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Chapter Text

In the dim light of the Underdark, Astarion fought to keep his hunger in check. The endless trek through bioluminescent fungi fields and shadowy crevices was a sensory feast but a torment all the same. The pulsing glow from the mushrooms reminded him of a heartbeat—a slow, steady thrum that teased him with the memory of feeding, only to leave him aching and empty.

His companions were thankfully oblivious, laughing and arguing now over the best way to avoid a Roper’s tentacles. But every now and then, he’d catch Wyll’s gaze lingering on him, those sharp, knowing eyes studying him in a way that made Astarion’s undead heart almost skip. Did he know? Wyll was a monster hunter, a warlock bound to an infernal patron, but even then a clever man on some accounts. But Astarion had been so careful. No biting, no predatory glances—at least, none he couldn’t play off as harmless or flirty. And yet, the hunger was getting to him. The longer they travelled through the Underdark, the harder it became. There was nothing here to feed on that didn’t come with claws, fangs, or a lethal temperament that he could hunt alone. And now, starving, weakened, he was starting to feel the gnawing of his hunger, sharpening every glance he threw at his traveling companions. He loathed himself for it.

That night when they had made camp, when the camp was mostly quiet save from the quiet talk around the campfire, Astarion retreated to his tent, fighting off the gnawing craving that was steadily overtaking him. He tried to think of anything but the hunger, until a faint rustling at the entrance made him tense. The flap shifted, and Wyll entered without being invited, his gaze locked onto Astarion’s. There was no malice in his eyes, no suspicion. Instead, Wyll’s gaze was calm, but Astarion was wary, this wasn't like Wyll, he usually had manners.

Astarion tried to compose himself, tried to maintain his usual charming mask. “Wyll, sneaking into my tent in the middle of the night? I knew you’d succumb to my charms eventually.” he said with a smirk, though his voice wavered slightly.

Wyll crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “You’re starving yourself, Astarion."

Astarion chuckled, brushing off the accusation with an airy wave. “Oh, my dear Wyll, if this is an attempt to compliment my figure, I must say, it’s rather morbid. I assure you, I’m simply as dashing as ever.”

"I know what you are Astarion, You don't need to pretend." Wyll says as he moves a bit closer before he sit's down on the carpet. Astarion’s chest tightened, though he fought to keep his expression steady. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”

“Really?” Wyll tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. ““I’ve noticed… things. The way you move, how you fight. And… how you don’t bleed quite like the rest of us. But what really gave you away, are not the fangs or the red eyes. You don’t breathe as often as most, you know, almost like you forget to sometimes. It’s subtle, but I’ve noticed.”

Astarion felt his composure begin to slip, and his gaze darted to the ground. He’d been so careful— so painfully restrained, he’d thought he’d hidden himself well enough.

“I may be a monster hunter, Astarion, but I know a person when I see one. I know what you are, and I know you’re starving. I am not here to harm you, I am here to offer you help." Wyll murmured, holding up his arm, offering it bare and exposed. Astarion’s eyes locked onto it, the veins under the skin taunting him.

“Drink. Fill yourself properly, You’ll only get weaker if you don't, and that puts us all in danger—not from you, but because you’ll be too drained to fight. too weak to notice threats..”

Astarion swallowed. “I’d kill you if I drank my fill, I'm starving, I would not be able to stop..” He whispered, a note of desperation slipping into his voice, still, his hand reached out, almost involuntarily, tracing Wyll’s wrist. The warmth, the life pulsing beneath the skin, was intoxicating.

Wyll held up two restoration potions, in his other hand, giving Astarion a reassuring smile. “I came prepared.” he said simply. “You’ve been fighting your hunger longer than I thought possible... I’ve never known a vampire, spawn or otherwise, to resist their nature like this. Let me help you, please eat.”

Astarion’s control, his restraint cracked just then. He felt himself shudder, the hunger flooding through him in a rush. Still, he hesitated. “I’ve only ever fed on animals before, I don’t know if I can...”

Wyll didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned in, voice gentle. “Astarion. It’s fine. I trust you.”

Something inside Astarion snapped. He held Wyll’s arm with trembling hands, his fangs sinking into the warm flesh, the taste of Wyll’s blood flooding his senses in a way that nothing else had before. It was rich, vibrant, like tasting the sun after centuries being in complete darkness. He moaned, low and hungry, clutching Wyll’s arm closer, terrified he would pull it away, that it had all been a cruel joke before he staked him.

He drank deeply, greedily, no longer able to mask his utter desperation as his voice betrayed his need with a broken moan. Wyll let him, even as his own breaths became shorter, more strained, even as pain flickered across his face with the intensity of Astarion's pulls. When his other hand moved, it was only to uncork a potion and drink, the magic of restoration surging through him and keeping him steady.

Astarion’s wild, starved gulps eventually slowed to softer, more controlled pulls, his hunger ebbing as the richness of Wyll’s blood filled him, it felt like his feeding went on forever, but also like no time had passed, as he finally pulled away. Lips stained and breathing heavy, feeling raw and vulnerable, but so wonderfully satisfied, so full. Happy even.

As Astarion withdrew, licking the last traces of blood from his lips, he looked up at Wyll, overwhelmed by a deep, warm fullness he hadn’t felt since… well, that one time he’d feasted on that bear. He’d ended up practically stumbling around, head spinning with what he’d blamed on a bottle of wine at the time. But this—this was far richer, far more intoxicating than any animal’s blood he had ever tasted.

Wyll met his gaze, the corners of his lips lifting in a soft smile as he used a potion of healing to make the wound heal over, leaving small faint marks in their wake.

"I’ve got more potions, so if you come to me before you’re starving, we might not even need them." he said. "Better for you to feed every other day, at least until we’re out of the Underdark—or find some game that won’t put up a fight."

Astarion blinked, still processing the offer, the gentleness in Wyll’s voice, the understanding in his expression. He’d gone so long, hiding this part of himself, guarding against it like some sordid secret. And yet, Wyll hadn’t recoiled, hadn’t shown even a glimmer of fear.

"Perhaps…" Wyll’s voice softened as he spoke, "perhaps you should think about telling the others. They might be more understanding about this than you think. And I’ll back you up if needed, though I doubt it’ll come to that."

For a moment, Astarion was actually speechless, the sensation of being full, so truly full, washing over him with a dizzying sense of satisfaction. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this… sated. Wyll just smiled and reached over, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder. "We’re a team, after all," he said simply. "I wouldn’t let anyone else here go without if I could help them."

Astarion gazed at him, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face. "You really are a devilish handsome prince, aren’t you?" he murmured, voice sincere.

Wyll chuckled, shaking his head. "And you, my friend, are very drunk on blood." he said with a soft laugh. "Get some rest, Astarion." Wyll rose and walked over and out of the tent, closing the flap behind him.

As Astarion lay sprawled atop his nest of blankets and pillows, he felt a warmth spread through him, something he hadn’t felt in decades. Wyll’s blood coursed through him like fire, banishing the ever-present chill that clung to his undead body. For a moment, he could almost remember what it had felt like to be alive, it must have felt like this, surely.
Outside his tent, the low murmur of voices caught his attention. He couldn’t help but listen, the sounds carrying just enough to be clear.

"Wyll," Karlach’s voice, unmistakably playful, teased. "Don’t try to pull one over on me. I heard those moans in there. So… what are you two getting up to?." Astarion could practically hear her wink at him.

There was a brief pause, and he could almost picture the look on Wyll’s face—sheepish, red-cheeked, and flustered.

"We were just… talking." Wyll managed, though even he didn’t sound convinced by his own excuse.

Karlach’s laughter bubbled up. "Talking, huh? Well, if that’s what we’re calling it now…" Her voice softened. "But really, whoever you bump 'swords' with, it’s your business. Naaw! Look at you, blushing! You look like a tomato!"

Astarion fought back a laugh, his eyes fluttering closed as he basked in the feeling of warmth that Wyll had left him with. It was more than just the satisfaction of feeding; it was something dangerously close to contentment, a sense of being cared for, of being seen.

For so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to have blood warm him from the inside out. Now, he lay there, barely able to move, as if any sudden motion might shatter this fleeting, wondrous sensation.

He sighed softly, letting the heat settle deep within him. He didn’t want to think about how fleeting it would be—just for tonight, he wanted to pretend that this warmth, this taste of fleeting life, would last.

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Chapter Text

Shadowheart peered carefully over the edge of the tower, her gaze sharp and searching. "There's something over there.." she murmured, squinting as she looks towards the back of the tower. "Almost looks man-made?"

Gale moved closer, adjusting his stance as he leaned over and looked. His expression brightened as he took in the details. "Why, it could be a garden!" he mused. "It certainly resembles one from here. There’s likely a door leading into it,  there almost always is with wizard towers, ingredients for potions and such. We might be able to get down there by climbing… or I could cast Feather Fall. Less chance of any, ah, broken bones that way, and hopefully, a lot safer than that delightful room full of death turrets..."

Wyll glanced at Astarion then, his gaze both concerned and assessing. "Think you’re up for it, Astarion? We could have someone stay here with you if you need a bit more time to rest?"

The thought of being left alone, even if only for a short while, made Astarion bristle. He wasn’t about to be left behind or treated like some fragile broken relic, especially not now. But the ache in his shoulder was fierce, the wound throbbing dully despite the makeshift cauterization. Before he could answer, Karlach stepped forward.

"I’ll stay with you if you need it, Fangs..." she offered, her face soft with understanding.

Astarion forced a smirk, straightening with a flick of his head. "I’m fine my dear." he said, though even to his ears his voice sounded strained. "A little tumble won’t finish me off as long as our dear wizard is better at transmutation magic than his healing ones.."

Wyll moved to Astarion’s side, his hand firm and warm on his back as he helped him to his feet, the spell was timed after all, they had to be ready or end up with it wearing off before they landed.

Gale pulled out his spell book, face flushed at Astarion's earlier barb, murmuring the incantations as he traced intricate sigils in the air. A soft, blue, shimmering light drifted over the group as Feather Fall took effect, and they jumped. 

They descended gracefully, landing softly on the rocks underneath, as they moved closer to the far side of the tower, they did find what appeared to be a garden. Not like any garden they’d ever seen. Twisting vines and luminescent flowers and mushrooms grew in tangled masses, illuminating the overgrown pathway beneath their feet. In the centre, standing tall and grand, was a small tree, its strange bluish flowers blooming like silent sentries. 

As they neared the tree, a strange, weightless sensation washed over them. Wyll’s brows furrowed as he glanced down at his hand, his magic now oddly dulled. "What’s happening…?"

Shadowheart’s gaze flickered with recognition, and Gale was already observing the tree with rapt fascination. "Ah, it’s a Sussur tree." he said, a hint of awe in his voice. "It’s known to drain magic from its surroundings. Quite a remarkable specimen. Anything magical within its radius loses its potency."

Astarion watched with interest as Gale’s eyes sparkled, even amid the exhaustion he was feeling. "So, it kills magic?" he asked, feigning nonchalance as he eyed the flowers.

"Precisely! But also no." Gale replied. "It absorbs magical energy, nullifying spells and enchantments. I suppose if we were to take one of its flowers, it could theoretically drain the power from the turrets up top. Though it would also mean that anyone carrying it would be… well, rendered magically ineffective for whatever time they did carry it, and everyone else standing in it's radius. Fascinating." Karlach grinned, uncrossing her arms and slapping her great axe. "Don’t worry about that. You grab the flower, and I’ll be your shield. Can’t drain what I don’t got." Her smile was a genuine one.

The plan seemed solid enough, but they still needed to get inside the tower, which meant unlocking the door. Astarion took a step forward, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out his toolkit.

"Allow me," he drawled, fingers deft as he approached the lock. Despite the lingering ache in his shoulder, his hands moved smoothly, feeling out the pins in the lock. Concentration washed over his face, blocking out the pain for a moment. The familiar rhythm of lockpicking steadied him, grounding him in something he could control. With a soft click, the lock yielded, and the door swung open, revealing a dark room, the light from the fungus outside making it hard to see.

A sense of accomplishment flickered across his face, but he quickly masked it, turning back to the others with a flourish. "After you, my darlings." he murmured, giving a mock bow, while holding onto his wounded shoulder.

Karlach let out a loud whoop as Gale and Shadowheart shared an approving nod, while Wyll placed a steadying hand on Astarion’s back as the others filed inside. Though the tower’s interior was shadowed and silent, there was a sense of purpose among them, a sense of unity in their strides. 

As they stepped into the dim, musty room at the base of the tower, their eyes fell upon a massive, intricately wrought furnace-like contraption in the centre. Gale’s eyes lit up with understanding as he stepped closer, his fingers tracing its surface.

“This is it—the power source..” he murmured, glancing back at the others. “It’s a power generator, a mighty clever one too. Must have been designed to draw energy from magical sources to keep the tower running.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, peering over Gale’s shoulder. “So… what are we meant to do with it?”

Gale gestured toward the Sussur bloom in Wyll’s hand. “Place the flower inside. If this theory is correct, the anti-magic properties will disrupt whatever enchantments are still sustaining the defences.”

Wyll nodded, stepping forward and carefully slipping the strange, bluish bloom into the heart of the generator. As soon as the flower touched the inner chamber, the generator hummed to life, casting a warm glow across the room. Lamps flared along the walls, illuminating the once-dark corners with a golden light, and they could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of energy coursing through the floors and walls.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, casting a sceptical look at Gale. “And how do we know this little magic trick of yours deactivated the turrets?” he asked, his tone half-challenging, half-wary. "I’m not particularly eager to be a test subject for one of those things again."

Gale shrugged, giving him a apologetic smile. "We won’t know until we climb up and check for ourselves, I’m afraid. Not everything in magic comes with a tidy guarantee.."

Astarion sighed, his eyes sweeping the room for anything of value, just a few ingredients and potions. They moved toward a staircase winding up the far wall, they ascended cautiously, keeping their eyes peeled for any lingering traps. As they reached the landing, they found themselves facing a curious contraption: a glass tube set into the centre, right on top of where the power source is on the floor bellow. With a single button on the floor inside it. Gale’s eyes widened with delight.

“It’s an Arcane Elevator!” he exclaimed, practically bouncing on his feet. “Most towers don’t have these—they’re expensive and take incredibly detailed enchantments to operate. We’re in for a real treat here, I never got around to placing them back in Waterdeep...”

One by one, they crowded into the tube, careful of keeping distance to Karlach, and Gale pressed the button. With a soft hum, the elevator began to ascend, the walls around them giving way to a faintly green-tinted view of the floors below. As they rose, the temperature shifted, becoming warmer and more humid, almost like stepping into another world.

The elevator came to a smooth stop, opening into a vast inn door greenhouse, where exotic plants, giant mushrooms, glowing with bioluminescent colours, lined the corners, casting the room in a dreamlike glow.

Gale was already examining a small patch of herbs, muttering excitedly as he plucked mushrooms and rare leaves, tucking them carefully into his satchel. “Always useful to have a few ingredients on hand. You never know when the need for an impromptu potion arises you know...”

While Gale rummaged through the plants, Astarion’s gaze fell on a dusty shelf tucked in the corner, stacked with old, musty tomes. One book, its cover almost worn smooth, caught his eye. He pulled it down, flipping through its brittle pages, only to find an odd message scrawled in hasty, uneven handwriting, he read it aloud.

“How can I trust?
How should I know?
How can I show myself, my darkest me?”

Astarion’s brow lifted, his lips twisting in mild amusement. “A poetry book, is it?” he murmured. “How very.. dramatic.”

Karlach snickered. “A brooding poet, eh?” at the same time as Gale fires off; "Here dwelt a wizard blessed with impeccable taste in literature."

Astarion smirked, wiping his hands as if shaking off the remnants of whatever tortured soul had penned it after tossing it back onto the shelf. He turned to find the others eyeing their surroundings, a mixture of curiosity and caution on their faces. “Seems like every wizard I personally know, brooding bunch they are..” he said dryly, casting one last look at Gale before his eyes return the dusty tome. Something about the words felt oddly familiar, resonant, but he shook off the feeling. 

“Lovely décor..” Astarion remarked, giving the greenhouse a sweeping glance. “But I don’t see how this is going to get us any closer to whatever this wizard was hiding, if any.”

Wyll gave a low chuckle. “Not every room needs to be a death trap, you know, Astarion.”

“Speak for yourself, Blade..” Astarion replied with a smirk. “I’m not entirely convinced the mushrooms won't kill us just yet.”

As they returned to the elevator after finishing the floor, Gale pointed out the newly revealed second button on the panel. "This must take us up another floor, either to the very top or at least closer to wherever the wizard lived I would imagine."

He pressed the button again, and the elevator carried them upward once more. The doors opened to reveal the main entrance floor, the same area they’d scouted earlier but had avoided due to the active turrets. Now, to their relief, the deadly sentries had retreated into the ground under their seals. 

“Looks like the Sussur flower did its job,” Wyll murmured, glancing cautiously at the nearest turret seal. “Good to know we’re not about to be turned into scorch marks...”

The group fanned out, cautiously exploring the floor. They found several balconies overlooking the Underdark landscape, and on one of them, a sturdy, ancient-looking chest that caught Gale’s attention. "Trickles of Weave radiate from that chest..." He says as he swung it open to reveal an assortment of enchanted trinkets.

In another corner, Karlach found a box of mechanical parts, gears and coils likely used for tower repairs. "Could be handy," she said, tossing a few pieces into her bag. “Never know what kind of traps we might need to disable..”

Finding nothing more of interest on the main floor, they returned to the elevator. Gale pressed the button once more, and they ascended with a soft whir, anticipation building as the elevator carried them upward.

As the doors opened, they stepped into a grand, circular room, though it was in a state of severe disrepair. This was clearly the heart of the tower, once serving as a combined bedroom, library, and study. A great canopy bed sat against one wall, its once-luxurious curtains now hanging in faded, tattered strips. Books were strewn about in careless heaps, bookshelves broken and floorboards missing. some books  half-buried beneath splintered wood and broken stone. A chill draft whistled through the many cracks in the walls, carrying the faint scent of old parchment and dust and that moisture that was always clinging to everything here down in the Underdark.

Gale’s eyes shone with excitement, and he immediately began gathering books into his bag of holding. Astarion smirked, watching the wizard’s almost childlike enthusiasm as he salvaged whatever he could from the chaos. In a small pile near the broken bedframe, Astarion spotted something unusual—a slate marked with strange, angular runes. He picked it up, feeling its smooth, cool surface in his hands.

“Githyanki,” Gale murmured, looking over his shoulder. “It’s written in Tir’su, their language. Unfortunately, I can’t read it… but Lae’zel might be able to. It’s worth bringing back to her.”

Astarion nodded, tucking the slate into his bag. He noticed Gale still meticulously picking up books, his bag of holding greedily swallowing tome after tome. He shook his head, bemused, and resumed his own search, skimming through the debris.

Shadowheart found a dusty piece of parchment inscribed with what looked like a half-finished spell, and Wyll stumbled upon a peculiar amulet that radiated magic. Each of them pocketed their findings, examining them for any potential use or clues. The room’s grandeur and sheer quantity of artifacts hinted at Lenore’s immense power and knowledge, though decay and time had left their mark on every corner.

