Rachel ✨

Gale

Gale doesn’t flirt so much as he courts – with words. Lots of them. He offers compliments as if he’s reciting from a sonnet he wrote in your honor, then revises it mid-sentence because technically, there’s a better metaphor.

He’s the kind to start a sentence with "Forgive the boldness, but…" and then say something bold anyway.

“Forgive the boldness, but when you smile like that, it puts the sunrise to shame. Not in hue, mind you, but in how it warms the world around it.”

He’s not afraid of sincerity. In fact, it’s his default setting.

He gives affection like he's offering a gift – open-palmed, hopeful, slightly nervous.

Gale’s compliments are poetic, precise, and occasionally too much. He speaks like he’s writing you into an epic poem, and sometimes he’s aware of how ridiculous he sounds but he leans into it anyway.

You’re not just beautiful – you’re “resplendent,” “arresting,” “a living stanza.”

“There’s a rhythm to you, you know. A cadence I can’t quite match, but I find myself wanting to try.”

He loves analogies. Everything is a metaphor. You’re the flame to his magic, the gravity to his orbit, the comma in his sentence.

Unlike Astarion, who touches to test, Gale touches to reassure. His hand lingers a second longer than necessary, as if memorizing the moment.

He brushes hair from your face not to seduce but because it’s in the way, and you deserve to be seen clearly.

“There. Much better. Your face deserves an unobstructed view of the stars.”

His gestures are protective without being possessive – hovering, not holding, unless you lean in first.

To Gale, being understood is the deepest intimacy. He flirts through discussion, especially if you match his curiosity.

He’s most drawn to someone who can challenge him, surprise him.

A battle of wits? That’s foreplay.

“I had a theory about you, but every time I think I’ve unraveled the mystery, you delight in proving me wrong. Please — don’t stop.”

Magic is seduction. If you show interest in the arcane, you’ve already claimed part of his heart.

What makes Gale’s flirtation touching is how often it trips over genuine feeling. The deeper he falls, the less polished it becomes.

He second-guesses, hesitates, smiles softly in the middle of his own sentence.

“I’ve lived through the ecstasy of magic and the terror of loss… and yet, you – you – somehow feel more dangerous than either.”

And when he truly lets go:

“It’s foolish, perhaps, how much I wish to be someone worthy of the way you look at me.”

Halsin

Halsin doesn’t flirt to impress or manipulate –  he flirts because he means it. Everything he says comes from a place of deep sincerity, laced with the calm assurance of someone who knows exactly who he is.

His gaze holds yours like a quiet forest – no pressure, just presence.

“You move through the world with such purpose. It’s… beautiful to witness.”

He speaks plainly, but with a natural poetry – his words aren’t practiced, they’re felt.

“When I look at you, I see strength. But it’s your kindness that draws me in.”

Halsin doesn’t pile on flattery – he notices things. Deep, subtle things. And when he speaks of them, it feels like sunlight warming you from within.

He’s observant, not performative. You might not even realize he’s flirting at first – it just sounds like honest admiration.

“You speak gently, even when the world demands fury. That’s a rare kind of courage.”

He isn’t embarrassed by affection. He says what he feels, and he doesn’t play coy.

“You make the world feel less heavy. I hope I do the same for you.”

Halsin’s touch is deliberate, comforting, and patient. He touches with permission, not presumption. But when he does touch — it’s undeniably intimate, as if saying, I’m here. I will not break you.

He places a hand over yours when you're tense. Holds your gaze, anchoring you.

“Breathe. You don’t need to carry this alone.”

And when desire simmers beneath the surface, it’s elemental – not rushed, not performative, but felt in his closeness, his stillness.

“If I touch you, it will be with all that I am. Say the word.”

Halsin doesn’t need grand declarations. He flirts by showing up – carrying your burdens, tending your wounds, sharing the quiet.

He listens with his whole self. Even your silences are welcome with him.

“You don’t need to fill the space with words. I’m content just being near you.”

He’s drawn to strength, but moved by vulnerability.

And if you let him in, he will never belittle it.

“You let me see you. That is no small gift. And I cherish it.”

Though gentle, Halsin is not shy about attraction. When he wants you, it is unmistakable and entirely honoring.

He’s open about it, but never pushy.

