the lingering trace of Leo with his own scent. He bites down gently on your neck, just enough to make you gasp, his tongue swiping hot and wet over the spot immediately after.
“I’m gonna cover you in so much of me that you’ll forget he even exists.”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and hungry. Raph intends to stake his claim so deep inside you that no amount of scrubbing will ever wash him away.
DONNIE
The lab is loud with the sound of welding and music, but the moment the sensors at the door recognize your biometrics, the noise cuts out instantly.
Donnie spins in his chair, a rare, genuine smile forming—until he smells it. His smile flatlines. He stands up slowly, the mechanical spider limbs of his battle shell unfurling from his back, betraying the agitation he’s trying to suppress.
He smells the chaotic, vibrant scent of his younger brother all over you. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s incorrect.
“Calculated probability of you visiting Michael before me was low,” Donnie states, his voice monotone, masking a brewing storm of possessive rage. He walks toward you, his movements stiff. “And yet, here you are. Contaminated.”
His hands clamp onto your waist and shoulder, pulling you closer. He examines you, leaning in and sniffing the air around your neck with clinical precision, his face twisting in distaste. Then he cups your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“I don’t like sharing,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and dilated, “and I certainly don’t like sharing you.”
As he presses his forehead against yours, his battle shell disengages and retreats back to storage, revealing the soft shell underneath. He begins to kiss down your throat, methodical and wet, placing suction bites in a perfect geometric pattern over the areas where Mikey’s scent is strongest.
“I’m going to conduct a thorough recalibration,” Donnie breathes against your skin, his arm sliding down to tease the hem of your pants. “We aren’t leaving this lab until your biometric readings are exclusively synchronized with mine.”
MIKEY
You expect a flying tackle-hug and a loud “Omigosh!” Instead, when you walk into the kitchen where Mikey is cooking, he freezes mid-chop. The knife lowers slowly to the cutting board.
The playful box turtle vibe evaporates, replaced by an uncharacteristically terrifying stillness.
Mikey turns around. He’s not smiling. His face is blank, eerily calm, which is infinitely scarier than him yelling. He smells Raph on you, and it triggers a primal, bratty defiance in him. He walks over to you, wiping his hands on his apron.
“You smell like Raph,” he states. His voice is soft, but it lacks its usual bounce. It’s deep, flat, and laced with possessiveness. “Why do you smell like Raph, angel?”
He wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. Then, he tightens his grip. He looks at you, his eyes wide and pitiful, but underneath that puppy-dog look is a feral gleam.
“Did he touch you?” he asks, his hands wandering, gripping your rear firmly, pulling you into his hips. “Did he think he could just take you? Because he’s the biggest?”
He lets out a low growl. He hates it. Hates that his brother’s scent is clinging to his person.
Suddenly, he spins you around and hoists you up onto the kitchen island. He steps between your legs instantly, prying your knees apart with his thighs to settle himself firmly against your center.
“I hate it,” he hisses, again burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply before dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin there. He rubs his cheek aggressively against your chest, your neck, your jaw, acting like a cat that’s terrified of losing its territory.
“We aren’t leaving this kitchen,” he vows, “not until I know that the next time Raph walks by you, all he smells is me.”
I have a funny little request, How do you think the baldur's gate 3 companions would react or respond to Tav talking to someone and who ever they are talking to asks them something about a husband/Wife and they point to one of the companions say “Yeah that’s my Husband/Wife right here”, Or Tav greeting the bg3 companions and saying “Hello my beautiful Wife or Handsome Husband how are you today?” Idk I think it would be funny you can either do all the companions or just a few and whoever else you want.
P.S One of the companions has to Karlach pls and thank you. Have a good day/night
↪"Say that again?"
Bg3 companions x reader
Warnings : none that I can think of, if there anything triggering please let me know
A/n : this is such a cute idea !!! Thank you so much for the request and ofc I'll include Karlach it's a literal crime if I don't
Astarion is mid-sip of his wine when he hears it. You’re chatting with a bartender, mentioning offhandedly, "Oh, my husband enjoys that brand of wine!" The words seem to hang in the air. A moment later, he chokes, coughing as he hurriedly sets his glass down.
"Sorry, darling, did I just hallucinate, or did you actually call me your husband?" He grins, sharp and playful, but there’s something else lurking in his ruby eyes—something softer. "How bold of you. I don’t recall signing any vows, though if they involve more pet names and adoration, I might be convinced."
Despite his teasing, there’s an undeniable smirk of satisfaction on his lips, and later that night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you catch him whispering his name with your last name attatched—testing the sound of it with a chuckle.
▢ shadowheart
Shadowheart stiffens, her hand momentarily pausing over the clasp of her pack as you effortlessly refer to her as your wife in conversation. She recovers quickly, a well-trained mask slipping into place, but you catch the slight widening of her eyes, the way her fingers tighten just a bit.
When the conversation is over, she turns to you, arms crossed, voice a delicate mix of amusement and hesitancy. "Wife, huh? That’s...a rather serious word, don’t you think?" There’s no irritation in her voice, just a quiet wariness.
You lean in and reassure her—tell her it just felt natural—she exhales, her stance softening. "I suppose... it doesn’t sound terrible coming from you." She smirks faintly, then, in a rare show of vulnerability, she murmurs, "Say it again. Just once."
▢ gale
Gale practically beams. He was in the middle of explaining some grand magical theory when you casually referred to him as your husband, and the conversation might as well have ceased to exist. He turns to you with wide, delighted eyes, as if you just handed him the crown jewel of Mystra herself.
"You—you truly think of me that way?" His voice is filled with genuine wonder, his hands twitching as if resisting the urge to pull you into an embrace right there. "I must admit, I rather like the sound of it."
For the rest of the day, he finds ways to bring it up—entirely coincidentally, of course. "Ah, yes, my spouse and I were just discussing that," he’ll say to a trader. Or, "Well, as my beloved has so kindly pointed out..." He’s positively radiant, and when the two of you are alone, he holds you close, murmuring, "One day, perhaps, we could make it more than just words."
▢ karlach
Karlach lets out the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. One moment, she’s hauling a crate of supplies, and the next, she’s throwing an arm around you, laughing loud enough to startle a nearby bard.
"Wife? You think I’m wife material?" She practically lifts you off the ground in a hug, her infernal engine humming warmly. "Oh, babe, you really know how to make a girl’s heart melt."
For the rest of the day, she won’t stop teasing you. "Hey, love, your wife could use a back rub after all that heavy lifting." Or "Shouldn't a wife get extra rations? I think that’s fair." But underneath the playful exterior, there’s a warmth in her gaze every time she looks at you—like you just gave her something precious she never thought she could have.
▢ lae'zel
The moment the word leaves your mouth—wife—Lae’zel halts. Her expression sharpens, golden eyes locking onto yours with an unreadable intensity. The person you were speaking to wisely excuses themselves, sensing the tension crackling in the air.
