#longning

Gale-

Gale often found himself hovering near the edge of the clearing whenever you trained. He claimed he was only there to observe your technique, to learn how best to support a warrior of your skill in battle- but the truth was far less clinical. There was a quiet pull in the way you moved, the confidence in your stance, the steadiness of your gaze. He rehearsed confessions in his mind, always discarding them with a nervous laugh. Someone like you, so capable and radiant, could never be interested in a man burdened by dangerous magic and a past full of mistakes.

When you protected him in the thick of a fight- stepping in front of a gnoll’s spear so he had space to cast- the gratitude that rushed through him was almost painful. Afterward, when the camp was quiet and the only light came from the fire, Gale found himself sitting beside you, book forgotten on his knee. His words spilled out before he could stop them: that you were extraordinary, that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that he feared you’d never see him as anything more than a friend. His voice trembled, but there was resolve behind it too, as though finally speaking the truth had given him a courage he hadn’t known he possessed.

Astarion-

Astarion liked to pretend he was merely amused by your strength, but anyone watching closely could see the way his gaze softened whenever you took up your sword. During sparring, he would saunter over with a sly remark- “Careful, darling, you’re making the rest of us look incompetent”- though the laughter in his voice couldn’t hide the admiration in his eyes. Sometimes he used training as an excuse to stand too close, slipping behind you to adjust a wrist or steady a stance, his touch lingering just long enough for you to notice. Underneath all the charm and playful jabs, there was a genuine appreciation for how you treated him: never as someone fragile or broken, yet never dismissing the boundaries he’d set.

On quiet nights, when most of the camp was asleep, Astarion would drift to your side of the fire with a goblet in hand. He’d watch you polish your blade or mend a strap, silver light from the moon catching in his pale hair. Without the audience of the others, his voice softened. Sometimes he would offer a compliment so low it almost vanished into the night- a quiet “You’re remarkable, you know,” spoken like a secret meant only for you. It was in those moments, when his teasing faded into sincerity, that you caught a glimpse of something far deeper than charm.

Shadowheart-

Shadowheart prided herself on being careful with her emotions, keeping them tucked away where no one could use them against her. But ever since you’d joined the party, that discipline had begun to fray at the edges. She told herself she only paid attention because a fighter’s composure was useful to a cleric who needed to heal and protect- but the truth was, there was something grounding about you. In battle you moved with a steady confidence, cutting through danger as if it were smoke, and the calm you radiated lingered long after the fighting stopped. Around the fire, she often found herself watching the quiet strength in your posture, the way you listened more than you spoke.

One evening, after a hard day’s march, you sat by the river washing grime from your hands while the others prepared camp. The late sun caught the faint sheen of your armor, and for a moment Shadowheart simply stood and watched. Then, almost against her better judgment, she walked over with a small jar of salve. “You’ve got a scrape on your arm,” she murmured, kneeling beside you. Her fingers brushed yours as she guided the ointment over the shallow cut, and she caught the flicker of surprise- maybe even warmth- in your eyes. She ducked her head quickly, hiding a smile. For a heartbeat she wanted to say more, to admit how safe you made her feel despite all her walls. Instead, she tightened the lid on the jar, gave you one of her rare, genuine smiles, and said softly, “Don’t forget there are people here who’d rather see you whole.”