The air felt thick with history, the presence of secrets lingering like shadows. As Astarion finds another small, leather-bound book on a wobbling table, he wondered just what kind of wizard Lenore De Hurst had been—and what secrets might be waiting, buried within her works, he opens it and finds even more poetry, he brings all the books he has found out. and looks through them, as Gale is in seemingly no hurry to be done.

Astarion frowned, a strange ache unfurling in his chest. He glanced over to where Gale was happily stuffing book after book into his bag of holding, as if collecting each tome would somehow restore this tower to its former glory. There was a satisfaction in Gale’s movements, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. Astarion wondered if Gale even noticed these scattered small fragments or if they meant anything to him.

As he watched Gale, Astarion’s mind drifted back to the poet’s words. They spoke of loneliness, vulnerability, and the desperate hope of reaching out for connection—feelings Astarion had buried under layers of charm, sarcasm, and guarded indifference. It was strange, but something about these simple, unguarded words struck a chord in him, stirring something he’d long thought silenced.

He glanced down at the books and scraps of paper in his hand, turning them over thoughtfully. How often had he, too, felt like a shadow—an empty reflection moving through life, unable to reach out, afraid? And yet, here he was, amid people who seemed to care in their own strange ways. People who had, bit by bit, cracked the armour he’d so carefully built around himself..

For a fleeting moment, Astarion felt as if he and this long-lost poet were kindred spirits, both wandering through an unkind world, clinging to scraps of connection. He sighed, slipping the notes back into a unused satchel, before placing them in his bag. These words were small, delicate things, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave them behind...

As he turned back to his companions, he found himself looking at them with something softer in his gaze. These people, odd and disparate as they were, each of them broken in their own ways.. had become something of a lifeline—perhaps even the same "rescue" the poet had longed for, at least it felt like that to him. 

Chapter Text

When they decide to venture further up, they emerged onto the crumbling top of the tower, where the stones were weathered and cracked, and what little remained of the roof had mostly collapsed. As they stepped forward, the quiet was broken by a low, metallic rumble. There, looming against the perpetual twilight sky of the Underdark, stood a towering sentinel—a construct of metal and arcane power, with a face eerily reminiscent of that of a human’s.

The machine regarded them with, light flickering behind its eyes, and then it spoke, its voice echoing in a low, halting cadence: “New sounds through damp and dark oppression break. Is it foe, that foul, contemptuous heel?”

Astarion felt a shiver of recognition. He had read those exact words in one of the books downstairs, and opening of a play, the poetry etched in his mind. He squared his shoulders, meeting the construct’s gaze. “Or art thou friend, a rescue from my lonely wake?” he replied, his voice steady and measured, even if he did not feel it himself.

The others exchanged glances, clearly puzzled, but none spoke. The construct, tilted its head as though in consideration, before responding in a more broken tone, like more than one voice spoke. "Come out of love for me, not for love of blood and steel..." The sentinel then bows. “Command as you see fit, my lord, my liege.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke again, the words flowing naturally from him as if he’d rehearsed them a hundred times. 

“How can I trust? How will I ever know? How can I show myself, my darkest me?”

"If you do not your deepest secrets show? Reveal your truth, give what you wish to see.."

The sentinel turned to the side, moving over to a battered table against the crumbling wall, and placed a small ring upon it.  Astarion approached slowly, feeling the others’ eyes on him. As he picked up the ring, he noticed a small, torn scrap of paper resting beneath it, scribbled with another line of poetry he picked it up... The sentinel went back to his 'post'. 

 "I wonder..." Astarion murmurs, the others watch him as they moved closer. "I wonder if all the poetry will make it do similar things." 

"It might very well be the case." Shadowheart says as she stands next to him an regards the Sentinel.  "I love poetry as much as the next wizard, but using it like this, to command automatons... seems more that a fair bit too self-indulgent even for me..." Gale chimes in but also adds. "Be wary that some of the poems could have been used as a safety precaution. We won't know what it will prompt so to speak."

"Well, we can always try it out, he seems docile enough I suppose." Wyll says as Astarion walks back towards the sentinel. 

"These empty sheets are all that's left of you. The last of all the thoughtless gifts you gave." Astarion still feels how he reacts as he says the poems out loud. Why is this sad? Why is he feeling so sad?

"I will hold onto them, it's all that I can do. I can't throw them away, I've never been that brave."
the sentinel paused, its mechanical eyes and voice flickering with that same.. light. In a deliberate movement, the construct reached into a compartment within its chest, producing a vial and extending it toward Astarion. He took it carefully, recognizing the crimson liquid within: a Potion of Greater Healing. A  gesture of protection, of care.

Sad..

“The silence stretches on. I’m all alone. Please, can I hold your hands for just a while?” he murmured saying the words on the note he had found downstairs.

"Of course, my love. Don't be afraid, sweet girl." The constructs voice is low, and soft, soothing even when the voice glitches.  "What can I do? Say, would you like a hug?" 

Wyll whispers from his side  "This machine must think you are Lenore, Astarion.. You are many things, but not a sweet girl."  Astarion tuts his tongue at Wyll and looks between Wyll and the sentinel. He has been sad for no reason since that first damn poem, his shoulder and hand aches and he finds, yes, he wants a hug..

With deliberate, careful movements, the construct stepped closer. It extended its arms, embracing him gently, or tries to, it holds him too low, like he was supposed to be shorter than he is. "Come here, just for a moment. Let it out.." Astarion listens as it talks. "Remember, you are loved, Lenore. So so much. You're doing great. And everyone will be so proud of you... As I already am." Bernard’s grip was gentle, if odd, and after a moment, it released him, stepping backwards.

Well, that did not help with his sadness.  

Astarion hesitated, feeling the cool weight of the ring as he slid it onto his finger. It was a simple band, with a small stone, tarnished with age, yet it felt strangely significant—as though it held a part of the life and loneliness that had filled this tower. He looked up at the construct, it’s expression as inscrutable as ever before walking away.

As the group turned to head back to the elevator, the ring on Astarion’s finger shimmered, casting a faint glow. A new button appeared on the elevator panel, one that hadn’t been there before. Gale’s eyebrows shot up in excitement, and he pressed it, casting a quick, curious look at Astarion. The elevator descended with a soft hum, carrying them down, down, to a level they hadn’t yet explored.

They stepped out into a hidden chamber—a library, well-preserved and almost pristine, as if untouched by the decay that had seeped into the floors above. Rows of shelves were stacked with books, the leather covers gleaming faintly, carefully preserved under a thin layer of dust. Bottles of rare ingredients lined the far wall, glinting under the dim light. In the centre of the room rested a staff, elegant and powerful, with a faint magical aura that hinted at potent enchantments.

Astarion walked among the shelves, his footsteps soft, reverent almost. He couldn’t say why, but he felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. A strange heaviness settled over him, a weight of sadness that he couldn’t quite place. He had spent so long hardened, detached, that this sudden rush of emotion was foreign, unwelcome… and yet, he couldn’t shake it.

He stopped beside a shelf, resting a hand on a leather-bound tome. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to the touch of that old, worn cover, and he felt an inexplicable urge to cry. He blinked quickly, pressing his lips together, struggling to push the feeling down, to silence it as he had so many times before.

Karlach moved close, her presence warm and steady, though she kept a certain distance. He could feel the energy radiating from her—the quiet ache of someone who wished they could offer comfort, who would have reached out if only she could. He glanced over at her, seeing the longing in her eyes, the faintest hint of sadness.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Karlach..” he said, his voice coming out much rougher than he intended. “I’m… I’m fine.”

Karlach’s expression softened, her lips curving into a small, smile. “Of course, Fangs,” she replied quietly. “But if I could hug you right now, I would yeah..”

The words struck something deep within him, and he swallowed hard, feeling the weight of everything he’d held back pressing against him now. He looked away, focusing on the books, the strange, unyielding beauty of this hidden room. Here, untouched by decay, it felt as though Lenore’s presence lingered still, like she would be back any minute. His hand drifted to the ring on his finger, feeling the cold metal against his skin as he twirls it around. No thank you, these emotions are not for him... 

Chapter Text

Back at camp, Astarion had barely settled when Karlach and Gale approached him with matching concerned expressions. Karlach, with her flame-like orange eyes, leaned forward, studying him intently, while Gale crossed his arms, clearly unsettled.

"Shadowheart," Karlach called, gesturing toward Astarion. "Would you please take another look at his shoulder? Gale’s fretting that his fire did more harm than good, and I.. I just want to make sure it's ok..."

Gale’s eyes widened, looking sheepish. "I only meant to help, but, well… fire and healing don’t always mix. If there’s been any complication—"

Astarion sighed, feeling the familiar urge to brush them off, to handle it himself. But Karlach’s fiery orange eyes were softened with tenderness, and Gale looked at him with a pleading sincerity that chipped away at his defences. Relenting with a small nod, he sat down by the fire as Shadowheart moved closer, her touch gentle as she examined his shoulder and hand.

Before she could finish, Halsin, who had been observing from the edge of the camp, approached, casting a discerning glance over Astarion’s injuries. “You already know, I suspect, how best these wounds will heal,” Halsin said, a gentle warmth in his tone, “by allowing yourself to feed properly.”

Astarion’s entire body went still, his mind whirling. Halsin knew. And, judging by his calm tone, spoke as though the others did too, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. His voice had carried the same gentle, matter-of-fact kindness it might have held if he were speaking to any other injured companion. And yet, Karlach and Gale’s expressions were ones of complete bewilderment.

“Oh!” Karlach exclaimed, apparently misunderstanding. She grinned, leaping to her feet. "Well, if he needs to eat, I’ll get him some grub. Be right back, Fangs!"

Before she could go, Halsin gently held up a hand. “Karlach, that’s not quite what I meant.” He turned back to the group, face falling into a look of mild horror. “… you don’t know?” His gaze shifted back to Astarion, clearly realizing he may have said something he shouldn’t have. “My deepest apologies, Astarion. I didn’t mean to overstep or reveal something you hadn’t shared.”

The whole group now had their eyes on him. Astarion let out a quiet sigh, realizing there was no graceful way around it now. He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully.

"I'm... a Vampire Spawn." Astarion starts. “I… I hadn’t told anyone.. not really.” he began, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “At first, I simply didn’t see the need, given how little we knew of one another, we were.. all strangers. And, if I’m honest…” His gaze dropped, his voice growing strained. “I was afraid. Afraid you’d… leave me behind, alone, with this tadpole nightmare we’re all in, or worse—see me as a threat, a monster, and decide to rid yourselves of the risk and just stake me...”

Karlach and Gale’s faces softened, but they didn’t interrupt, listening closely as he continued. “I’ve tried to keep my… condition to myself, feeding on animals in secret at night. But we’ve been traveling in the Underdark, where food of any kind is scarce. Eventually, I was starving, and Wyll—Wyll saw that and helped me.. by giving me his blood. And later, Shadowheart noticed too, keeping it to herself after I… burned myself trying to comfort you, Karlach.”

He looked around, catching each of their eyes with a mixture of wariness. “I apologize, truly, if you feel I’ve deceived you. I only wanted to… survive, to live in my own way."

The fire crackled quietly as the others took in his words. Halsin’s face held an expression of deep remorse, his voice soft as he said, “I’m so sorry, Astarion. I assumed it was all common knowledge amongst you all, and I didn’t think… I would never want to force this confession upon you.”

Astarion shook his head, a faint, wry smile gracing his lips. “Perhaps it was time... Besides, you did so with remarkable gentleness...” He could hardly believe himself; the urge to flee or lash out was gone, replaced by an odd feeling of.. relief.

Karlach, however, wasn’t one for silence. With an uncharacteristic seriousness, she pushed Gale, practically shoving him forward. “Well, then. If I can’t give you a proper hug, Fangs. Gale’s the next best thing. So, Gale, get on with it.”

Gale looked mildly affronted but quickly softened, smiling at Astarion with genuine warmth. "From both of us, actually." he said, his voice low and sincere. “And for burning you earlier, even if I thought it was for the best.”

Astarion hesitated, unused to such open warmth. But when Gale pulled him into a hug, he allowed himself to relax, even leaning into it slightly. It felt oddly grounding, reassuring in a way he hadn’t expected. Gale’s arms were solid, and Astarion could feel the gentle pressure of the embrace, how Gale held him with care that wasn’t cautious, but genuine. Just a hug.

Over Gale’s shoulder, Astarion could see Karlach’s face lit with a mixture of pride and softness. " Do it properly Gale, Fangs needs to know he are here for him yeah?"

Astarion tried to keep his smirk in place, but he knew they could see through it. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get used to all this… sentiment.” he muttered, though his voice was softer, more vulnerable than he’d intended.

From the other side of camp, Wyll was still engaged with Lae’zel, showing her the Tir’su script they had found in the tower, unaware of the revelations that had just taken place.

When Gale finally released him, Astarion looked between his companions, that strange warmth blossoming in his chest. He had spent so long building walls, locking himself away to survive, yet here he was, embraced and understood by a group he never would have imagined trusting just a few weeks ago...

When Wyll and Lae'zel re joined the group, Astarion gave them a glance, steeling himself before he spoke.

“So, in the spirit of honesty,” he began, trying for a grand, theatrical tone, “there’s something you ought to know, Lae'zel..” He held his chin high, attempting to look noble, though a flicker of nerves glimmered in his eyes. “I am a vampire spawn. Undead, cursed, and altogether… well, a bit unconventional as far as allies go.”

Lae’zel cocked an eyebrow, entirely unfazed. “ As I have suspected.. You look sickly enough, screaming undead from the start, with your bleached skin, those red eyes, and fangs. And your breathing is practically non-existent.” She tilted her head, inspecting him critically. “Yes, you have the look of a Psurlon carcass, left out too long to bleach in the rays of a dying sun.”

Astarion’s mouth opened, feeling both wildly offended and oddly relieved, a weird mix to feel.  “A… Psurlon carcass?” he repeated, looking thoroughly put out. “Well, that’s a tad harsh, don’t you think?”

Lae’zel continued with a nonchalant shrug. “But you carry your daggers well. You have proven useful, and as long as my neck remains bite-free without my express permission, I see no issue.”

At that, Karlach burst into laughter, a big, hearty sound that seemed to shake the entire camp. “Look at him, Lae’zel, you’ve practically left him reeling! Poor Fangs looks like you hit him with a club.”

Astarion pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, feigning a deep, wounded sigh. “Assaulted and slandered, by my own comrades, no less! Here I am, exposing my deepest, darkest secrets, only to be called a sun-bleached carcass and a pale shadow of the walking dead. Where is the compassion? The tenderness?”

Gale chuckled, patting him on the back. “I think that’s the closest Lae’zel comes to showing acceptance, really.”

Astarion sighed theatrically, his hand still clutching his chest. “I suppose I shall have to accept it, then."

Chapter Text

Later that night, as the camp quieted and the fire burned low, Astarion sat in his tent, flipping idly through one the poetry books he’d found in the tower. The verses felt more resonant than they had earlier, the weight of the day settling over him like a heavy blanket. He was trying to distract himself, to push away the swirling mix of emotions that had followed his revelations. The soft sound of footsteps made him glance up. Wyll stood at the entrance, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the campfire outside. He stepped in, his expression calm yet purposeful, carrying two potions in one hand.

Astarion arched a brow, setting the book aside with a languid air. “Well, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your wonderful company this night, my dear Wyll?” Astarion isn't stupid, nor is he blind, but he does like making him squirm a bit.  

Wyll gave him a small smile. “You lost a lot of blood earlier,” he said plainly. “And for it to heal, you need to feed. Figured you might want a little… help.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity piqued as Wyll approached, but instead of extending his wrist as he had before, Wyll simply stood there, unflinching. Astarion tilted his head, scrutinizing him with a mix of intrigue and amusement.

“No wrist this time?” Astarion asked, his voice smooth and teasing. “How terribly bold of you.”

Wyll’s gaze flickered for a moment, his resolve clear but his cheeks faintly flushed. “You can take it from my neck, if you’d like. Or… wherever. Whatever you need.”

That made Astarion pause. His crimson eyes fixed on Wyll, gleaming with something between amusement and hunger. He studied the man for a long moment, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile.

“From your neck, you say?” Astarion purred, his voice dropping an octave. “Or wherever? How delightfully open-minded of you, Wyll.”

Wyll shifted slightly, clearly fighting to maintain his composure under Astarion’s sharp gaze. “I brought two potions,” he added, lifting the vials as if to explain himself. “In case you need to… feed longer. I don’t mind.”

Astarion leaned back, his smile widening as he shamelessly let his eyes wander over Wyll’s form. “So,” he began, his tone dripping with flirtation, “if I wanted to sit in your lap and feed from your neck… you’d allow it?”

Wyll’s composure faltered ever so slightly, his cheeks darkening, but he didn’t look away. “If that’s what you needed..” he replied, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck.

Astarion’s grin turned positively devilish as he leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “And what if,” he drawled, “I wanted to sink my fangs into your inner thigh instead? Would you permit me that as well?”

The blush on Wyll’s face deepened, his resolve flickering for just a moment before he straightened, clearing his throat. “If that’s what you wanted,” he said, though his voice was quieter now, the faintest tremor betraying his flustered state. “I told you—I trust you, Astarion.”

That was all the invitation Astarion needed to lean even closer, his predatory smirk softening just enough to seem sincere. “You’re making me into a dangerous man, Wyll,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet purr. “Offering yourself up so freely to someone like me. You make it… very difficult to behave.”

Wyll huffed a small, nervous laugh, but there was no fear in his expression—only trust, unwavering and calm. “I trust you.” he replied. 

Astarion’s eyes glinted mischievously as he leaned closer, his tone smooth as silk. “Now, my dear Wyll,” he began, his voice dripping with mock seriousness, “where would you like me to bite you? I need you to choose, you see—so I don’t take advantage of you.”

Wyll’s jaw tightened slightly, though the blush spreading across his cheeks betrayed him. He tried to hold Astarion’s gaze, but the vampire spawn’s predatory grin made it nearly impossible.

Astarion tilted his head, letting the moment linger before continuing, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because, darling… the way you blush for me,” he purred, his eyes flicking downward pointedly, “makes that inner thigh all the more tempting...”

Wyll’s breath hitched ever so slightly, and he cleared his throat, visibly fighting to maintain composure. “I—I think the neck would be… sufficient,” he stammered, though his words lacked their usual confidence.

Astarion chuckled low, a sound both amused and wicked. “How proper of you,” he teased, his fangs just barely visible as he spoke. “Though I must admit, I do love a man with restraint. It makes the breaking of it all the more sweeter.”

Wyll looked torn between exasperation and flustered embarrassment, but he stayed firm, tilting his head slightly to expose the side of his neck. “You’re not breaking anything tonight, Astarion... Just, take what you need.”

Astarion hummed, satisfied for now, and leaned in closer, his fingers brushing lightly against Wyll’s shoulder as he positioned himself. “As you wish, my dear,” he murmured, his voice softening as his fangs grazed Wyll’s skin. “But do keep blushing for me, won’t you? It’s simply enchanting...”