She steps closer, head tilting, her voice a low rumble. "You claim me as a wife?" It isn’t anger, but a challenge. Prove it, her tone demands.
You meet her gaze unwaveringly and confirm it without hesitation, she exhales, something pleased flashing across her face. "Hmph. Among my kin, such a title is not spoken lightly. If you speak it, you must own it."
Later, when camp is quiet and you were walking towards your tent, she pulls you aside, her hand gripping your wrist—possessive, firm but there was a softness to it that couldn't be denied. She looked flustered, frowning at you with a twitch of her brow," As your... wife. I demand we sleep in the same tent."
▢ wyll
Wyll is in the middle of charming a noble when you casually refer to him as your husband. The words slip from your lips without hesitation, and at first, he doesn’t react—so well-trained in maintaining composure. Only until the noble left did something warm flicker in his bi-coloured eyes, his confident smile faltering for just a heartbeat.
"Ah—your what?" He turns to you, and for the first time in a long while, the Blade of Frontiers looks genuinely caught off guard.
When you confirm it with an easy smile, he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to suppress the warmth creeping up his face. "Well, now you’ve gone and made a man blush," he teases, but there’s a softness to it. A part of him that seems to hold onto the word like a cherished melody.
Later that evening, when the two of you have a rare quiet moment, he leans in, his voice lower, more earnest. "You really see me that way?" His hand finds yours, thumb tracing circles against your palm. "Because I could get used to that."
▢ halsin
Halsin is kneeling by a wounded animal, murmuring a quiet spell of healing, when the word husband leaves your lips. It’s said so casually—to another druid, in passing—that at first, he doesn’t seem to react.
But then, as the spell finishes, he turns to you, golden eyes warm with something deeply affectionate. A slow smile spreads across his face, creasing the corners of his eyes. "Husband," he repeats, testing the weight of it, his voice rich with amusement. "That is… a title of great commitment. And yet, hearing it from you, it feels as though it has always been true."
There’s no teasing, no hesitation—only an earnest kind of joy. He steps closer, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his touch feather-light. "If this is how you see me, then I will wear the title with pride." His voice drops to a low murmur, meant only for you. "And should you ever wish to make it more than words, I will answer gladly."
From that moment on, he often refers to you in kind—my heart, my love, and, on particularly affectionate days, even my wife/husband/mate. It is not just a title to him; it is a promise.
▢ minthara
Minthara doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. She merely continues sharpening her blade, her red eyes cold and unreadable as you casually refer to her as your wife in conversation.
The person you were speaking to quickly departs, sensing the weight of silence that follows. Then, without looking up, Minthara speaks, her voice dangerously low. "You called me wife."
It isn’t a question. It’s an evaluation. A test.
You confirm it, she finally lifts her gaze to meet yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "How bold of you," she muses, setting her blade aside. "Amongst lolth-sworn drow, such words are not spoken lightly. They are a claim. A promise."
She stands, stepping into your space, her presence as commanding as ever. A hand grips your chin—not harsh, but firm. Possessive. "If you call me wife, then you had best mean it."
And yet, later that night, when the camp is quiet and she believes no one is watching, she lingers at your side a little longer. A rare softness flickers in her eyes before she turns away, murmuring to you just loud enough for you to hear—"Hmph. It does have a certain... power to it."
▢ raphael
The moment the word husband leaves your lips, Raphael goes completely still. The conversation you were having with an unfortunate merchant screeches to a halt as the cambion turns his attention fully on you. The air crackles with something dangerous—something deeply, intensely amused.
A slow smirk stretches across his lips. "My dear, I do believe I misheard you," he purrs, voice as smooth as velvet. "Did you just call me your husband? How delightfully bold of you."
He steps closer, red eyes gleaming with something unreadable—pleasure? Possession? The thrill of a game he suddenly must win? He takes your hand, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. Never breaking eye contact as his lips were curved in that usual salacious smirk of his,"Now, if you are to call me husband, I expect proper treatment. Gifts. Devotion. Perhaps a throne befitting a devil of my caliber."
There’s teasing in his tone, but beneath it? Oh, there’s something else entirely. Later, when no one is around, he murmurs against your ear, "let me hear it again... it sounds so terribly tempting when it falls from those lips of yours."
▢ rolan
Rolan is mid-rant—complaining about some idiot who failed to organise the library books the right way—when you absentmindedly refer to him as your husband. He stops talking. Completely.
His mouth opens. Closes. His tail flicks rapidly behind him, betraying his internal spiral.
"Wha—wait—what did you just call me?" His voice cracks, and he immediately clears his throat, straightening his shoulders in a desperate attempt to regain his dignity.
When you repeat it, casual as ever, he stares at you like you just cast Wish in front of him. "That’s… I mean, I am an impressive partner, but—" He crosses his arms, looking away, his cheeks burning a darker, unmistakable shade of red. "You can’t just say things like that without warning someone!"
But for the rest of the day, he’s noticeably smug—standing taller, magic practically crackling at his fingertips. And if you listen closely, you might hear him muttering under his breath: "Husband. Hah... obviously."
Pairing: Raphael Hamato x Reader
Summary: Your date ended horribly. You walked home alone in the rain, sobbing, with a red mark on your arm and a story to keep from your green best friends (because they brutalize bad people, plus you were just embarrassed of your judgment.) Big Red, however, was tired of being your best friend -- and was waiting to tell you that.
Themes & Warnings: protective!Raph, emotional love confessions in the rain, mentions of violence and possible carrying out of violence, swearing, slight fluff, comfort, Raph being angry bc he's always angry.
Having mutant turtle best friends was not how you thought your twenties would go. Not that you weren't thankful.
You just thought you'd be hanging out with your girls, going to bars, meeting dudes and finding your calling while studying in college. You thought it would be full of mini skirts, glitter, vodka and dreams. You were wrong. Completely wrong. Instead, you were walking home drunk from a bar alone, fell down an open manhole cover, and were caught by strong, green arms.
You screamed for a second. Passed out. When you woke up, you were on an old tattered couch with a giant rat staring at you, then looking at the four hulking turtle-human men in disdain.
That was how you met your boys.
It didn't take you long to love them. You loved Leo's courage, his leadership, his perfect advice every time you asked for it. He was more mature than most people you knew, though he hadn't experienced a full life that was similar to yours. You loved Donnie's intelligence, his excitement about his hobbies, how gentle he was, and how eager he was to teach you about things you'd never heard about. You loved Mikey's carefree spirit, the way he could always lift you up when you were feeling down, and his spectacular sense of humor. And most of all, you loved Raph.
You always attracted a bad boy. Always, always. Though it wasn't romantic, it was natural for you to spend the most time with the most rough-around-the-edges motherfucker there was. It was just how your life went. When you met Raph, he was tough to crack at first. He was a little grumpy about a new human joining their lives, adding to the chaos that April O'Neil originally brought -- but he warmed up to you until he was ultimately the closest to you out of the four.
At first, he didn’t speak to you much. Just kind of grunted when you came by. Didn’t laugh at your jokes. Barely made eye contact.