“You stir something in me I haven’t felt in years. Not just desire but hope.”

And if you respond to his touch or words, he’ll smile – slow, unguarded.

“Then let me show you what it means to be cherished.”

Wyll

Wyll leads with charm but it’s never hollow. He knows how to wink and tip his head just right, but every line carries an undercurrent of sincerity.

He wants to make you smile. That’s the whole goal of his flirting: to brighten, to uplift, to show you you’re worth every stolen glance.

“If I had a coin for every time you crossed my thoughts today, I’d have enough to buy you something nice. Though… I’d much rather earn your smile than your silence.”

There’s always a touch of theatricality. He is the Blade of Frontiers, after all. But he never uses the title to elevate himself above you—only to make you laugh.

“Would you believe the famed Blade of Frontiers was brought to his knees by a glance? Because I’m about ready to kneel.”

Unlike Astarion’s razor-sharp innuendo or Gale’s encyclopedic poetry, Wyll gives tender compliments. And if you compliment him back? He flusters, adorably so.

He notices the little things, and they move him.

“You tend to others before yourself. That’s not something I see often and it humbles me.”

If you flirt back, he might laugh – low and genuine – but you’ll catch the faintest blush.

“Careful now… keep that up and I might forget I’m supposed to be the charming one.”

Wyll touches sparingly but when he does, it’s full of reverence. A hand to steady you, fingers brushing yours when passing something, a palm pressed over your heart after battle.

He’ll ask before crossing a boundary.

“May I?” (Offered hand. An honest question.) “Only if you’d like me to stay close.”

Even his teasing has warmth:

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll start thinking I’m special.”

Wyll doesn’t just flirt with words – he flirts through action. Standing by your side. Letting you see the cracks in the armor.

He wants to be someone you trust. And that starts by offering you his truth.

“I made mistakes. I carry them with me but I’d carry yours too, if you let me.”

He brings you into his world, slowly and willingly. If he tells you a story from his past, it means he sees you as part of his future.

When Wyll desires you, it burns low and steady – never rushed, never careless. It’s controlled, because he wants to earn the right to want you.

He doesn’t take. He offers.

“I won’t ask for anything you’re not ready to give. But know this – if you choose me, I will never leave your side.”

And if you do choose him?

That smile – the real one, soft and reverent – comes to life.

“Then let me be the man who proves you were right to.”

Rolan

Rolan is not here to charm you. In fact, he would very much like to be left alone, thank you. But there’s a twitch in his mouth when you say something clever, a pause before he looks away. He’s fighting it and that’s exactly how you know it’s real.

Flirting often sounds like irritation at first. He’s too observant. Too annoyed. He notices you far more than he admits.

“You're always putting yourself in danger. Someone’s going to have to clean up your mess. …Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say it’d be me.”

He flirts like a man sharpening a blade – precise, deflective, and with his guard raised.

“You keep looking at me like I’ve said something sweet. I assure you – I haven’t.”

(He has.)

Rolan doesn’t give you praise straight. He’ll call you reckless when he means brave. Annoying when he means magnetic. And when you catch on? He’s flustered – genuinely.

He’s the king of “I didn’t mean it like that” after saying something surprisingly intimate.

“You’re… capable. For someone with such an irritating tendency to leap before they look.”

If you catch him staring, he’ll roll his eyes. But he won’t deny it.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t… I wasn’t admiring. I was assessing.”

(He was admiring.)

Rolan is awkward about physical affection unless it’s practical. Helping you up, catching your arm in battle, brushing past you on purpose. When he does reach out first, it’s a big deal even if he pretends it isn’t.

Touches are brief, careful, and loaded with tension.

“Hold still. You’ve got something on your – here. There. It’s gone.”

He touches like he's expecting to be rejected. When you don’t pull away, it floors him.

“...Huh. You didn’t flinch. That’s new.”

Rolan connects through arguments, side glances, shared snark. He bonds with people who can keep up, challenge him, call him out and not back down.

He flirts through tension. You’ll know you’ve gotten close when he actually stops snapping at you.

“You’re not as infuriating as usual today. …Don’t let it go to your head.”

And if you tease him back? His ears go pink. Every time.

The rare moments when Rolan lets down his guard are intensely vulnerable. He won’t wax poetic but when he says something kind, it matters. He won’t say it unless it’s true.