The moment Astarion’s fangs sank into Wyll’s neck, the taste hit him like a lightning strike. It was warm, rich, and impossibly sweet—liquid honey coursing into his veins. Better than it had been from the wrist. Far better. This was intimate, indulgent, dangerously good. Astarion let out a low, involuntary moan against Wyll’s neck, the sound reverberating in the quiet space of the tent.

His hands gripped Wyll’s shoulders as he drank, his body pressing closer without thought. The sweetness of Wyll’s blood was overwhelming, and every pull was like a decadent sin he couldn’t resist.

Then he felt Wyll move beneath him—a faint squirm that broke through the haze of his hunger. Astarion stilled, pulling back slightly, his lips still brushing Wyll’s neck. His voice was hoarse, thick with the taste of him.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his crimson eyes meeting Wyll’s with a flicker of concern.

Wyll shook his head quickly, his expression calm but tinged with something else—something Astarion couldn’t quite place. “No,” Wyll said softly. “It’s not pain. It’s just… intense.”

Astarion hesitated for a moment, his chest tightening. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

Wyll didn’t answer right away, but his movements didn’t stop. His hand pressed lightly against Astarion’s back, pulling him closer. “No,” Wyll finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s fine… don’t stop.”

Astarion’s breath hitched, his hunger roaring back to the surface with renewed intensity. He resumed drinking, his lips sealing over the punctures in Wyll’s neck, his hands clutching at him more desperately now. The taste of Wyll’s blood was intoxicating, and the small, involuntary noises that escaped Astarion’s throat betrayed just how much he was losing himself in the moment.

Wyll shifted again, his body tensing and moving beneath Astarion, and it took everything in the vampire not to lose himself completely. His own body pressed closer, instinct driving him to close the distance until there was almost nothing left between them.

Astarion felt his chest rising and falling in time with Wyll’s movements, their bodies attuned to one another in a way that felt far too intimate for something as base as feeding. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips or the way his fingers curled tighter against Wyll’s shoulders.

“Gods, you taste- divine...” Astarion murmured against Wyll’s neck, his voice low and heavy with need. “Dangerously good.”

Wyll didn’t reply with words, but the way his hand gripped onto Astarion’s back, the way his breathing quickened was in a language of its own.

Astarion pulled back just enough to look at Wyll, his lips red and glistening as he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement and something far more primal, the corners of his lips curling into a teasing smile.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, “if this is how you react when I drink from your neck, I can’t help but wonder…” He trailed a finger lightly down Wyll’s chest, his tone dipping into a velvet purr. “What would it be like if I had taken you up on that earlier suggestion? If I had sunk my fangs into your inner thigh instead?”

Wyll’s entire body tensed at the words, a shiver running through him that Astarion didn’t miss. The faint blush that had lingered on his cheeks now darkened to a full flush, spreading down his neck. He looked away briefly, his jaw tightening as though trying to form a reply, but the words didn’t come fast enough.

Astarion’s grin widened, enjoying the effect he had on him. “Would you squirm even more?” he pressed, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosted over Wyll’s skin. “Would you gasp and arch for me, just like that?”

“Astarion,” Wyll muttered, his voice low and strained. He still wouldn’t meet his gaze, though his grip on Astarion’s back tightened.

“Ah, I see,” Astarion teased, feigning innocence as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of Wyll’s ear. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you? How it would feel, my fangs grazing that sensitive skin… the heat, the pressure…” He let the words hang in the air, savouring Wyll’s visible reaction—the quickened breaths, the faint quiver in his shoulders.

Wyll finally managed to find his voice, though it came out rough. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the slight tilt of his lips betrayed him.

Astarion laughed softly, pulling back just enough to meet Wyll’s gaze, his smirk playful but tinged with genuine warmth. “I’m simply curious,” he said, the teasing edge in his tone softening ever so slightly. “But I suppose we’ll save that for another time, shall we? I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”

With that, he leaned back a bit, his fingers brushing over the spot on Wyll’s neck where his fangs had been moments before. As Astarion leaned back, taking in the sight of Wyll before him—flushed cheeks, rapid breathing, his body trembling just enough to be noticeable. His hair was slightly mussed, his one crimson-red eye gleaming with a mix of residual tension and trust, and that black sclera gave him an edge of danger that made Astarion’s stomach twist in the most delightful way. He looked utterly ravishing. Good enough to eat, Astarion thought, biting back the dark chuckle that threatened to spill from his lips.

But despite the temptation that lingered in the air, Astarion restrained himself. He knew better than anyone that a body’s reactions could not be taken as consent. He had lived that truth far too many times to mistake physicality for desire. How many nights had he spent, luring unsuspecting mortals to their deaths, his body a weapon of seduction while his mind fled to safer places? Nights spent pretending, acting, while his master toyed with them like fragile, disposable things.

No. He would never cross that line. Not with Wyll. Not with anyone, ever again.

But teasing, that was another matter entirely. Teasing was safe, harmless, and oh, so fun.

He smirked, tilting his head as he let his gaze wander over Wyll’s features—his striking horns, curved elegantly yet sturdy, and those ridges. Astarion’s sharp eyes couldn’t help but trace them, from the subtle dips along Wyll’s jaw to the more prominent lines on his forehead. They gave him an almost regal quality, a devilish sort of charm that made his beauty all the more unique.

“Wyll,” Astarion purred, his voice low and sweet like the honey he had just tasted. “You really are quite the vision like this, you know. Flushed, breathless, trembling under my touch… If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to drive me mad.”

Wyll looked away, clearly flustered, his lips parting as though to respond but no words came. Astarion’s grin widened, his fangs just barely visible as he leaned in slightly, letting the air between them crackle with tension.

“A walking temptation..” Astarion murmured, his eyes flicking to Wyll’s curved horns. “And those ridges of yours—really, they’re quite distracting. You’re positively sinful, my dear. Such a devilishly delicious creature, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

Wyll cleared his throat, finally managing to find his voice. "You’re relentless, Astarion...”  he muttered, though the heat in his face and the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.

He chuckled softly, leaning back and crossing his arms, allowing Wyll a moment to compose himself. “Don’t worry, darling,” Astarion said, his tone softer now, tinged with sincerity beneath the teasing. “I won’t do anything you don’t expressly ask for. But gods, Wyll, you do make it so very tempting.” He sighed theatrically, though his eyes held a glimmer of warmth. 

Chapter Text

Astarion let Wyll leave, ever the gentleman—or so he told himself. He had teased and toyed with Wyll enough for one evening, enjoying the way the Blade of Frontiers squirmed and flushed under his attention. Still, as Wyll stepped out of the tent, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the firelight, Astarion found himself lingering on the sight.

When the tent flap finally fell shut, Astarion reclined back onto his pillows with a dramatic sigh, his hands tracing idle patterns across his stomach. "What a shame," he murmured to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips. "The famed Blade of Frontiers, so gallant, so chivalrous. And me? Likely much too dead for him. Oh, Wyll, what a pity…”

He let his fingers trail lower, his hand brushing against the growing heat between his thighs. “Probably wants some storybook romance, our dear Wyll. A charming maiden, or some dashing prince to serenade him under the stars... He’s probably as straight as the blade he carries. Just my luck.”

Yet, despite his words, he couldn’t banish the image of Wyll from his mind—flushed, breathing hard, his body trembling faintly as Astarion had fed from him. He could still taste the warmth of Wyll’s blood on his tongue, rich and intoxicating, and he could feel it coursing through him even now, heating him from the inside out. It made him feel alive.

His fingers drifted further downward, pressing against the aching hardness that had been steadily building since Wyll had entered the tent. Astarion closed his eyes, letting out a low groan as he palmed himself through his trousers. “Gods, Wyll,” he whispered, his voice thick with both frustration and longing. “I wouldn’t have minded if you had… stuck your blade in me, as it were.”

His body seemed to agree, every nerve alight with need as he imagined what could have been. Wyll’s hands on him, Wyll’s warmth pressing him down, that strength and conviction turned toward something far less noble. Astarion’s breath quickened as his hand slipped beneath the fabric, gripping himself as he allowed the fantasy to take over.

He didn’t expect anything to come of it, of course. Wyll was far too proper, far too good for someone like him. But still, as Astarion’s hand moved against his length, and the heat of Wyll’s blood burned through his veins he ignored that.

Astarion let his hand wander lower, his fingers wrapping around himself as he let out a soft, shuddering sigh. He knew exactly how to tease himself, how to twist his wrist just so, dragging his thumb across the head to send a delicious spark of pleasure through his body. His back arched slightly, a low moan slipping past his lips as he allowed his thoughts to drift to the man who had just left.

He imagined what it might be like if Wyll wanted him—not just to help, not just to offer himself as a means of sustenance, but truly wanted him. If those shy, flustered reactions weren’t just politeness and duty but a deeper desire, burning beneath the surface. Astarion could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye: Wyll’s hands on him, strong and sure, his deep voice whispering something soft, maybe even reverent, as he pulled Astarion closer.

“Oh, Wyll,” Astarion murmured, his voice tinged with both longing and frustration. He dragged his fingers along his length, teasing himself with slow, deliberate strokes as he let the fantasy deepen. What if Wyll had stayed? What if my words earlier had swayed him? The thought alone was intoxicating.

He could imagine Wyll leaning in, those big, calloused hands cradling his face, that ever-noble posture finally softening as he gave in. Astarion’s breath hitched, his hand moving faster as the images filled his mind—Wyll’s lips trailing down his neck, his voice low and rough with want, not speaking of duty or restraint, but whispering promises of indulgence.

The thought was maddening. Wyll was everything Astarion had dreamed of for over 200 years: a hero. Someone selfless and good, someone who stood in sharp contrast to the horrors Astarion had endured. A man who didn’t see him as a tool or a monster but as… something worth helping, worth trusting.

And yet, Astarion couldn’t fully believe it. Wyll was too perfect, too noble. Surely, the famed Blade of Frontiers wouldn’t truly want someone like him—dead, broken, cursed. But in the quiet solitude of his tent, with the heat of Wyll’s blood still coursing through him, Astarion let himself pretend.

He twisted his wrist again, a sharp gasp escaping him as he imagined Wyll’s voice, low and commanding, saying his name. “Astarion,” he whispered to himself, as if to mimic the sound, his hand moving faster, chasing the fantasy with every stroke.

“Gods,” he groaned, his body trembling as he let the thought take him further. What if Wyll had stayed? What if he had touched me like this? What if he had wanted me the way I want him?

It was too much, and not enough all at once. Astarion’s body tensed, the pleasure building to a crescendo as he gave in completely to the imagined warmth of Wyll’s hands, the weight of him, the impossible sweetness of being wanted by something so... pure.

Astarion gasped as the pleasure overwhelmed him, his body arching as he reached his peak. But even as his release spilled across his stomach, slick and hot, he didn’t stop. His hand moved again, teasing, milking himself through the overstimulation until his muscles trembled and his body quivered uncontrollably. It was too much, too intense, but there was a sharp satisfaction in pushing himself to the edge of his limits.

Finally, with a shuddering sigh, he let himself fall back onto the pillows, his chest heaving as he basked in the aftermath. His skin was flushed, his limbs weak and pleasantly heavy as he smeared the remnants across his stomach absentmindedly. The feeling was oddly grounding, a reminder of the physicality he so often forgot existed in this strange half-life of his.

He laid there for a while, basking in the quiet, his mind pleasantly hazy. Eventually, practicality called to him, and he sat up with a soft groan, pulling his half-open shirt off. It was already stained, so he used it to wipe himself clean before tossing it aside. He reached for his pack, pulling out a fresh shirt and slipping it on, his movements unhurried.

The discarded shirt, along with the bloodied and torn one from earlier, demanded his attention next. Astarion picked both up with a sigh, knowing they needed to be washed before the stains set in. With practiced efficiency, he made his way to the underground stream near the camp, the soft luminescence of the fungi and the distant dripping of water creating an oddly serene atmosphere.

Kneeling by the stream, he submerged the shirts, scrubbing them against the rocks with a focused determination. The blood was stubborn, as always, but Astarion had centuries of practice removing all manner of stains—blood, grime, and other, less savory things—from fabric. His hands moved deftly, wringing and scrubbing until the water ran mostly clear.

The stream’s coolness against his skin and the rhythmic sound of the flowing water were calming in their own way, though he couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing for the sun. The gentle warmth of daylight, the way it played across the skin, the colors it brought to life—it was something he hadn’t experienced in centuries, something he missed more than he cared to admit.

Once satisfied with his work, he wrung out the shirts and carried them back to camp, laying them out on the rocks near the fire to dry. The flickering flames cast shadows across the fabric, and Astarion watched them for a moment before heading to his pack to retrieve his mending kit.

He settled near the fire, needle and thread in hand, inspecting the tear on the shoulder of his shirt. It was a clean rip—easily fixable. With delicate precision, he began stitching, his hands moving with the grace and skill of someone who had done this countless times before.

The act of mending was strangely meditative. Each stitch was a small act of care, a way to reclaim a bit of control in a world that so often felt chaotic. As the fire crackled softly beside him, Astarion found himself relaxing, his earlier thoughts of Wyll and their moment in the tent fading into the background. For now, there was only the quiet, the thread in his hands, and the flicker of flames lighting the edges of his solitude.

Chapter Text

The camp was quiet, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic drip of water from the cavern walls. Astarion, seated by the fire with his mending kit, meticulously checked the seams of his shirt. The task was calming, a distraction from the swirling thoughts that still lingered after the day’s revelations.

Across the camp, Halsin watched him. The druid’s sharp eyes carried a weight of concern, his broad shoulders tense with unspoken guilt. Astarion noticed him approaching and glanced up, one brow arching in question as Halsin stopped a few feet away.

“May I sit with you?” Halsin asked, holding up a small block of wood and a carving knife. “I thought I might carve while I keep watch.”

Astarion shrugged lightly, turning his attention back to his stitching. “Suit yourself, my dear bear.” he said, his tone breezy, inspecting the seams for any additional tears. Halsin settled beside him, his large frame surprisingly unobtrusive as he began whittling the block of wood with careful, practiced movements.

For a while, the only sounds were the quiet scrape of the knife and the soft crackling of the fire. Then, Halsin spoke. “May I ask you something, Astarion?”

“You may ask.” Astarion replied with a hint of amusement, his needle weaving deftly through the fabric.

“When were you turned? How old were you?”

The question gave Astarion pause, but he kept his hands moving, stitching the tear with steady precision. “Thirty-nine.” he said finally, his voice detached, as though reciting someone else’s story.

Halsin stopped carving, his brow furrowing deeply. “Thirty-nine,” he repeated, his voice quiet but heavy. “A child, by elven standards. Barely even in your youth.”

Astarion chuckled dryly. “Yes, well, I imagine that’s part of what appealed to him. Easy prey, I suppose.”

Halsin set his carving down, his expression somber. “Little Star..” he murmured. “You never got to have your name day, did you? Still carrying your ‘baby’ name.”

Astarion blinked, his hands faltering slightly. He hadn’t thought of it like that before. “No..” he admitted after a moment. “I suppose I didn’t.”

Halsin sighed, his shoulders heavy with emotion. “Among elves, children are rare, precious. Parents devote themselves entirely to their care until they reach a hundred years and are considered adults. To lose that time… to have it stolen…” His voice trembled slightly, and he looked at Astarion with a mixture of sorrow and fury. “It’s monstrous.”

Something about Halsin’s reaction caught Astarion off guard. He expected pity, perhaps, or even quiet disgust, but not this raw, genuine sadness. “Yes, well,” Astarion said lightly, trying to deflect. “Cazador was nothing if not a monster.”

Halsin’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes glowing faintly with druidic magic. “What did he do to you, Astarion? How did he… treat you?”

Astarion hesitated, the words caught in his throat. But for some reason—perhaps the druid’s sincerity, or the quiet, patient way he listened—he found himself speaking. “He used me,” Astarion said, his voice steady despite the weight of the words. “I was his tool. His lure. I brought him meals—people. I charmed them, seduced them, made them trust me… and then led them to their deaths.”

He paused, his hands trembling slightly as he set the shirt down. “He tormented us, me and the others—my so-called siblings. It wasn’t just about control; it was about cruelty. He delighted in breaking us, in making us his playthings. And we… we had no choice. No freedom. We were his slaves, thralls..”

Halsin’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening as his hands gripped his knees. The golden glow in his eyes intensified, and Astarion could almost feel the heat of his anger radiating off him. “I do not often wish harm on another beings,” Halsin said, his voice low and fierce, “but for this so-called master of yours, I would make an exception. If we ever come across him, Astarion, I swear—I will tear him to pieces.”

Astarion blinked, stunned by the sheer force of Halsin’s fury. It wasn’t directed at him—far from it—but the intensity of it was almost overwhelming. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. Then, with a faint, crooked smile, he said, “Ah… well… thank you, I suppose. I’ll be sure to bring you along if I ever decide to kick down his castle doors.”

Halsin turned his gaze to him, the anger in his eyes softening into something kinder. “You deserve more than vengeance, Astarion,” he said quietly. “You deserve peace. Freedom."

Astarion looked away, focusing back on the shirt in his lap. “Perhaps..” he murmured. “But vengeance would be a start.”

Halsin said nothing more, simply picking up his carving and resuming his work. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable, as they sat by the fire, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Have you ever sired children, Halsin?” Astarion found himself asking, his tone light but tinged with genuine curiosity. He glanced over, expecting Halsin to chuckle and recount tales of countless lovers and offspring. After all, the man was the very image of vitality and strength. Surely, he must have fathered at least a hundred children, if not more.

Halsin paused in his carving, the question seemingly catching him off guard. He smiled, but it was a thoughtful, almost wistful expression. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Which I know might seem… surprising. But even as I love freely, I do not do so carelessly. My duty as Archdruid prevented me from starting a family of my own. And truthfully…” He hesitated, his voice softening. “I care too much for the welfare of children to simply sire them and leave. If I were to bring life into the world, I would want to be there, wholly present, to guide and protect them.”

Astarion’s eyebrow arched slightly, genuinely intrigued. “How.. noble of you.” he said, his voice carrying only the faintest hint of teasing. “But somehow not unexpected coming from you.." His gaze drifted to Halsin’s hands, watching the knife move with deliberate precision over the block of wood. Slowly but surely, the figure of a cat had began to take shape—its back arched as though mid-stretch, its tail curling in a playful curve. Though unfinished, the carving already exuded life and warmth, each cut of the blade imbued with a tenderness that seemed intrinsic to the man holding it.

“A cat.” Halsin said simply, holding up the carving for Astarion to see better. His smile softened further as he turned the small figure in his hand, admiring his work. “I find them fascinating creatures—independent yet affectionate, fierce yet playful. And they have a way of finding peace wherever they go, curling up as though the world itself is their bed.”
Halsin glanced at him, his smile shifting into something more mischievous. “It reminds me of you, in a way.”

“Me?” Astarion scoffed, leaning back against his pillows with a dramatic flair. “A flea-ridden cat? I think not.”

Halsin chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Not flea-ridden, no. But you do have a certain elegance about you, Astarion. A sharpness, like claws hidden beneath velvet paws. And for all your independence, you seek comfort, even if you’re hesitant to admit it.”