But you noticed the small things. Like how he always checked the tunnels before you left. How he stood between you and the sketchier parts of the lair. How he walked you out even when you said you didn’t need an escort.
You started staying longer when he was around. He started lingering in the doorway when you visited.
Eventually, that turned into regular late-night talks, usually on the couch, or while he bench pressed literal cars in the corner of the dojo. You’d sit with your legs crisscrossed, talking about dumb things: your classes, your horrible job, your wild roommates. He’d grunt or smirk, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment that made you snort into your soda. Sometimes he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful, and it’d stick with you for days.
What no one told you about Raph was that he listened. He remembered everything -- the names of your old pets, the fact that your mom was sick, your weird favorite candy that no one else liked. He noticed when you wore makeup to hide stress, or when your laugh didn’t sound quite right.
When you got sick, he brought you soup and didn’t make eye contact the entire time. When you got dumped, he punched the punching bag until his knuckles bled and didn’t say why. When you succeeded, a passing grade, a new job, a clean day, he acted like it was your world championship.
And you?
You kept him soft.
You gave him space to breathe. Let him be quiet when he needed to be. Made him laugh when he didn’t want to. You saw past the temper and the walls and the scowl and found the stubbornly loyal, deeply sensitive, fiercely protective man underneath.
You made him feel safe.
It was always you and Raph -- shoulder to shoulder, sarcasm for armor, both pretending it wasn’t more.
Even if everyone else already knew it was.
The day you came into the lair talking about some date, Raph surprisingly held his tornado of anger, disgust, and jealousy inward. You never even noticed it. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to hide everything he was feeling -- maybe through the "keep calm" tactics that you'd taught him one day -- but he did it successfully. It wasn't like you'd never gone on a date before. You'd even gone on multiple dates with one chump, calling him your boyfriend before you eventually got tired of him questioning where you went every Friday night (movie night with the boys.)
“He's actually really nice,” you said, sucking the last few drops of a smoothie Mikey had made through a straw noisily. “He does concrete construction or whatever. He helped with the new sidewalk outside my university.”
The boys listened. Donnie sat on a stool, staring down at some little gadget he was working on, making noises of acknowledgement to show he was listening. Mikey did dishes, occasionally stopping to look at you. Leo sat politely, eyes on you.
And Raph? Raph stood next to you, arms crossed solidly, wishing he could run away and beat the shit out of something.
“Well, angelcakes, he sounds like a nice one.” Mikey commented, grinning. “But remember Mikey's rules for date safety! Never--”
You rolled your eyes.
“Never leave your drink uncovered, never--” You attempted to finish.
“--go anywhere alone, and if he orders milk on a first date, run,” Mikey finished, snapping a soapy finger toward you like a coach on game day.
You snorted. “He ordered beer last time, so I think we’re in the clear.”
“Still kinda weird,” Donnie mumbled, not looking up from his work.
“Beer’s weird?” you asked, lifting a brow.
“No,” Donnie said, adjusting a dial, “him.”
That earned a laugh from Mikey and even the smallest twitch of a smile from Leo.
But Raph? Raph didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.
He just stood there beside you, hulking and silent, jaw tight, arms crossed so hard his biceps flexed like steel cables under his skin.
You never noticed the tension, not really. You never noticed how his eyes flicked to your exposed collarbone, still dotted with the leftover shimmer of whatever perfume you wore. You never noticed how he inhaled, just once, like he could smell him on you. How he fought the urge to throw that smoothie cup across the room.
You never noticed because Raph didn’t let it show.
It wasn’t the first time you’d mentioned some dude. You’d brought up a few before. Guys who left you unsatisfied, frustrated, confused. He’d always been there after. Quietly listening. Driving you home. Standing behind you in line at the bodega, just in case the ex showed up and needed reminding. He made a public appearance a lot now, since Donnie had invented the projection watches -- they gave the boys human bodies, human personas for when they had to go up top and not raise hell. For when they needed to be up there for regular, human business.
This time was different.
This guy was new. He was “nice.” He had a job that involved strength. You smiled when you talked about him.
You stopped by again before you went on tonight's date. Your outfit would've made Raph blush if he wasn't so fucking pissed. You had a short, black dress on, just long enough to keep it classy but with enough leg showing to make you look sexy. Your hair was curled and tucked into a bun, ringlets falling in front of your face. Your makeup wasn't dramatic, it accentuated your naturally beautiful face. You wore heels, but they still didn't touch Raphael's height at all. After all, the man was like six foot seven.
You twirled in front of the boys, smiling brightly.
“How do I look? Is there something I'm missing?”
You were standing in front of him, spinning like some perfect little fever dream, the soft lighting of the lair catching the shimmer on your legs and the curve of your smile, asking him -- the guy currently gripping the edge of the counter so hard it might crack -- if you were missing something.
Yeah. You were missing something.
Him.
He didn't say it. He couldn’t say it. Not with Leo watching you like a protective big brother. Not with Donnie adjusting his glasses and muttering something about “statistical likelihood of safety.” Not with Mikey wolf-whistling in the background like he was front row at a runway show.
“Daaaamn, baddie,” Mikey grinned, dramatically fanning himself with a pizza box. “You look like heartbreak in heels. Don’t kill the guy. Unless he deserves it.”
“I won’t,” you giggled, smoothing the sides of your dress. “He’s just taking me to dinner. Somewhere nice.”
“Nice how?” Leo asked cautiously.
You shrugged. “Little Italian place near the East River. It’s casual. Wine, candles… pasta, hopefully.”
Donnie didn’t look up. “Call me if anything seems off.”
“You’ll know before I do,” you said, tapping your phone. “I’m sharing my location with you already.”
“Smart girl,” Leo said with a nod.
Then your eyes flicked to Raph, still standing frozen by the fridge, knuckles white where they wrapped around the counter. You smiled at him -- warm and sweet, like you always did -- and tilted your head.
“Well? You didn’t say anything. I look okay?”
His throat was dry. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t look at your legs again, not when you were dressed like that for someone who wasn’t him.
You looked like temptation itself. You looked like his worst mistake waiting to happen. You looked like everything he couldn’t have.
So he gave a grunt. “Yeah. S’fine.”
“Just fine?” you teased.
He forced himself to look at your face. Just your face.
“You look great,” he muttered.
You beamed, completely unaware of the furnace behind his eyes. “Thank you, Raphie.”
Then you stepped close, too close, and reached up to fix the collar of his tank top with that same tenderness you always had. Your perfume hit him like a punch to the gut.
“You’re always honest with me,” you said softly. “That’s what I like about you.”
His jaw ticked. “Don’t like lyin’.”
You smiled. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
Then you turned, heels tapping across the cement floor, and disappeared into the tunnels with a quick wave goodbye.
And Raphael?
Raphael stood there silently, watching the spot where you’d been, breathing slow through his nose like if he didn’t, something in him might snap.
Because it should’ve been him.
