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
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