Astarion stared at him for a moment, his lips parting as though to retort, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he let out a huff, shaking his head. “Well,” he said finally, his voice light but his gaze flickering with something softer, “if any of you start leaving bowls of milk out for me, I’ll be most offended.”

Halsin laughed again, his eyes twinkling as he returned to his carving. “Duly noted.” he said, the warmth in his voice unshakable.

Astarion turned back to his mending, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps Halsin was right, in his infuriatingly insightful way. There was a certain comfort to be found here, in this quiet moment, and in the company of people who seemed to see more of him than he cared to show...

Chapter Text

As the days passed, Astarion found himself changing in ways he hadn’t expected. The relentless flirtation, once a weapon and a shield, began to wane. He still had the knack for it, of course—sharp words and teasing smiles ready at a moment’s notice—but the constant need for it had faded. The camp, with its mismatched collection of souls, had begun to feel less like a battlefield where every conversation was a struggle for dominance and more like… something resembling a home. He still quipped and teased, but there was no longer the desperate edge to it. He didn’t need to fight to keep everyone at a distance anymore.

Except for Wyll.

Wyll was different. With Wyll, Astarion found himself unable to resist. The teasing and flirting felt natural, an extension of his desire to see the Blade of Frontiers squirm and blush in that delightful way he did. And Wyll—gods, Wyll reacted. More and more, Wyll seemed to seek him out: walking beside him during the day, lingering near his tent at night, always finding some excuse to close the distance between them. It was subtle, perhaps even innocent, but Astarion couldn’t tell if it was real or if his own longing was clouding his perception. Was this mutual, or was he seeing what he wanted to see?

He told himself it didn’t matter. He could survive on scraps of affection, on Wyll’s flustered glances and the soft laughter they shared. He wouldn’t ask for more than that. Not yet.

And then there was the feeding.

Astarion didn’t seek Wyll out to drink. He didn’t need to. He had grown accustomed to waiting, to letting the hunger sit in the background like a dull ache. But Wyll… Wyll came to him. Always with that quiet, steady kindness, offering himself without hesitation.

Astarion never declined. He told himself it was practical, that feeding from Wyll kept him strong, but deep down he knew it was more than that. The intimacy of it, the quiet moments where Wyll held him close, his hands warm on Astarion’s back or shoulder—it was something Astarion hadn’t realized he craved until he had it.

The neck had become their new normal. Astarion teased, of course, making lewd comments about how much more tempting Wyll’s inner thigh would be. And Wyll, as always, blushed so prettily, his flustered expression enough to make Astarion’s chest ache in the most frustratingly pleasant way. But he never pushed. He drank from Wyll’s neck, always careful, always controlled.

Except… not entirely.

Astarion couldn’t help the sounds he made as he fed—the appreciative moans that escaped his lips, muffled against Wyll’s skin. The taste of Wyll’s blood was too good, too intoxicating, and the warmth of his body pressed so close only heightened the experience. And then there was the way his hips moved, seemingly of their own accord, grinding ever so slightly against Wyll. He was rutting against him, a fact he was painfully aware of, and yet Wyll never commented on it.

If Wyll noticed—and surely he must—he said nothing. He didn’t push Astarion away or recoil. He simply held him, steady and quiet, his hands gentle as they rested on his back, as though to ground him. It drove Astarion mad, the contrast between his own desperation and Wyll’s unyielding calm.

When Wyll left, as he always did after feeding, Astarion was left alone with the heat in his veins, the ache in his body. He would take himself in hand, chasing release with a frustration that only seemed to grow sharper with each passing day.

The worst part was how much he wanted Wyll to see him, to notice. Not just the teasing, not just the need that burned through him like wildfire whenever they touched, but the real him—the parts of himself he kept hidden even from himself most days..

But for now, he let himself indulge in the fleeting moments they shared, the closeness that Wyll offered so freely.

“If one more damn Hook Horror ruins another of my shirts,” Astarion declared dramatically, holding up the latest victim of his wardrobe woes, “I will walk around naked. My poor shirts…” He sighed heavily, setting to work with his mending kit as he sat by the fire. His tone was light, but there was a sharpness to his voice as he examined the tear. The damnable claws had pierced through not just his armour—crafted in fine drow silver and black—but his underthings as well. And, as if to twist the blade further, into his stomach.

The wound itself was mostly closed now, a thin line of raw, pink flesh visible beneath his unbuttoned tunic. It still ached, a dull throb reminding him of the Hook Horror’s relentless ferocity, but it was healing quickly. His vampiric nature, at least, had some advantages.

Beside him, Wyll sat cross-legged, his leather tunic draped over his lap as he carefully mended it. His hands were steady, his expression calm as he worked the needle through the thick material. Gale, on the other hand, was absorbed in his spell book, muttering to himself as he flipped through the pages, occasionally pausing to make notes in the margins.

“Really, though,” Astarion continued, waving the needle for emphasis, “what is it about me that makes every beast, monster, and creature with claws want to ruin my wardrobe? Is it some divine punishment for being so devastatingly handsome?”

Wyll glanced up, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Maybe it’s because you keep taunting them,” he offered, his voice light with amusement. “Calling a Hook Horror ‘an overgrown chicken’ probably didn’t help your case.”

Astarion sniffed, feigning indignation. “I was being accurate. And besides, it’s not as though they can understand me. No, I’m convinced the universe itself is conspiring to deprive me of my favourite clothing.”

“Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling you to keep a spare wardrobe,” Wyll suggested, his hands moving deftly as he repaired a tear in his tunic. “You’re rather… attached to your shirts.”

“Well, unlike some people,” Astarion said, glancing pointedly at Wyll’s plain leather, “I care about my appearance. A ruined shirt is a tragedy, not a minor inconvenience.”

Wyll chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The fire crackled softly as the three of them worked in companionable silence for a while, the steady rhythm of stitching and the quiet rustle of pages creating a peaceful backdrop. Astarion found himself oddly comforted by the presence of Wyll and Gale, their mundane tasks grounding in a way he hadn’t expected.

He glanced at Wyll out of the corner of his eye, watching the Blade of Frontiers concentrate on his mending, his brows furrowed in focus. There was something about Wyll’s steadiness, his quiet patience, that made Astarion’s chest feel… strange. He quickly looked away, focusing instead on his stitching.

“Still,” Astarion said after a moment, breaking the quiet, “if this keeps up, I may have to take drastic measures. Naked fighting it is.”

Gale sighed heavily, finally looking up from his spell book. “Astarion, for the sake of all of us—and the sanctity of this camp—please mend your shirts faster.”

Wyll laughed, the sound warm and soft, and Astarion couldn’t help the small, genuine smile that tugged at his lips as he continued to stitch.

Astarion’s needle paused mid-stitch as Gale spoke up, his voice tentative. "How is the wound? Are you still… um… holey?"

Astarion tilted his head, his brow quirking upward in amusement as he slowly turned to look at Gale. “I’m not a piece of cheese, Gale,” he drawled, returning his attention to the fabric in his lap. “BUT… it’s better.” He prodded at his stomach gingerly, wincing slightly. “At least my finger doesn’t go in anymore, so there’s that.”

Gale paled instantly, his spell book nearly slipping from his hands. He looked genuinely distressed, his brow furrowing deeply as he murmured, “It was… horrible seeing you like that, Astarion. So please don’t joke. We could see through you.”

Astarion sighed, setting his mending aside for a moment to look at Gale properly. “Well, it was me or Shadowheart, and it would just be stupid to have a thoroughly pierced Cleric. Her magic is rather essential to our continued survival, wouldn’t you agree?” He gave Gale a pointed look before continuing. “Besides, it’s harder to kill something that’s already dead. Far better it be me. Although,” he added with a sly smirk, “it’s not my favourite way of being impaled, by far.”

Both Wyll and Gale spluttered, their responses tripping over each other in a cacophony of outrage and disbelief. But it was Wyll’s reaction that caught Astarion’s attention—the way his blush deepened just so, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck.

Astarion smiled, a satisfied curve of his lips as he returned to his mending, ignoring Gale’s muttering and Wyll’s averted gaze. He focused on the torn seams of his drow-crafted armour, carefully threading the needle through the dark fabric.

The firelight flickered softly, casting warm shadows across the camp. Wyll shifted beside him, clearly still flustered, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he focused on his own mending, his hands steady despite the faint tremor in his movements.

“Wyll, darling,” Astarion said suddenly, breaking the silence as he glanced at the Blade of Frontiers with a teasing grin. “You’re rather quiet. No clever quip to add?”

Wyll cleared his throat, his blush still visible. “I just… don’t think I have anything to add to that particular conversation,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with embarrassment.

Astarion chuckled, returning his attention to his work. “How very noble of you,” he said lightly. “Though I must say, your restraint is admirable. Not many could hold their tongue in the face of such an opportunity.”

Gale sighed heavily, closing his spell book with a sharp snap. “And here I thought this camp was a sanctuary of reason and civility,” he muttered. “Clearly, I was mistaken.”

“Clearly the opposite my dear..” Astarion echoed with a smirk, threading his needle with practiced ease.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence after that, the sound of mending and the crackle of the fire filling the air. Astarion’s fingers moved deftly over the fabric, repairing the intricate patterns of his armour with a precision that spoke to centuries of practice.

Wyll occasionally glanced at him, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. Astarion pretended not to notice, though a small part of him savoured the attention. It was nice, having someone notice him—not for a jest or a barb, but simply to see him.

As he finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, Astarion leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction, holding the mended armour up to inspect his work. “There,” he said, pleased. “Good as new. Well, almost. Those damned claws didn’t leave me much to work with.”

Wyll looked over, his expression softening. “You’re good with a needle,” he said quietly.

Astarion turned to him, tilting his head slightly. “When one has as much practice as I do, one becomes rather adept,” he replied, his tone light but tinged with something unspoken. “I’ve had to repair far more than just clothes over the years.”

“I mean it, Astarion,” Wyll said, inspecting the freshly mended armour with an approving nod. “If you ever decide to leave your rogue days behind, being a seamstress might just be your true calling. The stitching is top class.”

Astarion’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, his crimson eyes gleaming in the firelight. He straightened his posture, letting the compliment wash over him like a warm bath. Subtlety had never been his forte, and he saw no reason to change that now. “Oh, Wyll, darling,” he said, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction, “you do know how to make a vampire preen. But it’s true, isn’t it? I do have quite the talent.”

Wyll chuckled softly, a hint of color blooming on his cheeks, but he didn’t look away this time. “I’m only speaking the truth.”

Astarion let out a light, musical laugh, twirling the thread between his fingers like a prize. “Ah, the truth. So refreshing to hear it spoken so freely. You’re spoiling me, Blade of Frontiers.”

Gale, seated nearby with his spell book resting in his lap, let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “For the love of the gods,” he muttered, snapping the book shut with a resounding thud. “Would you two kindly take this little flirtation elsewhere? Some of us are trying to maintain a modicum of focus.”

Astarion turned to Gale, utterly unbothered, and offered him a dazzling smile. “Oh, Gale, must you always ruin my fun? Jealousy is such an unbecoming shade on you.”

“Jealous?” Gale replied, raising an eyebrow as he crossed his arms. “Hardly. I simply have better things to do than listen to your never-ending stream of innuendos.”

Wyll, to his credit, attempted to look composed, but the corner of his mouth twitched as if suppressing a laugh. “We’ll try to keep it down,” he offered diplomatically, though his gaze flickered back to Astarion for a moment longer than necessary.

Astarion gave an exaggerated sigh of his own, placing a hand over his heart. “Oh, very well. We wouldn’t want to distract poor Gale from his important work.”

Gale rolled his eyes but refrained from further comment, opening his spell book with a decisive snap once again and burying himself in its pages once more.

Leaning closer to Wyll, Astarion dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was just loud enough to carry. “You see, darling, Gale’s just cross because no one compliments his stitching. Though, to be fair, I doubt he’s ever held a needle in his life.”

Wyll chuckled, shaking his head, and Astarion couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction at the sound. As much as he enjoyed teasing Gale, it was Wyll’s reactions—the blushes, the quiet smiles, the way his eyes lingered just a fraction too long—that truly delighted him.

“Shall we let the good wizard stew in peace?” Astarion suggested, standing gracefully and gesturing toward the edge of the camp. “I could use some fresh air. And perhaps some better company.”

Wyll hesitated for only a moment before setting aside his mending. “All right,” he said, his voice soft but certain. “Lead the way.”

As they walked toward the outskirts of the camp, Astarion couldn’t resist a sly glance over his shoulder, catching Gale’s exasperated expression. Smirking to himself, he turned his attention back to Wyll, already plotting his next move in their ongoing dance of teasing and flirtation.

Chapter Text

The firelight faded behind them as Astarion led Wyll to the edge of the camp, where the soft glow of bioluminescent fungi cast eerie shadows against the jagged rocks. The quiet of the Underdark pressed in around them, broken only by the steady trickle of the underground stream and the occasional distant chittering of unseen creatures.

Wyll walked alongside Astarion, his tunic slung over one shoulder, his stride relaxed but alert. Astarion stole a sidelong glance at him, his crimson eyes tracing the sharp lines of Wyll’s profile—the curve of his horns, the elegant ridges along his brow, and that single crimson eye glowing faintly in the dark. He was handsome, infuriatingly so, and utterly unaware of it.

Breaking the silence, Astarion tilted his head with a teasing smile. “So, Wyll,” he drawled, “do tell me—do you follow me out here because you genuinely enjoy my company, or are you secretly hoping I’ll trip over something and provide you with a good laugh?”

Wyll chuckled, his voice a rich, warm sound that sent a pleasant shiver through Astarion. “A little of both, perhaps,” he replied, glancing over with a teasing gleam in his eye. “But truthfully, I do enjoy your company. You’re… interesting.”

“Interesting, you say?” Astarion arched a brow, his smirk widening. “How delightfully vague. Do elaborate, my dear Blade. I do so love a good compliment.”

Wyll hesitated, his gaze thoughtful as he walked beside Astarion. “You’re clever,” he began, his voice steady but earnest. “And sharp. But there’s more to you than that. A kindness, I think, though you go to great lengths to hide it.”

Astarion blinked, his smirk faltering slightly. “Kindness?” he echoed, scepticism dripping from his voice. “You must have me confused with someone else entirely.”

“I don’t think I do,” Wyll said, his tone unwavering. “Take the tower, for instance. You didn’t have to save Gale, but you did. You pushed him out of harm’s way without a second thought.”

“Well, he’s hardly useful to us if he’s full of holes,” Astarion quipped, trying to wave it off. “I was simply being practical.”

“And Shadowheart,” Wyll continued, ignoring the deflection. “You let yourself be skewered protecting her. That wasn’t strategy, Astarion. That was care. Even love, though I doubt you’d call it that.”

Astarion stopped abruptly, turning to face Wyll with narrowed eyes and arms crossed. “Love?” he repeated, the word sharp and foreign on his tongue. “What a fanciful notion. I assure you, Wyll, I don’t throw myself onto sharp objects out of love.”

Wyll’s gaze didn’t waver. “Perhaps not. But you care. For all your clever words and sly smiles, you can’t hide that.”

For a moment, Astarion found himself speechless, pinned under the weight of Wyll’s steady gaze. He hated the vulnerability it stirred in him, but at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it entirely. Instead, he let out a soft laugh, the sound more genuine than he intended. “Well,” he said lightly, “if I do shine, as you so poetically claim, it’s only because of your excellent polishing skills.”

Wyll’s lips quirked into a smile, and his steady confidence wavered for just a moment. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Astarion.”

“Keep talking like that, Wyll,” Astarion said, stepping closer, his smirk turning wicked. “And I’ll have you in a bush before you know it. Though ungentlemanly, I don’t think I could resist for long.”

Wyll’s blush bloomed almost instantly, spreading up his neck and across his cheeks. “There aren’t any bushes down here,” he mumbled, clearly flustered.

Astarion laughed, the sound rich and amused. “Pity,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I suppose the rocks and fungi will have to suffice, then.”

Wyll covered his face with one hand, muttering something unintelligible, though Astarion could see the faint twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. The sight sent a rush of satisfaction through him—Wyll, so noble and composed, reduced to blushing and spluttering under his charm. It was delicious.

Still, Astarion let the teasing soften as he leaned in, his voice quieter now, his gaze intent. “You know,” he murmured, “you’re rather adorable when you blush like that.”

“So you keep saying…” Wyll mumbled, his hand still partially obscuring his face.

“Because it’s true,” Astarion replied smoothly, his smile turning softer, almost fond. “You don’t give yourself enough credit either, you know. I’ve seen how you look at yourself. You think you’re… broken now. Tarnished. But you’re not. You’re handsome, Wyll. Beautiful, even. And when you blush for me, you’re positively irresistible.”

Wyll’s eye widened slightly, his breath catching as he lowered his hand. “Astarion…” he began, his voice trailing off.

“Yes, darling?” Astarion prompted, his smile widening as he basked in the effect his words had.

Wyll swallowed hard, his voice low and almost shy as he finally managed to respond. “You’re.. a right tease..”

Astarion laughed again, his gaze sparkling. “I know.” he said simply, his voice soft with something almost like affection.

Wyll’s voice was soft, tentative as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the faintly glowing fungi ahead rather than on Astarion. “I’ve noticed… how you still keep flirting with me, but not the others.”

Astarion’s smirk flickered, fading into something gentler as he regarded Wyll. “I didn’t lie, Wyll,” he replied, his tone measured, careful. “So perhaps you should listen to whatever flirtations you so easily dismiss the next time. And if you’re against it, if it truly bothers you, you can just say so, and I’ll stop.”

“You would stop,” Wyll said, his eye finally meeting Astarion’s. There was a faint disbelief in his voice. “Just like that?”

Astarion tilted his head, his expression steady but earnest. “I am not a monster, Wyll. If it does bother you, then please—say so. I may enjoy teasing you, but your comfort matters more to me than my amusement.”

For a moment, Wyll said nothing, his brow furrowing as he seemed to turn the words over in his mind. Finally, he sighed softly, a faint chuckle escaping him. “I… I don’t mind,” he admitted, though there was a slight tremor in his voice. “I’m just… not used to it.”

Astarion’s brows lifted, his smirk returning, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “I find that hard to believe, darling,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “Someone as dashing and handsome as you must have been flirted with daily.”

Wyll chuckled again, but the sound was tinged with nervousness. He shifted, his gaze drifting away once more. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured. “Before… maybe I didn’t notice. But now? Most people don’t look at me like that. Not after the Pact. The horns, the eye, the… otherness of it all. It’s not exactly what people want.”

The words settled heavily in the air between them, and for once, Astarion didn’t have a quick retort. Instead, his smirk faded entirely, replaced by a softness that was almost startling. He reached out, his fingers brushing Wyll’s arm lightly, a gesture meant to ground him, to steady.

“Well,” Astarion said softly after a moment, his voice quiet and sincere, “perhaps those people simply lacked vision. Or taste.”

Wyll blinked, his eye flicking back to Astarion, his expression unreadable.