Taking you to dinner. Making you laugh over wine and pasta. Driving you home with your heels dangling from your hand, your lips gloss-smeared and smiling just for him.
Instead, he was stuck underground. Fuming. Wishing he'd just said it.
Wishing he’d told you the truth the moment you walked in, all sparkling eyes and lip gloss:
You didn’t look perfect.
You looked like his.
He groaned, wiping his huge hand across his forehead in frustration. Leo watched him carefully, pursing his lips. Donnie said nothing, as usual, and Mikey sensed the tension, tucking himself back into his corner where he was eating his pizza and playing his video games.
“She's your best friend. You should have just been honest,” Leo hummed carefully, as if not to set off the beast. “The truth'll come out one way or another.”
Raphael didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, still leaning against the counter, still seething under the surface like a volcano that had been too quiet for too long.
His hand dropped from his forehead, falling heavy against the edge of the counter with a dull thud. His jaw flexed. Once. Twice.
“Yeah,” he muttered finally, voice low and full of gravel. “Well. Too late now, ain’t it?”
Leo tilted his head, arms crossed, giving him that look. The big brother one. The patient, steady stare that somehow made Raph feel like he was still twelve and throwing punches in the dojo.
“It’s not too late unless you decide it is,” Leo said, voice calm, but firm.
Donnie didn't glance up from the device in his hand, but his voice carried from behind his glasses.
“She trusts you more than anyone. Statistically, emotional vulnerability paired with long-standing companionship has a higher chance of success than new--”
“Donnie, if you don't--” Raph snarled.
Donnie blinked. “Right. Not helping.”
Raph turned away from all of them. Walked a few paces across the lair like he might burn the energy off if he just moved enough. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his shell shifted with the tightness of his shoulders.
“She looked happy,” he said finally, bitter. “Talkin’ about him. Smilin’. Gettin’ all dressed up. Like he’s doin’ somethin’ for her that I can’t.”
Leo raised a brow. “Or maybe she was just excited someone finally asked. Doesn’t mean she picked him over you, Raph.”
“She did.”
“No,” Mikey chimed in from his corner without looking up. “She just doesn’t know you’re an option.”
That stopped Raph cold.
He stared across the lair, frozen in place, the words echoing in his skull.
She just doesn’t know you’re an option.
Because he’d never said it. Never given her the chance to choose him. Just stood beside her like a shadow while she cried over losers, complained about red flags, rolled her eyes at controlling texts and kissed cheeks that weren’t his.
He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.
“What am I s’posed to do, huh? Run outta the shadows and confess like some kinda Hallmark hero? ‘Hey, surprise, I’ve been in love with you for years. Wanna ditch the dude who has fuckin' concrete all over his clothes and smells like Axe body spray?’”
Leo snorted. “Better than sulking in the sewers and letting someone else make her miserable.”
Mikey finally paused his game and looked over, eyes more serious than usual. “She’s not the kind of girl you can replace, bro. You know that.”
And Raphael did know that.
He knew it every time she laughed so hard she wheezed. Every time she fell asleep on the couch beside him, legs draped over his lap. Every time she saw him, really saw him, through the walls and the anger and the scars. She was his best friend. His anchor. The only soft place in a world that never gave him one. And he was gonna lose her to some prick in a hard hat who didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as her.
Hours passed. No calls, no texts. But Raph had decided. No matter what happened, he had to tell the truth. He had to come out and say it before he fuckin' exploded.
You finally sent a text, telling them you were going home, the date had gone "fine."
He was going to tell you. Tonight. When you got home from your date. Then, you could tell him whether you wanted the concrete brained little shit -- or whether you wanted someone who'd actually love you. Who loved you. Now. Always. Since he'd let you break into his walls, touch the parts of him that had never had a hand on them.
He threw a hoodie on, grabbing his phone, and moved to leave. Twisting his watch, he became a vision of himself, not quite Raph, but Raph enough.
Still tall. Still hulking with muscle. A buzz cut with a red bandana covering it, tattoos all over his skin, the same intimidating green eyes. He was hot actually, which you'd admitted when you first saw the projection. All of them were. Raph, though.. It truly did him justice.
Although secretly, you'd always thought Raph was hot. Projection or not. It was what originally drew you into him.
Raph heard Leo's voice from the corner of the lair, the dojo.
“Good luck.”
The rain was the first thing he noticed. He welcomed it, letting it pour down onto him in calming waves. He walked to your house, opting not to take the shell-raiser. After all, if things went badly, he'd probably find some dirty criminal to pummel.
He reached your apartment, sitting on your front steps under the overhanging roof. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, puffing on it slowly as he waited for you to approach.
What would he even say? What would he do if you told him to fuck off? He didn't let the nerves dissuade him. It needed to be said, bad results or not.
It was about five more minutes before he saw your silhouette in the rain. You were small, far smaller than him, of course. He knew it was you by the way you walked. You were walking, walking, walking, he was waiting to see your face through the waves of water. When he finally did, his eyebrows furrowed.
Mascara stained your cheeks. Crying. You were crying.
You walked awkwardly, the closer you got. Your hand clutched your arm.
Then, your e/c eyes lifted. You saw him.
Quickly, you wiped your face with one arm, acting like nothing had ever happened. Then, the hand quickly came back down to cover your arm -- Raph wasn't close enough to see what you were covering. You reached Raph, looking at him in confusion.
“Raph? What are you doing here in the rain--”
He didn’t answer at first.
His eyes were locked on you, all of you. The ruined makeup. The limp in your walk. The tight grip you had on your arm, like you were trying to hold yourself together.
You were hurting. That much was obvious. And trying to hide it from him.
From him.
He stepped forward without thinking, eyes narrowing. His jaw clenched, and his voice dropped low, rough.
“What happened.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. Really.”
“You’re not fine,” he said, stepping in closer. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you were still guarding like a shield. “What’s under your hand?”
“Raph, it’s nothing, I swear--”
He was in front of you now, towering over you, not in a way that scared you, never in a way that scared you, but in a way that said he knew. That he wouldn’t let it slide.
“Move your hand.”
You hesitated. Looked up at him.
He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t huffing and puffing, or pacing, or growling with his fists balled up like he usually did when something pissed him off.
No. He was quiet.
And that was worse.
“No. Raph, please, I am perfectly--”
“Move your fuckin' hand, shorty, now.”
“Raph.”
His voice cracked through the rain like thunder.
“You want me to move it?”
It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t violence. It was a promise, for your own good. A promise that you'd heard before. He'd make shit happen.
You flinched, not because you were scared, but because you knew what was coming. You knew once he saw it, really saw it, there’d be no stuffing the rage back into the bottle. You hesitated just a second longer.
And then you moved your hand.
Raph’s eyes dropped immediately.
Silence.
The bruise was ugly. Purple and red, already deepening, shaped like thick fingers curled into the soft skin of your arm. It told a story you hadn’t even finished living yet.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared.
Then his chest rose -- slow, steady, dangerous.