It slips out before he can stop it:

“You make things… bearable. More than bearable, actually.”

And when he finally stops fighting it:

“I’ve spent so long pushing people away, I forgot what it feels like to want someone to stay. …I want you to stay.”

Deia appears at the mouth of his tent without warning. No greeting. No polite cough. No announcement. Just the soft sweep of canvas, the sudden spill of black hair and moon-shadow, and then her voice, already halfway through a sentence as if Gale has been part of the conversation for the last ten minutes and simply failed to keep up.

“—and then, of course, Astarion says, ‘How was I supposed to know the man had an emotional attachment to the goat?’ As if anyone with eyes could not tell the goat was clearly beloved. It had a ribbon, Gale! A ribbon!”

Gale, propped against his pack with a book open in one hand, lifts his eyes over the page. One brow rises. Deia does not wait for permission. She never has. She slips inside like smoke with opinions, boots quiet against the ground, one hand already gesturing in sharp little arcs as she speaks. There is dried mud on her trousers. A faint smear of soot near her jaw. Her hair has half-escaped its tie and moves around her shoulders every time she turns her head, restless and glossy as spilled ink.

“Karlach, naturally, wanted to free it.”

“Naturally,” Gale says.

“And I said, reasonably, that stealing a goat from a man whose only crime was poor taste in companions would be morally questionable.”

“Remarkably measured of you.”

“Yes, thank you. Then the goat bit Astarion.”

Gale’s mouth twitches. Deia points at him immediately.

“Do not look pleased. He deserved it, but that is not the point.”

“I would not dream of taking pleasure in Astarion’s misfortune.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“Only when the cause is noble.”

She snorts, reaches for the cup near his things without asking, takes a swallow, and instantly winces so hard one eye closes.

“Gods. What is this?”

“My tea.”

“This is an insult in a cup.”

“It was a gift.”

“From who? Someone who hates you?”

Gale lowers the book a fraction.

“Are you here to insult my tea, my evening, or my general existence?”

“Yes.”

Then she keeps talking. She paces as she does, not anxiously, but with that bright excess of her, that storm-in-a-bottle energy she sometimes gets after danger has failed to kill her and therefore must be mocked for its poor manners. She sways when she turns. She acts out Astarion’s offense with a hand to her chest and a wounded aristocratic tilt of the chin. She deepens her voice for Karlach, mangles the accent terribly, then laughs at herself before Gale can.

And Gale watches her. He pretends, with admirable dedication, to return to his book. He even turns a page. He does not read a word.

His eyes keep finding her over the top of it, narrowed with poorly concealed amusement. The corners of his mouth betray him in slow increments. A man under siege by affection, attempting to defend himself with literature.

Then, without warning, Deia finishes some sentence about “goat-related tyranny”, crosses the small space between them, and drops bonelessly onto his bedroll, her head landing on his thigh as if it has always belonged there. Gale stills. Only for half a breath. Then he looks down at her.

“Well,” he says, voice dry as old parchment and twice as fond, “hello to you too.”

Deia grins up at him, upside down and shameless.

“Hello, pretty wizard.”

“You do realize most people begin with that.”

“Most people lack imagination.”

“Most people possess manners.”

“Tragic for them.”

She rolls onto her stomach, chin near his knee, and squints at the book.

“What atrocity are you reading tonight?”

His hand tightens around the spine.

“Atrocity?”

“That title looks self-important.”

“That title,” Gale says, wounded in several academic places at once, “is A Treatise on the Harmonious Application of Transmutative Principles in Layered Defensive Enchantments.”

Deia stares at him. Blinks once.

“My deepest condolences,” she says with genuine sympathy.

“It is a highly respected work.”

“By whom?”

“Scholars.”

“Unwell scholars?”

He moves the book away when she reaches for it. Her grin widens.

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“Gale.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I need to judge it properly.”

“You judged it before knowing what it was.”

She sighs with theatrical disappointment and begins to push herself upright.

“Fine. Keep your little wizard brick.”

Before she can get far, his fingers close gently around her forearm. Not hard. Not commanding. Just enough. A quiet hook cast into the river. Deia pauses. Gale does not look away from the book when he draws her back down beside him, but the faint satisfaction in his face gives him away entirely. She lets herself be pulled because of course she does. Because the game is sweeter when they both know the rules and pretend they do not. She settles against his side this time, shoulder pressed to his hip, hair spilling over his thigh.