“You’re breath-taking, Wyll,” Astarion continued, his crimson eyes holding Wyll’s gaze steadily. “Horns and all. That eye of yours? It’s mesmerizing, like a crimson jewel. And those ridges? Gods, they’re fascinating. Unique, beautiful. They add to your charm, not detract from it.”

Wyll swallowed hard, his expression flickering with something vulnerable, almost shy. “You… really think that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Astarion smiled faintly, his hand lingering on Wyll’s arm for just a moment longer before pulling away. “I wouldn’t lie about something like this,” he said, his tone laced with a rare honesty. “And even if I did, my dear Blade, you’d surely be able to tell.”

Wyll’s lips twitched into a small, uncertain smile, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “You really are impossible,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any bite.

“And yet..” Astarion replied, his smirk returning, this time tinged with genuine fondness, “here you are, still standing with me, still listening. Perhaps I’m not that impossible after all.”

Wyll chuckled softly, shaking his head. For a moment, they simply stood there, the quiet of the Underdark wrapping around them like a blanket.

“I… I’ve been thinking, Astarion,” Wyll began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. His eye darted away, his cheeks flushed with a nervous energy that Astarion couldn’t help but find utterly endearing. “That if… if you wanted, I would like to court you. Properly. Like you deserve. I’ve wanted to ask for a while, but…”

Astarion froze, his usual confidence faltering as the words registered. He stared at Wyll, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly in disbelief before his lips curved into a wry, defensive smile. “Aren’t you a little young to want to court someone?” he asked, his tone light but edged. “I’m flattered, truly, but let’s not pretend I’m some innocent, untouched storybook wench waiting for her noble suitor.”

He waved a hand dismissively, though the motion was sharper than intended. “I’m undead, Wyll. This is what you’ll get. Pale skin, cold hands, centuries of baggage. You want to court me? And what would be the end plan for that, hmm? Marriage? A happy little cottage in the woods? Let’s not forget, I’m not pure, or proper, or… anything remotely worthy of your time like that.”

The words came out harsher than he’d intended, tinged with bitterness he hadn’t realized he was holding. He braced himself for Wyll to backpedal, to give some noble excuse and walk away. But instead, Wyll took a deep breath, steadying himself, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but unshakable.

“You are.”

Two words, soft and firm, cut through Astarion’s defenses like a knife through butter. He blinked, stunned, as Wyll’s eye met his with an intensity that was impossible to dismiss.

“You are worthy,” Wyll continued, his voice steady even as his cheeks remained flushed. “Of being courted, of being loved, of everything you think you’ve been denied. I know you don’t believe it, but I do. And I’m not asking for a storybook ending or some impossible version of you. I just want you—as you are.”

Astarion opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Wyll’s sincerity was overwhelming, cutting through the years of cynicism and self-loathing like sunlight breaking through a storm. For a moment, all Astarion could do was stare, his usual sharp wit abandoning him entirely.

“Fine,” he said finally, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His tone was exasperated, but there was a softness beneath it, a crack in the carefully constructed armour he always wore. “If you’re so determined to waste your time on a dead man, I won’t stop you...”

Wyll’s lips curved into a small, hesitant smile, his relief palpable. “You’re not a waste of time, Astarion.” he said softly but firmly. 

Astarion huffed, rolling his eyes as if to brush off the weight of the moment, but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting slightly at his sides. “Well, I hope you’re prepared, my dear Wyll...” he said, his voice regaining a hint of its usual playful edge. “Courting me will be no small task. I have very high standards, you know.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Wyll replied, his smile growing wider. There was still that blush on his cheeks, but his confidence was returning, his steady gaze unwavering.

Astarion glanced away, his smirk softening into something almost shy as he muttered, “Well, then… good luck to you, Wyll. You’re going to need it.”

Wyll chuckled, and for the first time in a long while, Astarion felt something warm stir in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was, but for the moment, he decided not to question it.

Chapter Text

The moment they stepped out of the oppressive darkness of the Underdark and into the sunlight, Astarion paused, tilting his face toward the warmth. The golden light hit his skin, and he closed his eyes, a faint smile curling at his lips. The heat seeped into him, chasing away the lingering chill of the shadowed depths. For just a moment, he stood utterly still, basking in the sunlight as though it were a lover’s embrace.

“Don’t linger too long, Astarion,” Wyll called from behind, his tone light but tinged with concern. “I’d hate for you to burn.”

Astarion opened one eye, smirking as he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, darling, I don’t burn. I shimmer. But your concern is noted.”

The group resumed their journey, the rocky path winding toward the mountain pass. Lae’zel took the lead, her sharp gaze scanning the road for signs of their destination. She paused briefly to examine markings etched into a weathered post, carved in, in the harsh script of Tir’su. “The Creche lies ahead..” she announced, her tone decisive. Gale, walking beside her, immediately launched into a series of questions about the stars and her home, his curiosity evident.

To everyone’s surprise, Lae’zel answered, her voice calm and measured as she explained the culture and hierarchy of her people. Gale, who had clearly expected to be waved off, looked genuinely puzzled but also intrigued. He asked more, and Lae’zel continued to answer, her words clipped but not dismissive.

A little further back, Astarion walked alongside Shadowheart, their heads bent close as they compared notes on romance novels. Astarion held up a battered book, gesturing animatedly as he recounted its more ridiculous plot twists, while Shadowheart laughed softly, occasionally chiming in with her own critiques.

“Truly, two long-lost heirs to the throne in the same family?” Astarion scoffed, flipping a page. “It’s absurd. And yet, I can’t put it down.”

“It’s not about realism,” Shadowheart replied, a smirk playing at her lips. “It’s about escapism. And besides, absurd can be entertaining.”

Meanwhile, at the rear of the group, Halsin, Karlach, and Wyll walked together. Halsin occasionally paused to examine the wildflowers growing along the path, picking a few here and there. “These can be used in potions,” he said, holding up a cluster of purple blossoms. “And these,” he added, plucking some golden blooms, “make excellent salves for burns.”

Wyll, inspired by Halsin, began picking flowers as well, though his choices seemed less practical and more aesthetic. He gathered a mix of vibrant yellows and oranges, along with a few delicate white blossoms. Karlach teased him lightly, her voice full of warmth.

“Planning to start a flower shop, Wyll?” she asked, grinning.

“Not quite,” Wyll replied with a chuckle, his gaze briefly flickering toward Astarion ahead of them. “I’ve got something else in mind.”

Karlach raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her grin widening knowingly. She gave Halsin a nudge and whispered something to him quietly, earning a low chuckle from the druid as he smiled.

As they continued their journey, Wyll carefully arranged the flowers in his hand, the bright colours standing out against the dull, dusty backdrop of the road. He glanced at Astarion again, his expression softening as he watched the vampire spawn laugh with Shadowheart, the sunlight catching the silver strands in his hair. Wyll smiled to himself, his resolve strengthening.

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

The sun dipped lower behind the jagged peaks of the mountains, painting the horizon in hues of gold, crimson, and violet. Astarion sat on the edge of a deep cliff, his legs dangling over the side as he watched the fading light. The cool evening air brushed against his skin, but the warmth of the sun’s lingering glow felt almost tangible. It was beautiful, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to truly experience in centuries.

He heard footsteps behind him, the soft crunch of boots on gravel, but he didn’t turn. He already knew who it was. He remained seated, his gaze fixed on the horizon, content to let the moment unfold without interruption. Then, he felt something being placed gently on his head, light as a whisper. It rested on his ears and brow, the faint scent of flowers tickling his nose.

Curious, Astarion turned his head, his crimson eyes meeting Wyll’s. The Blade of Frontiers stood there, smiling sweetly, his cheeks lightly flushed, the warmth in his expression enough to make Astarion’s chest tighten.

It was a flower crown.

Astarion blinked, his hand reaching up to touch the delicate arrangement, fingers brushing over soft petals and woven stems. His throat tightened, and he couldn’t quite place the emotion that surged within him. His chest ached, and for the first time in an eternity, he wasn’t sure what to say.

He turned his gaze back to Wyll, who seemed almost shy, his hands clasped behind his back as though unsure of what to do with them. “You seemed… like you needed something beautiful.” Wyll said softly, his voice steady despite the faint blush on his cheeks. “Not that you’re lacking on that front, of course. But I thought… maybe this would make you smile.”

Astarion stared at him, his fingers still resting lightly on the crown. His chest felt impossibly warm, and he realized with a start that his cheeks were flushed. He reached up, touching his face with trembling fingers, his skin warm to the touch.

“Wyll…” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, his usual wit and charm utterly failing him. “I…”

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to express the strange, overwhelming mix of emotions coursing through him. The warmth, the ache, the unfamiliar tightness in his chest—it was too much and yet not enough.

Wyll’s smile softened, his gaze unwavering. “You look beautiful,” he said simply, as though the words were the most natural thing in the world.

Astarion’s breath hitched, and he turned away, his eyes flicking back to the horizon. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be in centuries. But the crown on his head, the warmth in Wyll’s voice, the gentle sincerity in his expression—it didn’t feel like a weakness. It felt… safe.

“Thank you..” Astarion said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. He glanced back at Wyll, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “You’re insufferably sweet.”

Wyll chuckled, his blush deepening. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” he replied, stepping closer to sit beside Astarion on the cliff’s edge.

Wyll sat beside Astarion, his crimson eye fixed on him with an intensity that made Astarion’s skin prickle. He could feel Wyll’s gaze lingering on his cheeks, his ears—both still betraying him with a faint, stubborn blush. It wasn’t fair, really, how the warmth of Wyll’s blood still coursing through him refused to let him hide.

“You’re still blushing,” Wyll said softly, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Astarion cleared his throat, looking away toward the horizon, though he couldn’t stop the faint flush from deepening. “Am I? Must be the aftereffects of the sun...” he said lightly, though even to his ears, it lacked any conviction.

Wyll’s smile widened slightly, but he didn’t tease. Instead, he reached up and gestured toward the crown resting on Astarion’s head. “Gale helped me spell it,” he said, his voice low and warm. “So it won’t wilt or crumble. I thought… well, I thought maybe you’d want to keep it.”

Astarion turned to look at him, the words settling over him like a blanket. His chest tightened again, and the crown suddenly felt impossibly precious. “I will…” he said softly, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words. He felt flustered, and gods, he hated feeling flustered. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

He flirts; Wyll blushes. That’s the routine. He teases, Wyll splutters. And then, with his cheeks flaming, Wyll walks away, flustered and adorable, leaving Astarion victorious.

But now? Now the roles were reversed, and Astarion was the one left reeling. His usual charm and wit abandoned him entirely as he sat there, fingers brushing against the edge of the flower crown, the weight of Wyll’s gaze making his stomach twist in ways he didn’t quite understand.

“You’re… different.” Astarion said finally, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He turned to Wyll, his crimson eyes searching his face. “You don’t act the way I expect. It’s… infuriating.”

Wyll laughed softly, the sound low and rich. "I will also take that as a compliment I think." he said, his voice tinged with warmth.

Astarion huffed, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “You would..” he muttered, glancing away again.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The stars began to peek out overhead, their soft light casting faint shadows across the cliffs. Astarion felt Wyll’s presence beside him, steady and quiet, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the space with words.

“I’m glad you like it,” Wyll said after a while, his voice breaking the stillness. “The crown, I mean.”

Astarion turned to him again, his fingers brushing over the soft petals on his head once more. “It’s absurdly romantic of you..” he said, his voice both softer and lower now.

"Well, you deserve that and so much more, Astarion." Wyll replied, his gaze steady and unyielding.

Astarion’s chest ached, his mind spinning as he tried to reconcile the warmth in Wyll’s voice with the unfamiliar emotions swirling inside him. He wasn’t used to this—being given something without strings, being seen without judgment. It was disarming in a way that left him utterly off balance.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I might have to kiss you you know...” he said finally, his voice regaining a hint of its usual playfulness.

Wyll’s blush deepened, but his smile never wavered. “I wouldn’t stop you..” he said simply.

Astarion froze, his breath catching at the sincerity of the words. He stared at Wyll, his usual sharp retort failing him entirely.

Astarion froze, his jaw tightening as he stared blankly ahead. He adored Karlach—her warmth, her energy, her laugh that could light up even the darkest corners of his undead existence. But right now? Right now, he could throw her off the cliff and feel no remorse.

Wyll, predictably, turned bright red, his hand darting up to rub the back of his neck as he rose to his feet. He looked over at Karlach, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and exasperation, and waved awkwardly. “Yes, thank you, Karlach..” he called, his voice steady but tinged with nervousness. “Very helpful...”

“Anytime!” she replied with a laugh, yet making no move to retreat.

Still seated on the edge, Astarion turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he glanced back at the happy tiefling. She was still cheering, her broad grin and enthusiastic clapping carrying no small amount of pride for them. He began to consider the logistics of manhandling her over the edge, just as a shadow fell across him.

Before Astarion could react, Wyll bent down, his movements slow and tender. His hand cupped Astarion’s cheek, the warmth of his palm grounding and steadying him, while his fingers grazed the edge of Astarion’s pointed ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

And then Wyll kissed him—not on the lips as Astarion had expected, had wanted, had dreamed about more times than he could count on his hands, but on his forehead, the touch soft and so achingly chaste. It wasn’t what Astarion had planned or anticipated, but gods, it was perfect in its simplicity.

Astarion’s breath caught, his chest tightening again, displaying an ache he couldn’t quite name. He stayed frozen, stunned, as Wyll straightened, his hand lingering for just a moment before slipping away.

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Wyll said softly, his smile kind and genuine, his blush still faintly visible even in the dim light. He then turned and began walking back towards the camp, leaving Astarion sitting alone by the cliff’s edge.

Astarion reached up, his fingers brushing the spot on his forehead where Wyll’s lips had been. His chest felt warm, tight, the remnants of that kiss lingering like a brand. He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath, “Damn him.”

Behind him, Karlach laughed again, her voice carrying over the quiet of the night. Astarion smiled faintly despite himself, shaking his head. He’d get back at her for this. Later. For now, he let himself savour the moment, the faint ghost of Wyll’s touch, and the way his heart—a heart that hadn’t beat in centuries—felt like it had come alive again.

Chapter Text

That night, Astarion couldn’t trance, which was normal, he actually could not remember the last time he had done so properly. He lay in his tent, surrounded by the soft hum of the camp settling into quiet. But instead of a comforting stillness and rest, his body refused to cooperate. It was restless, uneasy in ways he couldn’t quite name.

He shifted on the pile of blankets, his crimson eyes staring up at the fabric of the tent. His body felt… strange. Wrong. He didn’t feel cold, not like he always had since his turning. Instead, there was a faint warmth radiating through him, as if something were simmering just beneath his skin.

His fingers ghosted over his chest, pressing lightly. There was no heartbeat, of course—there couldn’t be—but sometimes he swore he could feel one. A phantom thrum in his chest, faint and insistent, mocking him with its impossibility.

And then there was his stomach. It felt queasy, like it was twisting itself into knots, and he wasn’t sure if it was hunger, nerves, or something else entirely. He tried to will it away, to force his mind back to some semblance of calm, but the sensation lingered, stubborn and unyielding.

“What is wrong with me?” he murmured to the empty tent, his voice tinged with frustration. His fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket, and he turned onto his side, glaring at nothing in particular.

The flower crown rested nearby, placed carefully on his belongings. Its presence was almost mocking, a reminder of the moment that had turned his entire evening upside down. The warmth in his chest flared as he thought of Wyll—the soft touch of his hand, the gentle press of lips to his forehead, the way his voice had sounded when he said, You’re worthy.

Astarion groaned, pressing his palms against his eyes. This was ridiculous. He was over two centuries old, for gods’ sake. He’d seduced, teased, and manipulated more people than he cared to count, and never once had it left him feeling like this—unsteady, vulnerable, alive.

It was infuriating.

But, even as he cursed the feelings roiling inside him, he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back to Wyll’s smile, to the quiet sincerity in his voice, to the way his blush had spread so prettily down his neck.

“Damn him..” Astarion muttered again, though his tone lacked the bite it had held earlier.

He turned onto his back once more, staring up at the darkness of the tent. His fingers brushed absentmindedly over his chest again, searching for something that wasn’t there, and he sighed.

“Curse him,” Astarion muttered under his breath, his fingers tugging restlessly at the edge of the blanket. “Curse him and that… perfect smile, and the kind eye, and… everything.”

The words tumbled out like a confession he hadn’t meant to give, echoing softly in the quiet of his tent. He scowled, turning onto his side again, as if physically trying to escape the thoughts that clung to him like cobwebs. But no matter how he shifted, no matter how he tried to force his mind elsewhere, it always circled back. To him.

Wyll.

With his damn sincerity, his maddening patience, his ability to see through every layer of charm and cynicism Astarion wrapped himself in like armor. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He’d spent centuries honing the art of control, of keeping everyone at arm’s length while still convincing them he was letting them in. Yet Wyll… Wyll had slipped past all of it without even trying.

“Perfect bloody hero..” Astarion grumbled, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest as though that might banish the unwelcome warmth blooming there. “With his—his dashing horns and that ridiculous jawline.” He groaned, throwing one arm over his face. “And those broad shoulders of his... Ugh.”

He paused, the words hanging in the air, and sighed heavily. “And he smells good, too. Damn him.”

The flower crown sat innocently beside him, its soft petals glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the tent. Astarion reached for it without thinking, his fingers brushing over the delicate blooms. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it close—normally, he wasn’t sentimental about such things.

Gale’s enchantment ensured the flowers wouldn’t wilt or crumble, that they would keep, but that magic didn’t explain why the crown felt so weighty in his hands, like it held something far greater than its simple construction suggested it did.

“I hate him..” Astarion whispered, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges, like even his lips didn't want to say the words, to lie.  “I hate that he makes me feel like this. Like I’m…”

He couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t put into words the ache in his chest, the warmth spreading through him like sunlight breaking through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls.

Instead, he clutched the crown to his chest, letting out a shaky breath. 

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The morning was still young, the faint light of dawn spilling across the camp as everyone began to stir. Astarion sat cross-legged in his tent, determinedly ignoring the odd warmth in his chest and the restless ache in his body. He clutched a particularly raunchy romance novel in one hand, its scandalous pages serving as both distraction and indulgence. He flipped a page with a delicate, practiced motion, his lips quirking upward as he read. “My, my..” he murmured to himself, crimson eyes scanning the text. “You sly devil.” He was halfway through a particularly absurd scene involving a bulky pirate captain and a younger naïve nobleman, when the soft rustle of the tent flap made him glance up. Wyll stood there, his figure framed by the early morning light. He looked slightly hesitant, his crimson eye meeting Astarion’s with a mix of determination and that ever-present kindness that made Astarion’s chest tighten.

“Good morning.” Wyll said softly, stepping inside.

“Good morning, Wyll..” Astarion said, forcing his usual charming smile to his lips as he closed the book and set it aside. “Come to bask in my radiant company first thing, have you?”

Wyll chuckled softly, kneeling just inside the tent. “I was wondering..” he began, his voice warm but hesitant, “if you wanted to… feed before we pack up and head out?”

Astarion hesitated, his smile faltering for just a moment. He didn’t know why the offer made his chest feel tight, why it sent a pang of warmth—no, unease—through him. He forced the smile back into place, his tone light and teasing. “Oh, how sweet of you, Wyll. Always so thoughtful of others.”