His jaw flexed, his nostrils flared, and his eyes, those sharp green eyes, burned.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered, voice low and venomous.
You reached for him. “Raphael--”
You couldn't quite get him in your grip, just the fabric of his sweatshirt in a small hand. It was wet, soaked with rain, but you managed to keep your grip. He turned towards you, lip almost curled into a snarl. Anger heated the air up -- could've boiled the rain.
“You said the date was fine. Fuckin' fine. Look at your--” he cut himself off, taking a breath and looking up at the sky. “You lied to me. Why would you lie to save that waste of space?” He hissed, turning completely towards you.
You flinched, not from fear, never from him, but from the sheer weight of his rage.
The rain kept falling, soaking through your clothes, matting your hair to your face, but none of it mattered. Not with Raphael standing in front of you like a storm barely restrained, fists clenched, shoulders squared, breathing like he’d just fought ten men and still wasn’t done.
“I wasn’t protecting him,” you said quickly, gripping tighter to his hoodie. “I was protecting you.”
That stopped him.
His jaw twitched. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp as glass and just as fragile beneath the surface.
“I knew what you’d do, Raph,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to lose you to a cell or a manhunt or -- or something worse. I didn’t want to see you destroy yourself for me.”
He looked at you for a moment.. Then laughed. Bitterly.
“Don't worry about it. Ain't no motherfucker on this earth that's gonna touch you and walk away fine. Whether you feel bad or not,” he said. He towered over you, trying to force his green eyes away from the nasty injury on your arm. “I'd burn this city down for you if ya asked me to. I'm gonna kill this fuckin' guy.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Not because you didn’t believe him, no, you absolutely believed him, but because you could feel it. You could feel the truth in his voice, in every clenched muscle, in the way his words shook with restraint.
“Raph--”
“I mean it,” he snapped, stepping closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his chest. His projection shimmered faintly in the rain, struggling to keep up with the fury boiling just beneath his skin. “I don’t care if I gotta rip the fuckin’ streets up brick by brick, he’s gonna learn.”
You reached for him again, laying your hand gently against the front of his soaked hoodie. His heart was hammering underneath, furious, panicked, wild.
“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “I’m with you.”
He shook his head.
“Not good enough,” he growled. “You should never have to feel scared. Not when you got me. Not when you been right here in front of me this whole time and I’ve been too chickenshit to say what I really feel.”
You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”
His jaw flexed again, rain trailing down his face like it was trying to cool him off. He took a breath, deep and shaky, and looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“Shoulda been me.”
“W-What?”
He looked down at you still, his hand traveling down to pull your wet strap back up over your shoulder.
“Shoulda been me. Takin' you out, now that we can go up top,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Shoulda been me walkin' you home. Kissin' you at your front door step. Shoulda been me you were gettin' all pretty for.”
You stared, eyes wide and glassy.
“You were walkin’ around in that dress, hair done up all nice…smilin’ about some guy who didn’t even deserve a hello from you,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, voice just shy of breaking. “And I stood there like a fuckin’ idiot, pretendin’ it didn’t kill me.”
His hand slid up, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb, rainwater tracing the movement.
“I ain’t ever felt more useless than watchin’ you leave tonight, knowin’ I wasn’t the one takin’ you out. Knowin’ I let someone else touch you ‘cause I was too much of a coward to say somethin’. And now,” he hissed, “I gotta kill the stupid fucker. Cuz he laid his hands on the girl I love.”
You didn’t even flinch at the words, the girl I love, but your breath caught like a rope had cinched around your chest and pulled tight.
The rain still fell in steady sheets, soaking you both to the bone, but neither of you noticed. Not really. Not with the confession hanging in the air between you, burning hotter than the storm around you.
“Raph…” your voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “Please.”
His gaze flickered, wild for a second, like he’d just realized he’d said it out loud. Like the truth had broken out of him without permission. But once it was out, he didn’t backpedal. He didn’t retreat.
He stepped in even closer, your bodies almost touching, his massive frame shielding you from the worst of the wind.
“I love you,” he said, voice low and rough, thick with emotion. “I love you. You think I’ve been watchin’ you all this time just to be your backup plan? Some guy you crash on when the rest of the world sucks?”
“No,” you breathed, shaking your head quickly. “No, I never thought that.”
“I been in love with you since the second you looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. Since you laughed at my dumb jokes, shared your food, yelled at me when I got too hot-headed. You see me, and it scared the shit outta me.”
A warm tear ran down your face. His thumb caught that too.
“You're too good for this world. Too good for me. Too good for him. And even though you ain't mine, I'll happily shit-stomp any man that crosses you.”
You let out a soft, broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as your hand reached up to cup his face, rough jaw and all.
“But I am yours,” you whispered. “I’ve been yours, Raph. This whole time. Was just too stupid to see it.”
His breath hitched, just for a second, and his hands flexed on your waist, like he couldn’t believe he was actually hearing the words. Like maybe the rain had messed with his head, or the universe was playing some cruel joke.
But your eyes were honest. Open. No walls, no filters, no fear. Just you, standing there in the storm, bruised and soaked and choosing him.
“You’re-- you wanna be?” he asked, voice cracking, like a kid afraid to hope.
You nodded, fingers curling at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “Yes. I was just too scared to ruin us by saying it. I didn't want to lose you, Raphael. You're all I have. The only thing worth it.”
A beat of silence passed, thick, electric, before he pressed his forehead to yours with a low, aching groan.
He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, because he had. His hands tangled in your hair, one arm wrapping around your lower back, lifting you off the pavement like your feet didn’t deserve to be on the same ground as the man who hurt you. His lips were warm despite the cold, pressed firm and sure to yours like he had no plans of letting you forget how long he’d loved you from the sidelines.
When he pulled back, you were both breathless. His voice was low and shaky when he said:
“If you’re mine… then you don’t ever gotta deal with this shit again. No more cheap dates, no more fake shit, no more bruises you try to hide.”
You swallowed, tears welling fresh again.
“Okay.”
“I mean it,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you loved. Proper. The way you always shoulda been.”
You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady, thundering beat of his heart under soaked fabric.
“I know,” you whispered.
And he just held you tighter.
Because you were his.
And now, finally, he was yours too.
BONUS:
However, your date, though you thought Raph forgot about him.. did not escape retribution.
A couple nights after the incident, your date, Todd, stood alone. He was sweeping the new concrete, cleaning up after a week of work, headphones dangling from his ears. He hummed a tune, staring down at the pavement, admiring his work.
Didn't even notice the two hulking shadows approaching from behind him -- 'til his headphones were ripped right out.
“What the--”
He turned, startled, just in time to see something big and orange spin toward him. Todd took a full-on roundhouse kick to the chest from Michelangelo and went flying into a pile of sandbags like a cartoon.
“Yikes, bro,” Mikey said, cracking his knuckles. “You can put your hands on women but you can't take a hit yourself? Bummer.”