“Oh,” she says, amused. “Look at that.”

“Look at what?”

“You.”

“I am doing nothing.”

“You are getting attached.”

“I would argue I am merely preventing further disruption.”

“With your hand on me?”

“A necessary restraint.”

“A necessary restraint,” she repeats, delighted. “Should I be worried?”

“At present? No. Later, perhaps, depending on whether you insult any more of my books.”

She laughs, low and pleased, and pokes his ribs with one finger. Gale inhales sharply and gives her a look. Deia’s eyes gleam.

“Oh, that was interesting.”

“It was not.”

“It was.”

“It was a normal human response to being attacked.”

“Attacked,” she echoes. “By one finger. Gods, the mighty wizard falls.”

“I am beginning to suspect,” he says, gaze returning to the page with suspicious deliberation, “that you came into my life with the express purpose of making my evenings difficult.”

Deia props her chin on her hand, watching him from below, smile slow and blade-bright.

“Oh, truly, how tragic. A poor suffering wizard," she murmurs. "And yet, still, you kissed me. So really, that speaks more about you than it does about me.”

Gale turns a page. Does not look at her. His voice, however, drops into something far too even to be innocent.

“I seem to recall I’ve done more than that.”

The silence changes shape. Deia’s expression shifts at once. The grin does not vanish, exactly. It sharpens. Her eyes narrow, silver catching the candlelight, and her head tilts by the smallest degree. There she is, Gale thinks helplessly. Not the storm. The spark before it.

“Oh?” she says softly. “Did you?”

He keeps his gaze on the book, though his thumb has stopped moving along the margin.

“I believe so.”

“Hm.” Deia drags the sound out, considering him with wicked solemnity. “How unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?”

“My memory is terribly unreliable.”

“Is it?”

“Dreadful," she shifts closer, slow now, all that bright animated energy gathering into something warmer, more deliberate. Her fingers walk lightly over the blanket near his knee, not touching him yet. “I might need you to refresh it.”

At that, Gale finally looks down. The book is still open in his hand. Neither of them believes he is reading anymore. His eyes move over her face, over the smirk she is trying and failing to keep casual, over the softness beneath it. The trust hidden in the provocation. The invitation dressed up as mockery because it is easier, still, to tease than to ask. His expression warms. Dangerously. Fondly. Thoroughly.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “A scholarly exercise, then.”

Deia’s mouth curves.

“If you must make it sound boring.”

“I assure you,” Gale says, closing the book with one careful hand, “I am a very dedicated tutor.”

And Deia, wicked thing, has the audacity to look pleased with herself when he sets the book aside.

It was a strange period of my life, if I am being entirely honest.

Fire had always lived within me. My magic was volatile by nature, flames curled around my heartbeat as naturally as blood through my veins, and it had never troubled me. I enjoyed it, if anything. There was a simple satisfaction in coaxing a fire to life in a cold stove, in filling an empty hearth with warmth at the flick of my fingers.

And if fire escaped where it ought not, it obeyed me just as readily. A lantern overturned at the docks, a spark caught by dry timber, a careless accident threatening to become a tragedy—I could command the flames into submission until enough water arrived to finish the work.

It is as natural to me as breathing.

Unfortunately, at that age, I also possessed a temper to rival any blaze.

For the first time in my life, I was truly free.

I had coin in my purse, no one watching over my shoulder, and a city sprawling endlessly before me. I indulged enthusiastically in all of it: good food, good wine, and whatever delightful company my gold could purchase. Freedom suited me perhaps a little too well.

It made me arrogant.

I knew I was powerful, and worse, I enjoyed knowing it.

So when someone wronged me, when they mistook politeness for encouragement and persisted after being told no, my patience often ran short. My anger flared quickly, and occasionally quite literally. Nothing serious, mind you. Usually. A scorched sleeve. A blistered hand. A brief lesson delivered through skin made uncomfortably aware of just how hot a sorceress could become when irritated.

I am not proud of it.

At least, not anymore.

And then there was the house.

To this day, I maintain that burning down an entire residence was a somewhat disproportionate response to the circumstances.

Still, it was a glorious night.