Wyll offered him a small, reassuring smile, leaning closer and tilting his head to expose the side of his neck. “Go ahead.” he said softly, his voice steady.

Astarion moved forward, his movements slow, trying to maintain the calm, detached confidence he prided himself on. But the moment his lips brushed Wyll’s skin, that confidence began to fray. The warmth of Wyll’s pulse against his mouth, the steady beat of his heart, the faint flush of his skin—it all made Astarion’s body hum with need.

As he sank his fangs into Wyll’s neck, the first taste of blood on his tongue sent a shudder through him. He moaned softly, his hands gripping Wyll’s shoulders for balance. Before he realized what he was doing, Astarion shifted, moving into Wyll’s lap, his knees straddling the other man’s thighs.

It was instinct, an overwhelming need to be closer, to feel the steady warmth of Wyll’s body beneath him. His hips moved almost involuntarily, grinding subtly against Wyll as he drank deeply. Each pull of blood only heightened the sensations, sending heat coursing through him that made him moan again, low and breathless.

Wyll’s hands rested lightly on Astarion’s back, steadying him but never gripping too tightly, never pushing him away, but never coaxing him on either, just there, steadying. His breath hitched slightly, his heartbeat quickening beneath Astarion’s lips, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t say a word about the way Astarion moved against him, about the soft noises spilling from his lips. He simply let Astarion take what he needed, his quiet acceptance grounding and infuriating all at once.

The heat in Astarion’s chest grew unbearable, his body thrumming with sensation. He hated this lack of control, hated how easily Wyll unravelled him without even trying. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t bring himself to pull away just now.

When he finally did, his lips lingered against Wyll’s neck for just a moment longer than necessary, like a kiss or an apology he isn't sure. His breath came in shallow gasps, his cheeks flushed as he leaned back slightly, his crimson eyes searching Wyll’s face.

Wyll was looking at him, his expression steady but faintly flushed. His hands remained gentle on Astarion’s back, his touch grounding but unassuming. “Feeling better?” he asked softly, his voice calm despite the color in his cheeks.

Astarion opened his mouth to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. His body still felt too warm, his mind too muddled by the sensations still coursing through him. Finally, he nodded, his usual charm slipping as he murmured, “Yes. Thank you.”

Wyll smiled, small and genuine, before gently easing Astarion off his lap. “Anytime.” he said, his tone warm but unassuming as he stood. Astarion watched him go, his chest tight as the tent flap fell closed behind him. He pressed a hand to his face, letting out a shaky breath. Whatever was happening to him—whatever this feeling was—he wasn’t sure he could handle it.

Later, Astarion packed his belongings with practiced efficiency, his hands moving on autopilot as his thoughts churned in his mind. It wasn’t until he picked up his crown that the spell of distraction broke. His breath caught as he lifted it carefully, the enchanted flowers looking just as fresh and vibrant as they had when Wyll had placed it on his head. The warm yellows and soft whites reminded him of sunlight, of the warmth he had basked in only yesterday. His stomach lurched as he stared at it, his grip tightening slightly. The thought of Wyll’s gentle smile and the quiet sincerity of his actions made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Curse his perfect face, Astarion thought bitterly, turning the crown over in his hands. Curse his wonderful personality and that ridiculous, insufferable kindness.

With a sigh, he tucked the crown carefully away in his pack and slung it over his shoulder, he walked over and joined the others. 

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On the road, it was worse. Every time Wyll’s eyes found him—and they did, often—Astarion’s stomach did that maddening twist again. It was as though he was perpetually teetering on the edge of sickness and euphoria, a sensation that left him feeling unmoored. He hated it. And, gods help him, he loved it too.

Beside him, Shadowheart noticed his silence. She leaned closer, her gaze sharp as it flicked over him. “You seem off..?” she remarked, her voice low enough not to carry to the others.

Astarion didn't think before murmuring, “I feel… weird.”

Shadowheart stopped in her tracks, her expression shifting to concern. “Weird?” she echoed, reaching out to place the back of her hand against his forehead. “Undead don’t get sick, as far as I know. What kind of weird?”

He tensed under her touch, his discomfort rising as she inspected his face with a healer’s focus. “It’s nothing..” he tried, his voice light but unconvincing.

Shadowheart wasn’t buying it. She stepped back, her brow furrowed as her sharp eyes scanned his face. “When was the last time you fed? And on what?”

Her concern was sadly as loud as her words, and before Astarion could deflect, her question drew the attention of the others.

“What’s wrong?” Halsin’s deep, steady voice broke through the group’s quiet, and he moved closer, his large frame immediately casting a shadow over the two.

“Nothing’s wrong-” Astarion snapped, though the defensive edge in his voice only seemed to make the druid more insistent.

Shadowheart crossed her arms, looking at Halsin as though to say Don't buy it, he’s lying.

Now it was truly over. Between Shadowheart’s piercing gaze and Halsin’s concerned frown, the two of them began fussing like a pair of mother hens, questioning him, checking him over, and generally making a spectacle of the whole thing.

“Can we not do this?” Astarion hissed, trying to shrug them off, but it was too late. Their attention had drawn Karlach, Gale, and Wyll into the fray.

Karlach stomped over, her fiery eyes wide with alarm. “What’s going on? Is Fangs sick?” she asked, her voice tinged with panic.

“Undead don’t get sick.” Gale said, his voice sceptical but tinged with worry. “At least, they shouldn’t. Unless this is some new form of necromantic interference?”

Astarion groaned, pressing his hand to his face. “It’s not necromancy. I’m fine. Just… go back to whatever you were doing.”

“Are you fine though, cause you don't look like it.” Wyll said softly, his crimson eye searching Astarion’s face with a mix of worry and something far too warm for Astarion’s comfort.

“Of course I don’t.” Astarion shot back, his frustration bubbling over. “Because the lot of you are hovering like hens clucking over a wayward chick!”

Lae’zel, the only one who hadn’t joined the growing circle of concern, stood at the front of the group, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “We should not stop moving..” she barked. “If there is danger, I will deal with it, but fussing over the weak spawn is a waste of time...”

Astarion shot her a glare that held no real heat. For one, he agreed with her. He hated the attention, hated being the centre of such earnest concern. But what he hated most of all was the way Wyll’s gaze lingered on him, warm and steady and utterly unshakable.

His chest tightened, and the twist in his stomach returned, sharp and unrelenting. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something he could explain away.

Astarion sighed dramatically, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tried to extricate himself from the growing circle of concern. “Maybe it’s indigestion.” he said flippantly, though the idea was absurd. “Whatever it is, it will pass. Most likely. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” He made to step away, but Halsin’s broad hand landed gently on his shoulder, halting him. The druid’s expression was calm, but his golden eyes held a quiet insistence. “A moment, Astarion..” he said. “If something is truly amiss, it’s worth understanding. Undead are not known to experience… discomforts of the body. Let us think this through.”

Astarion groaned, slumping slightly as he realized escape was impossible. He shot a pleading look at Lae’zel, who stood nearby with her arms crossed, glaring at the road ahead. But she did nothing to intervene.

Halsin, unfazed by Astarion’s theatrics, glanced at Shadowheart. “Undead creatures are immune to many afflictions that plague the living,” he began, his tone calm and measured. “They cannot fall ill. They do not feel poison’s sting, nor are they touched by disease or fatigue. Even effects that cloud the mind—fear, charm, sleep—do not hold sway over them. Their bodies are… preserved in a state of unchanging death.”

Shadowheart nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. “Which makes this strange..” she said. “Whatever Astarion is feeling, it’s not typical for an undead creature.”

“Or perhaps it’s not physical at all,” Gale interjected, his voice tinged with that scholarly curiosity. “While undead are immune to mind-affecting spells, their emotions—if they retain them at all—are another matter entirely. Vampiric spawn often experience heightened sensations when they feed. Could it be related to that?”

Astarion stiffened, glaring at Gale like he could set his beard on fire. “I am standing right here.” he snapped. “And no, it’s not related to that. I’ve fed countless times from the same source, and this is.. is different...”

Halsin’s expression softened, his hand still resting lightly on Astarion’s shoulder. “Different how?” he asked gently.

Astarion hesitated, his crimson eyes darting away. “I don’t know how to explain it..” he muttered finally. “It’s like… a twisting in my chest. An ache, almost. But I don’t have a beating heart, so it’s ridiculous. And then there’s this warmth I feel—it’s maddening.”

Shadowheart’s gaze sharpened. “Warmth?” she echoed. “That’s- Undead bodies are cold. Always.”

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious.” Astarion said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m well aware of what I am.”

“But this warmth,” Halsin said thoughtfully, “it could be a reaction. Something tied to your feeding, or perhaps…” He paused, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he looks lost in thought a bit before continuing. “Perhaps it’s not a physical malady at all. Just like Gale surmised, but not one from magic or spells, but.. maybe an emotional one.” Halsin smiled faintly as he said.

Astarion’s head snapped up, his crimson eyes narrowing. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked sharply, though his voice carried a hint of something defensive.

Halsin tilted his head, his expression both gentle and knowing. “Even the undead are not immune to connection, Astarion.” he said softly. “Nor to the vulnerabilities that come with it.” his gaze flicking briefly toward Wyll and Astarion's eyes followed.  

Astarion froze, the weight of Halsin’s words sinking in as his chest tightened further. “That’s absurd-” he said quickly, though the words felt hollow even to him. “I don’t… feel things like that. Not anymore...” Astarion’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking around the group as they watched him with varying degrees of concern and curiosity. His stomach twisted again, but this time, it wasn’t just discomfort. It was fear. Fear of what this warmth might mean, and of how it could undo everything he’d built to protect himself.

“Well..” he said finally, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will pass. Shall we move on? I’d rather not stand here and dissect my undead inadequacies all morning.”

The others exchanged glances, but no one pressed further. For now, at least, Astarion was granted a reprieve.

Astarion moved quickly, slipping past the others until he fell in step just behind Lae’zel. She glanced back at him briefly, her expression as impassive as ever, before refocusing on the path ahead. It was a welcome reprieve from the suffocating concern of the others—Lae’zel didn’t hover, didn’t prod. She simply allowed him space. He hoped the sharp efficiency of her stride might make him feel better. It didn’t work. No matter how he tried to bury his thoughts, they lingered, warm and unwelcome, thrumming through his chest like that ghostly heartbeat.

“Astarion-” Wyll’s voice called behind him. A moment later, the Blade of Frontiers jogged up beside him, falling into step with an ease that Astarion found both infuriating and... well, endearing. “Are you really fine?”

Astarion didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead as he kept walking.

“Is it my fault?” Wyll pressed, his tone quieter now. “If it’s the blood—if it made you sick—”

Astarion stopped abruptly, turning to face Wyll with an exasperated look. “Your fault?” he repeated, his tone sharp but not unkind. “How could it possibly be your fault?”

Wyll hesitated, his concern deepening. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never… done this before. I don’t know how it works. If there’s something in my blood, It might be cursed by the pack or I don-”

“Stop. For the love of…” Astarion groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Wyll, my perfect darling, your blood is glorious. The best vintage, like the finest wine I can remember ever tasting. Believe me, it’s not the problem.”

Wyll blinked, momentarily stunned by the praise, but Astarion wasn’t done. He sighed again, softer this time, his gaze dropping for a moment before he continued.

“The problem,” he said, his voice quieter now, “is with me.”

Wyll tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. “What do you mean?”

Astarion hesitated, his usual wit and charm faltering as he struggled to find the words. He glanced away, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the ground. “I mean… whatever this is. This ridiculous, maddening feeling in my chest. The warmth, the ache, the…” He trailed off, his hands gesturing vaguely. “It’s not normal. Not for me. And it’s certainly not your fault.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Wyll again, a flicker of something vulnerable in his gaze. “Or maybe…” he said, his voice trailing off before he continued, “Maybe it is you.”

Wyll’s expression shifted, his crimson eye widening slightly, the beginnings of hurt flickering across his face.

Astarion’s breath caught, and he raised a hand, shaking his head quickly. “Not like that, Wyll,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t mean it like that. It’s not your fault—it’s…” He exhaled sharply, his hand moving to press against his chest, as though he could steady the phantom heartbeat that wasn’t there.

“I’m not used to this,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “Kindness. Closeness. And gods help me, I am certainly not used to… to love.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unpolished, and Astarion’s chest felt tight as though he’d given something away that he couldn’t take back. His hand stayed pressed against his chest, feeling the phantom beat that refused to relent, the ache that twisted and squeezed in ways he didn’t know how to handle.

Wyll stared at him, his expression softening as understanding dawned. “Astarion…” he began, his voice low and steady.

“Don’t,” Astarion cut him off, his tone sharp but not cruel. His gaze flicked away, his throat tightening as he added, “Don’t pity me. I couldn’t stand it.”

Wyll didn’t move for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “I don’t pity you...”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that Astarion felt settle in his chest alongside the ache. When he finally looked at Wyll, his gaze was steady, unwavering.

“I see you, Astarion.” Wyll said, his voice soft but firm. 

Astarion swallowed hard, the warmth in his chest flaring again, both infuriating and oddly comforting. He said nothing, couldn’t say anything, so he turned and started walking again. Wyll fell into step beside him, silent but close, and Astarion hated how much he appreciated that steady, grounding presence.

The walk stretched on, the party moving along the winding trail. Astarion still stayed near the front, his usual brisk stride slightly slowed by Wyll’s presence beside him. They walked close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally, and each accidental touch sent another flush crawling from Astarion’s neck to the very tips of his ears.

It was maddening. The warmth, the ache, the way his chest tightened with every glance Wyll spared him—it was all impossible to ignore. And yet, despite how it unnerved him, he couldn’t bring himself to step away.

Of course, Wyll noticed. How could he not? Astarion could feel the Blade’s eyes on him, steady and curious, though Wyll said nothing at first. They walked in relative silence, their footsteps crunching softly against the dirt path, and Astarion found himself hyperaware of every little movement, every subtle sound.

Finally, Wyll broke the silence, his voice soft but filled with quiet warmth. “You know,” he said, glancing at Astarion, “you look pretty like that.”

Astarion turned to him sharply, his crimson eyes narrowing. “Like what?”

Wyll smiled, faintly embarrassed but resolute. “Blushing.” he said, his cheeks tinged with colour even as he spoke. “For me.”

Astarion froze mid-step, his eyes widening slightly as he turned to look at Wyll. The compliment hit him like a bolt of lightning, and for a moment, he was completely disarmed. “You—” he started, his voice catching before he quickly recovered, his tone sharp but lacking real heat. “It’s your fault."

“My fault?” Wyll asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Astarion replied, almost whispering now. “I can’t blush. It’s your blood coursing through my body, making me able to.” He touched his cheeks lightly, his expression a mix of frustration and something softer, more vulnerable.

Wyll smiled, the corners of his mouth curving up in a way that made Astarion’s chest tighten. “I like knowing that too..” he said, his voice low and warm.

Astarion blinked, his flush deepening even further. Was Wyll… flirting with him? The thought made his stomach twist in that maddening way again, the sensation equal parts thrilling and infuriating.

Just behind them, Halsin and Shadowheart walked together, their voices low but clear. Astarion caught their conversation—still speculating about what might be “wrong” with him. He pretended not to hear, keeping his focus on Wyll and the way his presence seemed to steady the chaos swirling inside him.

The group came to a stop near the edge of a wide canyon, the rocky terrain stretching out before them. Across the chasm stood a crumbling structure, its spires and arches gleaming faintly in the sunlight. Some statues lined the edge of the canyon, their faces serene and their hands raised in blessing, most where broken in some way.

Lae’zel, standing at the front of the group, gestured toward the structure. “There,” she said, her voice commanding as she pointed across the canyon. “The Creche lies within that building, I'm sure of it.”

Gale stepped closer, examining one of the statues. “It’s a temple to Lathander,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “The Morninglord. God of the dawn, renewal, and light.”

Karlach tilted her head, her fiery eyes narrowing slightly. “A Creche in a temple of Lathander?” she asked. “That’s… unexpected. The gith don’t strike me as the praying type.”

“We do not,” Lae’zel confirmed, her tone clipped. “But we will use what is available. The Creche is likely hidden within, and the temple is but a shell.”

Astarion stepped closer to Wyll as the group debated their next move, his gaze drifting toward the temple. “A temple to the sun..” he murmured, his voice barely audible. He couldn’t help but find a bitter irony in the idea. He, a creature of shadow and night, standing at the threshold of a place dedicated to light and renewal.

Wyll turned to him, his gaze softening. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

Astarion hesitated, his crimson eyes meeting Wyll’s. For a moment, he considered deflecting, brushing off the question with a flippant remark. But the concern in Wyll’s gaze made him pause. “I’m fine.. why wouldn't I be..” he said finally, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Wyll didn’t press further, but his hand brushed lightly against Astarion’s arm as they moved to join the others. The small gesture sent another unwelcome but not unpleasant shiver through Astarion, and he found himself both cursing and craving Wyll’s closeness.. mostly the craving really. 

The group paused as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the canyon. The light was fading fast, and it was clear they wouldn’t reach the temple before nightfall. Begrudgingly, they began setting up a simple camp, spreading their bedrolls around a small fire Karlach had already started.

“Ugh…” Astarion groaned dramatically, dropping his pack with exaggerated disdain. “If I wanted to lay on the ground, I would have stayed in the Gate.”

Behind him, Halsin chuckled, his heavy footsteps drawing closer. Without warning, the druid reached out and gave Astarion’s head a gentle pat, ruffling his silver hair in the process. “You’ll survive, little star.” Halsin said warmly before walking past to help with the firewood.

Astarion froze, his hand immediately flying to his head. “Halsin!” he protested, his voice a mix of indignation and something softer. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to fix this? I can’t even look in a mirror!” He huffed, smoothing his hair as best he could, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

The blush deepened as he caught Shadowheart’s amused smirk, and Karlach’s barely suppressed chuckle didn’t help matters. Halsin, utterly unfazed, merely glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Don’t fret,” Halsin said. “I’ll make it up to you.” With a wave of his hand and a murmured incantation, moss began to grow beneath their bedrolls, spreading in lush, soft patches. It transformed the hard ground into something almost comfortable. “There you go, Star,” he added, his voice full of gentle affection.

Astarion muttered something unintelligible under his breath, his embarrassment tempered by the small kindness. He glanced at the moss under his bedroll, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

Wyll had been watching the exchange, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked between Astarion and Halsin. When Astarion looked up, Wyll’s face shifted into a small, reassuring smile, and he bent to unroll his own bedroll.

Without a word, Wyll placed it next to Astarion’s, head-to-head, the two bedrolls forming a subtle connection between them. Astarion noticed the proximity and raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he busied himself with rolling out his bedroll. 

The fire crackled to life, casting warm light over the camp as the group settled in. Karlach stretched out on her bedroll with a sigh, her fiery eyes flickering in the firelight. Shadowheart sat a little ways away, praying, while Gale leafed through one of his many books, Lae'zel was scouting and Halsin tended to the fire, his presence as steady and grounding as always.  

Astarion lay back on his bedroll, staring up at the stars peeking through the clouds.