Raph stepped forward, massive arms crossed, that black hoodie of his soaked from rain and rage. “So you’re Todd, huh?”
Todd wheezed, struggling to sit up. “W-What the hell?! Who the hell are you?!”
Mikey grinned wide. “Let’s just say we’re the after-party to that date you fumbled so bad.”
Todd blinked, confused, then scowled. “This is about that chick? She said it was fine. What, you two her brothers or somethin’?”
Raph’s jaw ticked. “Somethin’.”
Then he grabbed Todd by the collar and lifted him off the ground like a rag doll. “She said it was fine,” he repeated mockingly, eyes narrowing. “Right after she came home cryin’ with a bruise in the exact shape of your grubby little hand. Sound fuckin’ familiar?”
Todd squirmed. “I-I didn’t mean--she was getting mouthy, I just--”
That was all he got out before Raph slammed him into a cement pillar, holding him there like a schoolyard bully from hell.
“I should break every bone in your slimy little body,” Raph growled. “But I promised her I wouldn’t kill you.”
Todd whimpered. “Then what--what are you gonna do?!”
Mikey stepped up beside Raph with a sweet, sunny grin… and a bright pink backpack.
“Oh, we’re gonna teach you, bro.”
Cut to:
Todd, thirty minutes later, is tied up Spider-Man style with neon pink jump rope, suspended upside down from the scaffolding. Mikey had drawn flowers and hearts all over his face in washable marker. His pants were missing (they were now duct-taped to the top of a flagpole nearby), and his shirt had been swapped with a hot-pink crop top that read: “I Cry When Girls Yell.”
A chalk sign was propped up beneath him. It read:
“Hi, I’m Todd. I’m a big, dumb, concrete-throwing jerk who hits girls. My biceps are fake. Don’t be like me. This could happen to you.”
“Next time,” Raph said, crouching down beside him, voice calm but terrifying, “you keep your hands to yourself. Or I’ll let Mikey use the glitter glue.”
Todd whimpered, nodding frantically, tears dripping down his inverted face.
“Glitter. Never comes out,” Mikey added with a wink.
With that, the brothers disappeared into the night, high-fiving as they vanished into the shadows.
Lesson taught. Message delivered.
And Todd? He never went near another woman without a very polite tone -- and two feet of personal space.
You, however, saw it in the news the next day.
The headline read:
“Masked Vigilantes Hijack Construction Site to Publicly Shame Harasser -- Chalk Sign Warns: ‘Don’t Be Like Me. This Could Happen to You.’”
You groaned, rolling your eyes.
“Raphael Hamato! Come here! Now!”
You heard the unmistakable sound of his boots thudding down the stairs before Raph appeared at the entrance to your room, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, baby?” Raph said, leaning against the doorframe, all casual confidence. His smirk widened as he took in your unimpressed expression. “You, uh… saw the news, huh?”
You held up the newspaper, shaking it at him. “This was your idea of ‘handling it quietly’?!”
Raph shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. “Eh, we didn’t kill him. That counts as quiet for me.”
You groaned again, tossing the paper onto the bed. “Raph, you literally left a chalk sign. And Mikey drew on his face.”
“Yeah, and?” Raph flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out like a smug cat. “Dude’s lucky that’s all we did. You shoulda seen the other ideas Mikey had-- we didn't even use the glitter.”
You shot him a glare, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”
Raph grinned, reaching out to tug you closer. “Nah, just thorough.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone that still sent shivers down your spine. “And now everyone knows what happens when some punk puts his hands on you. He ever comes near you again, they ain't gonna find his body.”
You huffed, but you couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in your chest. “...You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Raph agreed, unrepentant. “But I gotta make sure my girl's taken care of.”
You sighed, finally letting yourself smile as you leaned into him. “...Thanks, Raph.”
He squeezed you tighter, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, just above the strap of your tanktop. “Anytime, shorty.”
(And if, later that night, you may have doodled a little heart next to the newspaper clipping before tucking it into your desk drawer? Well. That was your business.)
AN: Is Bay Raph constantly on my mind? Yes. Should you be on his mind constantly? DAMN STRAIGHT! I need not say more 😘
(NOTE: I had to delete the last post and reupload because for some reason it wasn't coming up on Tumblr under any of the tags. If the world doesn't need my smut just tell me now 😭)
Raphael x Reader
All characters are aged up
Warnings: NSFW, smutty content, 18+, MDNI, swears (though that's probably the least of your concerns in a fic like this), dirty thoughts, bordering on obsessive, masturbation, angsty because, damn it, I can't help myself, this got weirdly biblical for some reason, idk how to tag nsfw content, an insomniac trying to grammar, my first official smut so apologies if it stinks :'D
You’re a damned distraction, and Raphael doesn’t know what to do about it. He isn’t without his distractions. In fact, he’s classically known to get torn up in his head over things, especially when there’s an injustice thickly rooted in whatever nameless problem ails him. You, on the other hand, agitate him in ways he wishes not to be true. You’re everywhere he goes, just not physically, like a phantom limb - a subjugator who has conquered his very being.
Many times, over and over, he has tried to categorise you, label you, so he can file you away and forget; anything in an attempt to get you out of his mind, as abnormally pragmatic as it is for him to go such a route. Are you a friend? Best friend? Something more? He bristles at the thought. ‘More’ is dangerous. ‘More’ is a bridge he’s not sure he wants to cross because of how deep this goes, how dark it is.
He catches himself thinking about you at the most inopportune moments. When he’s supposed to be strategising with his brothers, he’s replaying a conversation with you in his head, dissecting your words, searching for hidden meanings. He sees you in the flickering neon lights of the city, a fleeting silhouette blending into the urban tapestry of this concrete jungle. When he’s meant to be watching a game, he’s picturing your hands intertwined with his, your voice fluttering out his name, your body…
You’re not just a distraction, you’re a disruption, and the universe is hellbent on finding ways to toy with his teetering lucidity.
Grumbled curses and wet footsteps can be heard long before you’re seen, but silent curiosities would have been better left when you eventually appear in the lair. Three of the four brothers find themselves around you, each snickering at the pressed spring that is your body. Your crossed arms only tighten further into themselves, lips pulling in between your teeth at their lack of sympathy, but then you remember, they are boys.
Leo is the first to compose himself, matching your exaggerated stance with a raised grin. “You’re not looking very weather-appropriate.”
“I was up until about five minutes ago.” Your hands wipe away at your scrunched-up face. “One moment, sun.” You fling them down, the water hitting the ground with an offensive slap. “The next, a bunch of angry clouds piss on me.”
Laughing semi-heartedly, you loosely gesture at yourself, but dilated pupils behind red cloth have been trained on you the moment you walked in. Head-to-toe, you’re soaked: your clothes stick to you in a way that feels intrusive, accentuating every curve and contour he's learned to admire from a distance, only daring to steal glimpses when you’re not looking. The damp fabric clings to you like a lifeline, his of which is fleeting, and it just highlights your shape, each detail so clear, too clear. It shatters the fragile walls he’s fought to keep intact, a crude violation of the mental boundaries he's desperately trying to maintain. Raphael can’t stand it, and he loathes how the rain has matted your baby hairs to your forehead, a small, insignificant feature compared to the rest, and yet it leaves you looking the most exposed.
In the hazy realm of conversation woven between you and his brothers, he drifts, utterly unaware now. He thinks he catches a flash of Donnie hurrying away, yet the essence of it all slips through his fingers like mist. His form is anchored to this corner, while his thoughts wander far beyond the grasp of the present moment. He wants to lick the rain off your cheek and whisper unspoken secrets he never knew he could keep, what he’s been aching to do to you for so long. He can almost picture how you would taste against his tongue, how soft your skin would be compared to his calloused touch.
As his gaze drops out of focus, you inch closer, lowering to a crawl. Staring up through your lashes, you stop on your knees in front of him, eyes glazed with his deliverance and his destruction all at the same time. He can practically see everything from this angle, each wet crease of material grasping closely onto your body, impersonating one of those marble statues that seem impossible to make by hand. Your damp palms press into his thighs to hoist yourself up, the cold doing little to cool him, doing the opposite, in fact - warm puffs of air feathering against his starved face. His breath shortens, but he does nothing. This should stop; he can’t find it in himself to press that big red button, but this needs to stop. As you close in on him, lips ghost over his own with expectant sighs mixing between each other, and then-
The towel draped over your shoulders is the fire blanket to his perverse absorption; he’s pulled back into reality, where he is, but it doesn’t completely snuff out the embers. His eyes have had a taste of you now, a sample of the meal that he hungers so hopelessly for. You glance around, your gaze lingering on Raph for a fraction of a second before panning away, and he jolts, like a live wire has been threaded through his veins. In that second, he thinks you know, he thinks you’ve caught a glimpse into his vulgar mind, and he expects you to run off, but you don’t. Instead, you pull the towel closer and laugh at something Mikey says, the short spit of eye contact already falling from your awareness whilst it nails into his with a hammer.
Raphael’s fists clench under the table, knuckles paling beneath the wraps. You have no idea. He's thankful for that but it almost pisses him off that you have no clue just how much you invade his everything. He doesn’t quite know when this all started, but he hopes to God it has an end because he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it.
There's a deep shame that comes with these daydreams, an itch that burns within the lowest parts of his belly every time his mind so much as wanders. Unfortunately, the image of you, any image of you, scorches him worse than that guilt, which is why he can't resist those long nights of rutting against his pillow, endless scenarios flicking behind his eyes like a roll of film that goes on forever. There were many reasons that he was thankful for finally getting his own room, more so now than ever. It doesn’t matter what you do, he finds himself in the same place by the end of each day. There’d be the occasional brush of arms, a weightless touch that would burden his skin with gooseflesh, or moments when he’d manage to make you laugh, and the sound itself would drive a tremble through his shell. He thought this was an innocuous crush to begin with, all signs pointed that way, and then it happened.
Shit.
He remembers how this all started now.
It was one of those instances when you didn’t want to go home, too tired after a particularly harrowing shift at work. You had gotten a decent amount of TLC at the lair, but arguably too good, as you found yourself drooping on the couch. The boys would have happily escorted you back home, even volunteering to carry your sluggish form if that’s what it meant, to which you threw out some languidly-humoured remark about them trying to kick you out. Not even. Not ever.
“Take my bed,” Raph had offered without a second thought.
The proposition felt harmless at the time, and his intentions were so. There was no way he was going to let you sleep on the worn mound of springs and pillows that had endured the weight of four mutant behemoths for so many years. He could take it for the night, no big deal. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and truthfully, he was more than willing to sacrifice his comfort for yours. He hadn't even considered the implications of you sleeping in his bed, nor did he think of the consequences: this seed of yearning that would be planted that night to bloom and blossom into the twisted, prickly vine that now chokes his thoughts.
You, bless your oblivious heart, had accepted readily, a tired smile gracing your lips. "As long as you’re sure, Raph. I don't want to put you out."
"Positive," he'd confirmed, a little too quickly perhaps, and then retreated to grab a blanket and pillow.
That night, he barely slept. The couch was uncomfortable, sure, but there was something else: something that nagged at him. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first thought was the lack of activity from the day, barely any thugs had tried their hand at disturbing the peace, or whatever peaceful looks like for the streets of New York. Chances are, he was just restless from how many skulls he didn’t crack. Maybe not. At the time, he was stumped for an explanation, and that only secured his inability to suspend consciousness.
Before long, the early morning had arisen, and you along with it. Raphael’s failure to nod off meant he caught your freshly woken self tiptoeing out of his room. He made no effort to greet you, playing into the idea that he was genuinely asleep as you thought him to be, some parts convinced that he might have been. You slid through the lair with a swan-like equanimity he didn’t want to disturb; each clip of your shoes against the floor calculated and measured to soften the blow of your steps. He probably would have woken up were he soundly snoozing, but the attempt was still appreciated. Raphael never regarded himself as the type to silently observe, to pick up on the little details with such ease, but he had found that he was a little more introspective about these things since you’d been around.
Once you had disappeared completely, he rose from his “slumber” and slipped into his room. He figured he’d be able to get at least a couple of hours' sleep under his belt. He was very wrong about this, however. Upon entering his room, he quickly realised that sleep would be much harder to come by now. The lacklustre day had left him restless, that’s what he kept telling himself at the time, but that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was the apparitional warmth of your presence on his bed, and if he tried really hard, he’d almost be able to perfectly emulate your body lying in his company. Moreover, it was the lingering scent, faint as it was, that had truly undone him - sweet, undeniably yours, intoxicating. Slowly, he had descended atop the mattress on his side, his cheek brushing against the pillow that you had previously lain on. He could picture you in his place, as you had just been minutes before, curled up in his blankets, comfortable in his space.
He inhaled deeply, committing the fragrance to memory. Succumbing to this was crossing a precarious line. He thinks he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. A thick rope had taken hold of him without his knowledge, narrowing its taught breach the more he let himself surrender. As he took another heavy breath in, his hand crept down to the beating, almost painful throb that had somehow alluded him until that moment.
This was wrong. Perverted. He was taking advantage, in a way, of your trust, of the virtuous act of offering you comfort when you needed it. You wouldn’t want this. You wouldn’t want him thinking of you this way. And yet, he just could not stop. The essence of you clung to his sheets, whispering promises he had no right to entertain.
A groan escaped his throat, muffled by the pillow he was now pushing into his face, practically suffocating himself in the hints of you that were lingering deep within it. He imagined you hearing him, recoiling in disgust, the trust in your eyes replaced with disappointment, with something akin to fear. The thought was a sharp, painful stab, but still, it wasn't enough to halt his sudden fit of impure mania. He was too far gone, caught in the undertow of his appetite.