 The moss was softer than he’d admit, and the warmth of the fire chased away the chill of the night. He turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Wyll beside him.

Wyll wasn’t looking at the stars or the fire. His gaze was on Astarion, his crimson eye soft and thoughtful. When their eyes met, Wyll smiled, the expression warm enough to make Astarion’s chest ache.

“What?” Astarion asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

“Nothing.” Wyll said, shaking his head softly, but his smile lingered. Astarion huffed, turning back to the stars as his cheeks flushed yet again.

Wyll’s chuckle was soft, fond. “Goodnight, Astarion.” he said, his voice low and steady.

Astarion closed his eyes, the warmth of the fire and the faint scent of moss lulling him into a rare sense of ease. “Goodnight, Wyll..” he murmured back, the words slipping out before he could think better of them.

Chapter Text

The camp was still, the only sounds the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of the night wind through the trees. Astarion lay on his back, staring up at the star-speckled sky. Trance, or the undead equivalent of it, remained elusive. The proximity of everyone around him didn’t help—their bedrolls too close, their breaths too loud in the quiet night.

Halsin sat a little apart from the rest, his broad silhouette outlined by the firelight. The druid puffed on his pipe, the faint tendrils of smoke curling upward as his golden eyes scanned the darkness, watchful and alert. his steady presence was a comfort, Astarion supposed.

But it wasn’t Halsin he wanted to see.

His crimson eyes flicked to the side, where Wyll lay on his bedroll, his face turned away. Astarion wanted to look at him, to study the curve of his horns in the dim firelight or the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. But the way Wyll was positioned made it impossible without making his interest painfully obvious.

Astarion huffed quietly, forcing his gaze back to the stars. But the ache in his chest lingered, stubborn and unrelenting.

And then, movement.

Wyll’s hand, resting by his side, shifted. Slowly, tentatively, it reached out, the fingers splayed open as it lay halfway between them. Astarion froze, his eyes narrowing as he considered the gesture. It could have been accidental. But no—it wasn’t. The angle, the subtle way it was placed—it was deliberate.

For a moment, Astarion hesitated, his fingers twitching by his side. Then, cautiously, he reached out, his hand brushing against Wyll’s before he curled his fingers around it. Wyll’s hand responded immediately, his fingers intertwining with Astarion’s, the grip firm but gentle.

The warmth of Wyll’s hand was startling, real warmth, the kind that seeped into his cold skin and settled there, unyielding. It was grounding and disarming all at once, and he hated how much he wanted it, craved it.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at Wyll. The Blade’s face was turned toward the stars now, his expression calm, though there was a faint curve to his lips—a small, contented smile.

Astarion swallowed hard, his gaze dropping back to their joined hands. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held someone’s hand, the gesture so simple yet so unbearably intimate. It sent a strange, maddening warmth through him, curling in his chest like a flame that refused to die.

Wyll’s thumb brushed lightly against his knuckles, a small, absent motion that made Astarion’s breath hitch. He tightened his grip slightly, his fingers pressing into Wyll’s as though to reassure himself that this was real.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Astarion tranced.

It crept up on him quietly, like a soft lullaby he hadn’t heard in centuries. The warmth of Wyll’s hand, their fingers still loosely entwined, seemed to anchor him, pulling him into the meditative stillness he hadn’t been able to reach in so long. His mind drifted, his body relaxing into a state of calm that felt both alien and comforting.

When the sky began to lighten with the first hints of dawn, Astarion stirred, his trance ending naturally as his senses reawakened. He opened his eyes to find the camp still mostly quiet.

Across the fire, Karlach tiptoed—or attempted to tiptoe—away from the group. Her heavy footfalls on the forest floor were loud enough to disturb even the most oblivious sleeper, though she seemed blissfully unaware. Astarion smirked faintly, watching as she disappeared into the trees, no doubt answering nature’s call.

The rest of the group remained in varying states of repose. Halsin was still seated where he had been the night before, his broad frame steady and unmoving, his pipe resting in his hands as he watched the forest with his ever-watchful gaze. Astarion could have sworn the druid hadn’t moved an inch all night.

Wyll still slept, his body relaxed in repose. Astarion turned his head slightly, his eyes tracing over the Blade’s features in the soft morning light. Wyll’s horns dictated how he had to sleep, his head angled just so to accommodate them. But despite the awkward position, he looked peaceful, his expression calm and unguarded.

Astarion’s gaze drifted lower, to where Wyll’s hand still rested lightly in his. The grip had slackened in sleep, but their fingers were still loosely intertwined, the warmth of Wyll’s touch lingering even now. It was such a small thing, yet it sent a strange sense of comfort through Astarion, a feeling he wasn’t sure he would ever grow accustomed to.

His muscles felt loose, his body relaxed in a way it hadn’t been in decades. Trancing had always felt like a distant memory, something he’d lost long ago to the oppressive control of Cazador. And yet, here he was—his mind clear, his body at ease.

Astarion exhaled softly, turning his gaze back to the soft glow of the morning sky, watching the yellows and reds shine their streams across the canvas he now lay admiring.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The group continued their journey toward the temple as the morning sun climbed higher, casting golden light across the rugged canyon. The path narrowed in places, the edges precariously close to the drop-off into the chasm below. The temple loomed ahead, its crumbling spires a mix of grandeur and decay.

As they walked, Astarion’s sharp eyes caught something others might have missed. A faint glimmer on the ground, a subtle distortion of light that didn’t belong. He stopped abruptly, his hand shooting out to halt Wyll, who was just behind him.

“Hold,” Astarion murmured, crouching down to inspect the area. His crimson eyes narrowed as he studied the faint sigils etched into the stone. “A trap. A repulsion mine, by the look of it.”

“Repulsion?” Karlach asked from behind, her tone equal parts curiosity and concern.

“It’s designed to push the unfortunate fool who steps on it backward,” Gale explained, his voice dry as he gestured toward the sheer drop beside them. “In this case, likely over the edge and to a very unceremonious and uncomfortable death...”

The group collectively tensed, their eyes scanning the path ahead. The faint glimmers of more mines became visible now that they knew what to look for, scattered at irregular intervals along the narrow path.

“Whoever placed these,” Gale continued, his tone thoughtful, “wasn’t just trying to keep people out—they were trying to ensure no one got close enough to even try it.”

Astarion smirked faintly, pulling out his toolkit. “Well, they underestimated me..” he said, crouching beside the first mine. “Give me a moment. I’ve no intention of letting anyone go flying anywhere today.”

The group stood back as Astarion worked, his movements careful and precise. His nimble fingers deftly manipulated the delicate components of the trap, his focus unshakable as he disarmed it. With a soft click, the mine was rendered harmless, and as Astarion straightened, brushing off his hands, he kicked the mine over the edge.

“One down,” he said with a grin, “and several more to go by the looks of it... Do try not to distract me, darlings I’m rather attached to my limbs..”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “You’re doing fine, Astarion."

He moved on to the next mine, his movements slow and cautious. The group followed at a distance, their trust in his abilities evident despite their quiet tension. Astarion’s sharp eyes scanned the path ahead, each trap he found disarmed with precision and care, before kicking the duds over the side of the cliff drop.

“Careful, darling..” he said over his shoulder to Wyll at one point, his tone teasing but not unkind. “I’d hate to see you take an unplanned flight... Who would hold my hand in camp if you were gone, hmm?”

Wyll chuckled softly, his expression both flustered and amused. “I’ll do my best to stay firmly grounded, Astarion.”

It took time—longer than any of them would have liked perhaps—but Astarion disarmed the last of the mines, stepping back with a flourish as the path ahead was cleared.

“There,” he said, his grin widening. “No cliff diving for us today.”

The temple of Lathander loomed ahead, its grand façade weathered and worn but still imposing. The group approached cautiously, their weapons at the ready and eyes scanning for traps. A large set of intricately carved stone doors stood at the entrance, their surface adorned with faded images of the Morninglord’s light radiating across a field of golden wheat.

Karlach wasted no time. She hefted her great axe, stepping forward with determination. “If they don’t want us in, too bad for them,” she said, bringing the axe down with a resounding clang against the door.

Nothing.

The door didn’t even crack, let alone give way. She swung her axe a couple more times for good measure.

“Well..” Gale said dryly, stepping back to avoid any splinters from Karlach’s continued efforts, “It seems brute force isn’t the answer this time...”

“Hey, it usually works.” Karlach said, stepping back with a frustrated huff.

They circled the building, searching for another way in. The stone walls were tall and smooth, offering no immediate handholds. It wasn’t until they reached the eastern side of the temple that Wyll stopped and gestured to a spot where the wall’s surface was slightly cracked and uneven.

“Maybe we could climb here,” Wyll said thoughtfully. His crimson eye flicked toward Astarion, who stood a little apart from the group.

When Astarion realized Wyll was looking directly at him, his crimson eyes narrowed. “Are you talking to me?” he asked incredulously.

Wyll nodded, his expression calm but firm.

The rest of the group turned to stare at Astarion as well, their curiosity piqued.

Wyll folded his arms. “You’re a vampire spawn,” he began. “From what I’ve read—and what I’ve experienced—your kind can climb walls as easily as others walk on the ground. It’s instinctual, part of what makes you so… dangerous.”

Astarion blinked at him, his expression shifting from incredulity to annoyance. “Excuse me?” he said, his voice sharp. “Have you seen my nails? These are not claws, Wyll. And I’m fairly certain I can’t just stick to a wall like some sort of slime. Honestly, the idea is ridiculous.”

Wyll tilted his head, unfazed by Astarion’s sarcasm. “Have you ever tried?”

Astarion opened his mouth to retort but stopped short. He hadn’t. Why would he? It wasn’t exactly something he’d had the luxury—or inclination—to test during his captivity or since.

“Fine!” Astarion said, throwing up his hands. "All the things I would do to show you how wrong you are.."

He approached the wall with a dramatic sigh, placing his hands against the rough stone. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, to his utter astonishment, the wall seemed to welcome him. His fingers held firm, his body shifting naturally into a climbing position as if the stone itself had offered him support.

He froze, staring at his hands as they held fast on the rock. 

“I told you so, Astarion.” Wyll said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Astarion huffed, climbing a bit higher just to test the limits. The ease with which he moved was disorienting but strangely exhilarating. After a moment, he paused and looked back down at the group.

“Well..” he said flatly, looking down at them, “Apparently there is much about me I don’t even fucking know about.... do we have rope?”

The others stared up at him, expressions ranging from shock to amusement. Karlach shook her head with a grin as she began rummaging through her pack. "As you well know the only thing we find is fucking rope..."

As Astarion climbed back down, his mind raced with the knowlagde of this 'newfound' ability. For all his sarcasm and charm, the revelation unnerved him. There was so much about himself—what he had become—that he didn’t understand, and not knowing was.. scary in a way.

When his feet hit the ground, Wyll was the first to step forward, holding out some coils of sturdy rope. He didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at Astarion—steady and unwavering—made Astarion's body queasy all over again.

“Thank you..” Astarion said quietly, taking the rope.

Wyll smiled, his voice soft as he replied, “Anytime, Astarion.”

Astarion climbed back up the wall with the rope slung over his shoulder, his body moving with an ease that still unsettled him. When he reached the top, he found a sturdy outcropping to secure the rope, testing it a few times to ensure it would hold, before leaning over the wall and signalling for them to start climbing. 

. As he waited for the others to start their ascent, his crimson eyes drifted to his hands.

They didn’t look any different, pale and elegant as always, but now they carried the knowledge of something he hadn’t known he could do. His fingers curled slightly, the rough scrape of the stone still lingering on his skin. What else had he missed about himself? What other hidden instincts lay dormant, waiting to surface?

The sound of stone being scaped broke his reverie, and he turned to see Wyll hoisting himself over the wall before approaching, his crimson eye filled with concern.

“Are you all right?” Wyll asked softly, his tone gentle. “I didn’t mean to spring anything on you like that. I thought you… already knew.”

Astarion blinked at him, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I’m not angry with you, darling,” he said, his voice lighter now, though still tinged with introspection. “So stop pouting before I decide to bite your lip.”

“I was not pouting..” Wyll replied, crossing his arms. “If anyone here was pouting, it was you.”

Astarion tilted his head, a slow smirk curling his lips. “Then maybe you should bite my lip,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt.

The effect was immediate. Wyll flushed, the color spreading across his cheeks and down his neck in a way that made Astarion’s chest tighten.

Wyll stammered, clearly flustered, “W-we’ve secured the bags to the end of the rope, so… once the others climb up, we’ll just hoist them up last...” His hand moved to his neck, brushing against the scars left behind by Astarion’s bite.

The sight of those faint marks against Wyll’s warm skin made Astarion pause. His gaze lingered, his teasing smirk softening into something more genuine. “You’re so handsome, you know,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Wyll spluttered, his hand dropping from his neck as his eye widened. “I—uh—”

“I would say the same about you,” Wyll managed finally, his voice steady despite the faint flush still painting his cheeks.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed, and he placed a hand on his hip, his lips curving into a playful pout. “Oh no, you don’t get to ignore my quips and then throw my flirtations back at me like that. That’s cheating.”

Wyll smiled, small and sheepish, but his gaze was warm as he met Astarion’s.

Astarion turned away, feigning exasperation as he felt the traitorous heat rise to his own cheeks. “Stupid blush..” he muttered under his breath. “Stupid Wyll with his stupid perfect lips and his stupid perfect face…”

“What was that?” Wyll asked, leaning closer, his voice laced with amusement.

“Nothing.” Astarion said quickly, though his blush deepened as he busied himself with checking the rope again.

Behind them, the sound of boots scraping against stone filled the air, as the others moved closer.

“I don’t think it’s very nice to call the person courting you stupid,” Wyll said, his tone light but teasing, a crooked smile spreading across his face. “Bad manners and all that.”

Astarion froze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realized Wyll had heard his muttered words. He turned his head just enough to glance at Wyll, his smirk returning in full force.

“Oh, the person courting me,” he said, dragging out the words, “is a right pain in my ass. And not in the way I’d prefer.”

Wyll’s face turned a brilliant shade of crimson as he spluttered, his composure faltering in spectacular fashion. He coughed, turning away slightly as if to hide the blush spreading up to his ears.

Astarion watched him with undisguised glee, opening his mouth to press his advantage with another quip—

But before he could, Lae’zel appeared, climbing over the edge of the wall with the practiced ease of a warrior. Her stern expression immediately killed the playful atmosphere, her gaze flicking between Astarion and Wyll as though they were wasting precious time.

“Enough.” she said sharply, gesturing for Shadowheart, who climbed up just behind her. “Focus. We have a temple to breach, no time for your sad attempts at flirtation." 

Shadowheart rolled her eyes but said nothing, brushing the dust off her armour as she stepped onto the platform.

Wyll coughed again, stepping back and busying himself with the rope to avoid Lae’zel’s scrutiny. Astarion, for his part, simply sighed dramatically, though he couldn’t quite hide the amused glint in his eyes as he glanced at Wyll one last time.

“Very well..” he said with exaggerated exasperation, turning to follow Lae’zel and Shadowheart toward the next obstacle. “But do remind me later to return to this conversation, darling. I have so much more to say to you..”

Wyll groaned softly, the sound carrying just loud enough for Astarion to hear.

Chapter Text

The broken hallways of the temple stretched ahead, the silence oppressive and thick. The only sounds were their footsteps echoing off the worn stone and the faint rustle of their gear. The air carried an unsettling stillness, as if the building itself was holding its breath for something...

Astarion’s voice cut through the quiet like a sharp blade. “Halsin,” he said, his tone light but edged with mock annoyance, “you could have just turned into something… climbing or flying, and carried the rope up. You know, saved me the trouble of risking my poor nails on those stone walls.”

Halsin chuckled, his deep voice warm and unbothered. “I was just about to offer, but you and Wyll found a way.” he said, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement.

Astarion huffed dramatically, stepping closer to the towering druid and giving him a firm shove. Halsin, of course, didn’t move an inch, his broad frame as immovable as a freaking mountain.

With a huff Astarion rights himself after almost falling over trying to dislodge the bigger elf. “You know. I feel sorry for your poor mother..” Astarion said, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “Having to give birth to you must have been an ordeal worthy of song. Her poor body...”

Halsin’s laughter rumbled through the corridor, rich and unflappable. "My mother was quite formidable.” he said, his voice warm. “But, if she could hear you now, little star, she’d likely agree with you on that.” he said, the nickname making Astarion bristle slightly despite the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Ahead of them, Shadowheart paused mid-step, glancing back over her shoulder. Her usually composed face was split with a rare laugh, the sound surprisingly bright in the sombre temple, her eyes found Astarion's as she said "You are insufferable." she shook her head, but unable to supress her grin.

“Insufferable?” Astarion echoed, his hand flying to his chest as if hurt.. “I’m utterly charming, my dear. There’s a difference.”

“Charming like a swarm of wasps perhaps.” she retorted, her laughter fading into a faint smile as she turned her attention back to the path ahead.

Lae’zel grumbled something unintelligible from the front, her sharp gaze scanning every shadow for threats. “Focus-” she barked, though her tone lacked its usual bite. “If you insist on flapping your jaws, at least be ready to draw steel when it counts.”

“Oh always, darling.” Astarion quipped, his crimson eyes looking around the darkened corners of the hallways with care.

The group pressed on, the faint hum of tension beneath their banter keeping them alert. The eerie quiet of the temple was unnerving, the broken grandeur of the place a reminder that they were not welcome here.

Even so, Astarion couldn’t help the small smirk that lingered on his lips, the sound of Shadowheart’s rare laughter and Halsin’s unshakable cheer somehow making him feel a bit better.

Astarion’s eyes kept straying, no matter how hard he tried to focus on their surroundings. Wyll walked ahead of him, his strides purposeful, the sunlight filtering through the broken ceiling casting him in a soft glow. It was maddening, really, how the light seemed to follow him, catching on the curve of his horns and the warm bronze of his skin.

And then there was… well, his backside.

Astarion’s gaze lingered, drawn to the way Wyll moved with such natural grace. It was utterly unfair—firm, rounded, with just the right amount of give. Perfectly sculpted, really. He could almost—

Astarion was so focused he didn’t notice the group stopping until he walked straight into Gale. His hands shot out instinctively, gripping the wizard’s shoulders to keep him from tumbling over the poor man.

“Sorry,” Astarion said quickly, his voice uncharacteristically flustered. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks yet again, and he cursed Wyll, the sunlight, and his own distracted mind.

Gale, to his credit, merely gave Astarion a knowing look and patted his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone as patient as ever.

But it wasn’t fine. Not really. Astarion prided himself on his sharp senses, his instincts, his ability to always be aware of his surroundings. And here he was, walking into people like a bumbling fool because he couldn’t stop staring at Wyll’s glorious—

“Astarion!”

The sharp sound of his name jolted him from his thoughts, and he realized he’d been standing there, spaced out, for who knows how long. He turned his head, blinking as he processed the scene in front of him.

Wyll stood by a large wooden door, its iron hinges worn with age but still sturdy. His arms were crossed, and his expression was somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Can we borrow you and your skills?” he asked, his tone light. “The door’s locked.”