He came quickly, shame immediately washing over him in a freezing wave. The pleasure was fleeting, unsatisfying, tainted by the knowledge of his transgression. He lay there, panting, the scent of you now heavy and cloying, no longer intoxicating but strangling. He wanted to scrub himself clean, to erase the moment, to rewind and never offer his bed in the first place.
In his post-nut clarity, it hits him, the disgrace of it all: how badly he wants you, how desperate he is to feel the weight of your body on his, how much he needs every plush piece of skin to become tainted under his hands.
The days that followed were torture; worse than torture if there’s a word for it. He knew he had to avoid you, at least for a while. There was no way he could bear to face you, to see the innocent trust in your eyes. He needed time to process, figure out how to reconcile the image he had of himself with the reality of his actions, but any moment of closure would be met with opposition. Annoyingly, small things: a hair clip in the dojo, a book on the kitchen counter, a faint smudge of lip gloss on a discarded coffee cup. In your absence, these tiny objects served as landmines to his crime, a reminder of what he had done and what he couldn’t have.
Instances in which you were present to share the same air as him, however, were worse, and they still are. If you’re reading, he’s watching the curve of your neck. When he hears you laugh, he hears a calling that simply doesn’t exist. He may catch you licking your lips when they dry, an inattentive habit that makes him envious of your tongue. Each one of these details slots into a catalogue, stored away in the private chambers of his mind to be revised during those lonely nights.
Even his epiphany about stepping back and admiring from afar has been contaminated. Productive revelations have been spoiled and replaced with this thing he doesn’t know how to name. That act of defiling a space you occupied had undeniably tarnished any interaction with you, and in doing so, he had tarnished himself.
He’s a terrible person. People don’t have thoughts like this about their friends. Or, if they do, they’d at least stand a better chance of enacting these thoughts. He should just exonerate himself from you entirely, retreat to the shadows as he has always been taught to. The temptation itself almost makes him laugh. That would imply he has the will strong enough to remove himself from your life, a will he no longer possesses now that you’re in his.
Why can’t it be so easy?
That morning that started this all, something inside him had irrevocably broken. A dam had burst, unleashing a torrential wave of depravity he never knew existed within him. Before that, he’d just thought of you as someone who occasionally wracked his nerves in confusing ways if the circumstances were right. Now? You are everything: his obsession, his undoing, his most profound and concealed secret.
If only this were a simple crush, he could settle for that. It would come with its own problems, he knows, but he could at least sustain it with more prudence; deal with it.
He remembers a time, before you, when his nights were his own, when he could lay his head down after a job well done and bid the day farewell. His skin twitches if he tries to keep any urge at bay, fever lurches behind his eyes any time they close, and if by some miracle he can find his way to sleep without giving in, you all but manage to torment his dreams, too. Vivid, explicit, and utterly mortifying. He’ll wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and worst of all, with morning wood just to add more to this mess for atrocities' sake. He really shouldn’t be thinking about you in this way. You’re a friend, that’s the operative word he strains to keep in mind, but his body, his innate calling, doesn’t care about propriety.
It’s especially bad when he wishes he could practise his older brother’s restraint and condition himself to keep you out of his head. Leonardo’s calm, almost serene detachment is a lifestyle away from his turbulent fixations. Leo, the picture of divine patience, can seemingly shut off any unwanted thought with the flick of a wrist, whilst Raphael is a wildfire, and you the kindling. It’s not as though the routine tactics of his brother would serve him aid in this situation, anyway. Meditation has never done him any good, and it’d only give you the space to tangle yourself up in his imagination again. Instead, he buries himself in his workouts. He tries to sweat it out, tire himself to the point of mindless exhaustion, but the sweat itself stings, and the ache in his muscles is a feeble attempt to dull the sharper ache in his shell.
When he isn’t riddled with pliable what-ifs and maybes, when there is a moment that these lascivious infections decide to leave him be, he has the camera peering down at himself. How long can he actually keep this up? How long will it be before he cracks, before he says or does something he’ll live to regret, regret more than what he’s already done in the dark corners no one dares tread? He’s a ticking time bomb, and you, naively unaware, are holding the detonator.
One way or another, you’re in everything he does, absentminded things like fiddling with his sai; the touch of cool steel against his palms imitates the delicate curve of what he imagines your jawline to feel like. Even the harsh rasp of his father’s voice during sparring matches can't silence the whisper of your name, a prohibited prayer that lingers in his ears. He can't keep you out of his head. He hates it, this constant, burning awareness of you – a forbidden fruit he longs to taste but knows he can't. The self-disgust, the guilt, the painful longing; all of it is a cruel torment, a self-inflicted wound he can't seem to staunch.
He wants to scream, especially on these restless nights, to shatter the silence and break free from the invisible bonds that chain him to this impossible, unbearable infatuation. Yet, all he can do is lie there, a prisoner of his desires, and you visit him once again, not as the friend he knows, the one who laughs easily and quips back with no effort, but as a vision of his indecency. Your smile is a siren's call, eyes a bottomless reservoir of promise. You say things he can only ever dream of hearing from your lips.
This is a fantasy he’s played out innumerable times, but each rerun feels like the first.
You lie back, sprawled across his bed like a fallen angel. Is he your rescuer, or the bastard who shot you down just so he could have you? He can fool himself into thinking this is a mutual salvation, but his jealousy of the stars will have you dragged into the pit with him, where he can savour your divine spirit all to himself. You would never willingly step away from heaven’s light to meet him, of course you wouldn’t, but at least he can pretend, even for a short while, that he has somehow convinced you to fall into this madness with him. He can delude himself that he isn’t quite so alone, and so he follows the illusion of you and takes, moving like a man possessed, lacking dignity, lacking regard.
He stops fighting these premonitions now. He thinks that if he wholeheartedly appeases this greed, abandons all virtue to the fever dream that paints you as his willing partner, that he’ll be set free. He lets the imagined warmth of your skin banish the cold reality of his isolation. He allows the phantom scent of your hair to fill his airless room, drowning voluntarily so that he can fall to the ocean’s depths where he may finally find peace.
This dance with delirium, sometimes culminating for hours, eventually has to conclude, however. Your mirage blurs into nothing the closer he gets to the end, hoping with a crossed jaw that this will be the last time he sullies your good name inside his fist.
It never is.
No matter how many times he relieves himself to your notion, it never alleviates the want, the need, the dependency that’s been conceived on this idea of having you. It only makes it worse. His stomach empties more each time, and his head bloats with new possibilities just to mock him. Every instance in which he falls victim to his imagination, he staggers closer to Hell, and Earth’s core will burn him alive long before he ever admits to the degeneracy of his vestige’s mind. This false impression of reality is much sweeter, bitter in its aftertastes, but easier, a dark bubble without complication, without an outward looking in to tell him how wrong this is.
You’re a damned distraction, and at the cost of his sanity, Raphael can’t find it in himself to do anything about it.
This is kind of an idea I coined off of @moxfirefly (called Obsesión on AO3) when I realised the similarities halfway into writing, so go read that!! It's a good one yo 🙏