Astarion straightened, brushing invisible dust from his shirt as he strode forward with as much composure as he could muster. “Of course.” he said smoothly, his usual charm slipping back into place like a well-worn mask.

But when he reached the door, Wyll didn’t move aside. He stayed close, his presence a steady warmth at Astarion’s side. Astarion hesitated, glancing up at Wyll, only to catch sight of that damnable backside again when he turned slightly.

His chest tightened, that phantom heartbeat thrumming insistently as he tried to focus on the lock in front of him. His hands moved with practiced ease, picking through the mechanisms, but his thoughts were a traitorous mess.

He could feel Wyll’s gaze on him, hear the subtle shift of his breathing. And that knowledge only made it worse.

“Done,” Astarion announced finally, the lock clicking open with a satisfying sound. He turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes catching Wyll’s for just a moment.

Wyll smiled, warm and genuine. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft.

Astarion’s breath hitched, and he quickly stepped back, brushing past Wyll to let the others through. He needed a moment—just a moment—to collect himself.

But as the group moved forward, Wyll lingered for a heartbeat longer, his gaze following Astarion with a warmth that made the vampire spawn’s chest tighten all over again.

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The creche had not been the pleasant revelation they had hoped for—it was, instead, a labyrinthine nightmare of false hope, dangerous zealots, and escalating threats.

They had followed Lae’zel’s lead, seeking the doctor’s office and the promised cleansing of their tadpoles. But the device proved to be another dead end—or tampered with, as Lae’zel had insisted, her fury palpable. That anger had led them to the commander, then to an inquisitor, and finally to a battle for their very survival when the inquisitor demanded the artifact that held the key to their tenuous control over their tadpoled condition.

The fight was brutal. Lae’zel fought with a ferocity born of desperation, while Astarion moved with his usual deadly precision, striking from the shadows. Wyll and Karlach held the line, their strength and resolve unyielding, while Shadowheart and Gale provided crucial support with their magic. If they had had Halsin there maybe the fight would be a lot shorter, but Halsin had not joined them into the Creche itself, saying he will meet them back in camp later.

Then, as if things couldn’t worsen, Vlaakith herself appeared—or at least a projection of the gith queen. Her mere presence was suffocating, her demands clear and ruthless: enter the artifact and kill the being residing in it. 

The world had shifted, surreal and oppressive, as they found themselves within the artifact. Wyll had stepped forward to speak with the person inside—someone Astarion still didn’t entirely trust but who seemed to know far more about their predicament than any of them. Whatever Wyll saw, whatever he shared with Lae’zel, it calmed her fiery rage into something colder and more measured.

They emerged from the artifact shaken but alive, only to find themselves fleeing for their lives when Karlach—of course—poked a relic she absolutely shouldn’t have. The temple began to collapse, the walls shuddering and groaning as the entire structure became a ticking time bomb.

And now, back at camp, the group sat in various states of exhaustion and frustration. And hey, they had a new nice shiny mace to show off.

The camp was unusually quiet that night, the air thick with exhaustion and tension. The events at the creche had left everyone on edge, and the collective weight of more questions than answers pressed heavily on them.

Astarion sat by the fire, the flickering flames casting long shadows across his pale features. In his lap rested the large, green Githyanki egg they had gotten from the caretaker. Astarion had protested at first, of course—loudly and with no small amount of flair. He’d complained about the weight, about how utterly ridiculous it was for him to carry it, of all people. And yet… here he was, still holding the damn thing, even as they’d fled the collapsing creche, he had held onto it.

His crimson eyes stared at the egg, his fingers tracing the faint patterns on its shell. It had been moving earlier, subtle shifts beneath the surface that told him whatever was inside was very much alive. Not the defected thing the caretaker had claimed it to be.

“Why am I still holding this?” Astarion muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. He shook his head, a faint huff escaping him. “I must be going soft.”

Karlach, seated across from him, snorted. " But you do look good with it. Real fatherly.”

Astarion shot her a glare, though it lacked its usual venom. “Bite your tongue.” he said dryly. “This thing is heavier than it looks, and I’ve half a mind to leave it with you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Karlach teased, leaning back on her bedroll. “You’ve been cradling it like a treasure all night.”

“This damn thing..” he muttered, shifting slightly to adjust its weight in his lap. “I could have left it behind. Should have, really. But no, here I am, cradling it like some ridiculous… mother hen.” Astarion snapped, though his hands reflexively adjusted their grip on the egg as if to shield it from his words.

Wyll walked over then, his expression soft as he crouched beside Astarion. “Still moving?” he asked, gesturing to the egg.

Astarion nodded, his voice quieter now. “Yes. It’s moving around in there, so I reckon it lives.. Not that I know why I’m bothering to keep it that way.”

“Because you care.” Wyll said simply, his crimson eye steady on Astarion’s as his mouth opened to retort, but no words came. Instead, he looked away, his fingers tightening slightly around the egg.

He sighed dramatically, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “What in the Nine Hells do I do with it?” he asked no one in particular. “Does it need heat? Incubation? Do I sit on it, what?” he fumes. 

Shadowheart, who was cleaning her armour nearby, glanced over with an amused look. “I wouldn’t recommend that, your bony ass would crush it..” she said dryly.

“It needs warmth,” Halsin said, stopping whatever comeback Astarion was ready to shoot back, as he approached the fire with his usual calm presence. He crouched beside Astarion, examining the egg with interest. “Gith eggs seem sturdy, but most eggs require consistent heat to thrive. The caretakers at the creche would have known how to tend to it properly.”

“Well, the caretaker at the creche also deemed it a failure.” Astarion said, his tone sharp. “They were going to discard it. Discard it.” His grip on the egg tightened slightly. “And yet it moves.”

Halsin nodded thoughtfully, his golden eyes warm as they studied the vampire spawn. “Then it still has a chance.” he said.

Astarion blinked, taken aback by the druid’s simple words. He glanced down at the egg again, his fingers absently tracing the faint lines of iron that ran across its surface. The weight of it felt heavier now, not physically but emotionally.

“What does Gith babies even eat?” Astarion asked after a moment, his voice quieter.

Halsin smiled faintly. “Patience, little Star,” he said. “It hasn’t hatched yet.”

Wyll smiles at him as he sit's besides him. “You kept it safe,” he said, his voice soft. “Even when everything was falling apart, you held onto it.”

Astarion scoffed, though the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I wasn’t about to let it crack on the floor of that crumbling ruin...” he said. “I’d already carried it halfway out. No sense in dropping it then.” 

“I’ll keep it warm, well.. as much warmth that a dead body can give I suppose...” Astarion said after a long moment, his voice firm. “But if this thing hatches and decides I’m its parent, you’re all taking shifts caring for it...”

The others chuckled softy at his antics.

Lae’zel stood at the edge of the campfire’s light, her sharp gaze fixed on the egg in Astarion’s lap. Her expression was hard to read, but there was something in her posture—a stiffness, a hesitance—that betrayed her inner conflict.

Astarion noticed, of course.. “Do you want to say something, darling?” he asked, his tone light but tinged with curiosity. “Or are you content to stare a hole through my lap?”

Lae’zel’s eyes flicked to his face, her jaw tightening slightly. “That egg,” she said, her voice low and measured, “is still a Gith egg, even if it was deemed a failure.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his fingers brushing idly over the shell. Lae’zel stepped closer, her movements precise and slow. She stopped just short of the fire, her gaze dropping to the egg. “Failure,” she said quietly, her tone laced with bitterness, “is a word easily used to discard that which does not serve Vlakith’s purpose.”

The camp went silent, the weight of her words settling over the group. Even Karlach, usually quick with a joke, stayed quiet, her fiery gaze flicking between Lae’zel and the egg.

Astarion tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Lae’zel. “And yet you seem… interested in this ‘failure,’” he said, his voice softer now.

Lae’zel’s jaw clenched, her hand twitching at her side as though she wanted to reach out but didn’t quite dare. “I have been abandoned by Vlakith,” she said, her voice tight. “Labeled a traitor, cast aside like this egg. If it still moves, it is not a failure. It is… defiance.”

Astarion blinked, surprised by the raw emotion in her voice. He glanced down at the egg, his fingers tightening slightly around it. “Do you want to hold it?” he asked after a moment, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Lae’zel’s eyes snapped to his, her expression sharp, almost defensive. “I do not—” she started, but the words faltered as she looked at the egg again. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction. “Yes.” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I would.”

Astarion hesitated, then carefully lifted the egg and held it out to her. "I will not remind you to be gentle, but remember how strong you are darling." he said, though there was no mockery in his tone.

Lae’zel took the egg with both hands, her grip firm but careful. She cradled it close, her eyes scanning the surface as though searching for something hidden. The faint movements from within seemed to steady her, her expression softening in a way Astarion had never seen before.

“It still fights..” she murmured, almost to herself. 

Astarion watched her, his usual quips forgotten. There was something deeply vulnerable in the way Lae’zel held the egg, as though it were a mirror reflecting parts of herself she couldn’t quite face.

After a long moment, she handed it back to him, her movements slow, almost reluctant. “Keep it safe, Spawn.” she said, her voice steady but quieter than usual.

“I intend to.” Astarion replied, taking the egg and settling it back into his lap.

Lae’zel stepped back, her usual sharpness returning to her posture as she turned away. But for the rest of the evening, her eyes drifted toward the egg now and then.

Chapter Text

The camp was still, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across the rocky terrain. Astarion sat on watch, his crimson eyes scanning the dark horizon for movement. The others slept soundly—well, as soundly as one could after their chaotic escape from the creche.

The Gith egg rested in his bedroll, nestled in the folds of fabric as though it belonged there. Halsin, in his bear form, lay beside it, his massive body radiating warmth to keep the egg incubated. The sight was absurd, almost comical, and yet… Astarion couldn’t bring himself to laugh.

He didn’t know why he’d brought the egg with him. It would have been easier to leave it behind, safer even. It wasn’t his responsibility, and yet, here it was. Here he was, sitting by the fire and watching over it like some overprotective parent... watching over all of them.

“Ridiculous...” he muttered under his breath, leaning back against a rock. “I’m not sentimental. I’m pragmatic.”

But even as he said it, his thoughts betrayed him. His gaze drifted past the fire, where his pack rested along with the others. Inside, carefully tucked away, was the flower crown Wyll had made for him. It hadn’t wilted, the enchantment ensuring it remained as vibrant as the day it was given.

Oh, fuck.

The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. He was sentimental. A sentimental fool.

He groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. His thoughts inevitably wandered to Wyll, to the man sleeping close by—always so close. His bedroll was never far from Astarion’s now, his presence a steady comfort that Astarion didn’t quite know how to handle.

“That man...” Astarion muttered, his eyes flicking to Wyll’s sleeping form. Wyll looked so peaceful, his face softened by sleep, his skin and horns catching the faint glow of the firelight.

Astarion’s chest tightened, that maddening phantom beat returning as he stared. “That pretty man..” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “That stupid, infuriatingly kind, and sweet man.”

He sighed, his gaze lingering on Wyll for a moment longer before forcing himself to actually look away. The fire crackled softly, the egg shifted faintly on his bedroll, and Halsin let out a low, contented rumble in his sleep.

Astarion closed his eyes briefly, his fingers brushing against the hilt of one of his daggers. No... no, he wasn’t sentimental. Not really. He couldn’t afford to be. And yet, the weight of the crown in his pack and the warmth of the egg at his side told a different story.

“Fool..” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he meant himself or Wyll. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

The night stretched on, quiet and still, and Astarion kept watch, his thoughts a tangled web of contradictions he wasn’t quite ready to face.

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As the others finished their breakfast and began packing their gear, Astarion lingered near the fire, thankfully no one asked him to eat anymore. The thought of eating, of tasting anything other than Wyll’s blood, turned his stomach in all the most horrible ways...

Lae’zel approached him, her sharp gaze falling on the egg resting snugly in his arms. “That egg.” she said, her tone firm but devoid of its usual bite, “Should be carried in your side bag. It would leave your hands free should you need to draw your weapon, Spawn.”

Astarion glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “Practical as always, Lae’zel.” he said lightly, though he noted the way her posture had shifted over the past day—less rigid, more… subdued.

He hadn’t forgotten the confrontation at the creche, the way she’d seemed so willing to abandon them for what the Inquisitor had demanded. It was only through His... well mostly Wyll’s intervention—and perhaps the faintest flicker of trust in the group—that she’d stayed. Now, she seemed quieter, her fire banked but still smouldering beneath the surface. She was subdued, yes, but he wasn’t foolish enough to comment on it. He liked his head exactly where it was, thank you very much.

“Fine.” Astarion said after a moment, carefully transferring the egg into his side bag. “But if it hatches and imprints on me, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Lae’zel snorted faintly, more like her usual self, and turned away without a word.

As he adjusted the strap of his bag, Wyll stepped close, his presence a steady warmth that Astarion found himself leaning into. The Blade’s gaze flicked to the egg, then to Astarion, his expression thoughtful.

“Do you need to feed?” Wyll asked softly, his voice low enough that only Astarion could hear.

The question made Astarion pause. His crimson eyes met Wyll’s, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them. Wyll’s face was calm, kind, as always, but there was no hesitation in his offer.

Out here, in the open, with the others bustling around them, it was a vulnerability Astarion wasn’t sure he wanted to expose. He knew what he was like when he fed—the sounds, the movements, the way Wyll’s blood made his body feel too alive, too needy. He couldn’t let the others see that.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I don’t want the others to see me like.. like that.” he admitted, the words quiet but firm.

Wyll flushed at that, a faint pink creeping up his cheeks, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he nodded, his gaze steady. “If you change your mind.” he said softly, “I’m here.”

They stood close, shoulders brushing as their eyes locked. Astarion could feel the warmth radiating off Wyll, the quiet strength in just his presence by his side. It was grounding, soothing in a way he against his better judgement, had come to crave.

And then the moment shattered.

Lae’zel’s sharp voice cut through the air, announcing that she was ready, and the others began to gather, their movements signalling the start of their journey. The camp buzzed with renewed energy as bedrolls were secured and packs hoisted.

Astarion stepped back, the connection between him and Wyll broken by the sudden flurry of activity around them. He adjusted his bag, the weight of the egg a reassuring presence at his side as his hand settled over it.

“Shall we?” he said lightly, his usual charm slipping back into place as he gestured toward the path ahead.

Wyll gaze on him lingered for a moment longer, his eye taking him in, before he too nodded and fell into step beside him. As the group set off toward the Grove, the weight of unspoken words and shared glances hung between them, a quiet thread tying them together amidst the chaos of their journey.

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The group trudged back along the familiar path, their footsteps crunching softly against the dirt as they passed through the remnants of the village where they had once fought goblins on the way to find and free Halsin. The air was still and heavy, the village walls looming like silent sentinels. It felt like a lifetime ago, though in truth, it hadn’t been that long at all.

Astarion’s sharp senses caught it first. A faint, acrid scent on the wind—decay and death. His steps faltered, his crimson eyes narrowing as he tilted his head, catching the faint sound of whimpers.

“Wait..” he said, raising a hand to halt the group. His voice was low but firm, his gaze darting toward the village walls. “I smell something. Decay. And… I hear whimpering, I'm not sure if it is an animal or..” He gestured toward a trail that wound along the village walls, away from the bridge they were about to cross.

The others exchanged glances, their postures tensing as they instinctively reached for their weapons.

“A survivor?” Karlach asked, her voice tinged with concern.

“Or a trap...” Lae’zel muttered, her eyes narrowing.

Wyll stepped forward, his expression resolute. “Someone might be in trouble,” he said. “We should at least check.”

Astarion said nothing, his hand instinctively resting on the top of his side bag. The egg was secure, wrapped snugly in the enchanted blanket, but its weight was a constant reminder of his unusual burden. Most of his complaints about carrying it were exaggerated, of course—he could manage it easily enough. Still, the feeling of responsibility was heavier than the physical weight of the egg itself.

They followed the trail cautiously, weapons drawn, their senses alert. The whimpers grew louder, accompanied by a heart-wrenching whine.

As they rounded a bend, the source of the sound came into view. A white dog sat near a crumpled human figure on the ground, its body trembling as it let out soft, pitiful whines. Around its neck was a worn leather collar with a nameplate that read Scratch.

The smell of decay hit them full force, confirming what they already suspected. The human lying on the ground was long past saving, their body twisted unnaturally, wounds deep and vicious.

Astarion’s nose wrinkled at the scent, but his crimson eyes softened as they fell on the dog. “Oh, poor wretched thing..” he murmured, his usual sharpness giving way to an unexpected gentleness.

The dog looked up at them, its ears pinning back as it let out a low growl, protective but tinged with fear. It shifted closer to the body, seemingly unwilling to leave it or let them any closer to it.

Halsin stepped forward, his presence calm and unthreatening. “Stay back.” he said softly, glancing at the others before closing his eyes.

A moment later, his form shifted in a spray of golden magic, fur sprouting as he shrank and transformed into a large, sleek cat. The group watched in silence as Halsin approached the dog, his movements slow. 

The dog tensed at first, but then Halsin sat down, his feline body relaxed as he let out a low, soothing meow. Whatever he was “saying.” it seemed to reach the dog, whose growls subsided into quiet soft whimpers. The two animals exchanged movements and sounds, an conversation passing between them that the others were not privy to.

After a few moments, Halsin transformed back, his golden eyes heavy with sorrow as he knelt by the dog. He gently stroked its head, his voice soft as he spoke to the group.

“The human was attacked by gnolls.” he said. “Scratch doesn’t want to leave, but I explained that his owner won’t wake.”

The dog pressed itself against Halsin’s side, its body trembling as it let out a mournful whine.

“We can’t just leave him here..” Karlach said, her fiery gaze softening as she looked at the dog. “He’s all alone now...”

Astarion sighed, glancing down at the egg in his bag, then at the dog. “We seem to be collecting strays...” he said, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Wyll knelt beside the dog, his hand outstretched. Scratch sniffed it cautiously before nudging it with his nose. Wyll smiled softly, stroking the dog’s head. “We will bring him with us.” he said. “He’ll be safer with us than out here on his own. Dogs are good animals.”

The group mostly nodded in agreement, and Scratch wagged his tail faintly, his eyes still sad but hopeful as he looked up at them.

Astarion sighed again, rolling his eyes for dramatic effect as he reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “Fine-” he said. “But if he starts chewing on my things, I’m blaming you, Wyll.”

Wyll chuckled, his warm gaze flicking to Astarion. “Noted.” he said.

Scratch padded along beside Astarion and Wyll, his tail wagging faintly as if trying to make sense of his new companions. Astarion, for his part, wasn’t sure how he felt about the dog’s sudden attachment. He wasn’t exactly a dog person, or any kind of person, for that matter. And yet, here they all were, collecting strays like it was their calling.

It had started with just him and Lae’zel, after all. Two people forced together by circumstance and survival. Then the rest had come, one by one—a band of stray, tadpoled individuals united under the strangest of banners.

And then there was Halsin. He didn’t even have his own tadpole to deal with but had tagged along anyway, his self-appointed mission to clear the darkness or whatever intertwining with theirs. Astarion hadn’t paid much attention to the druid’s motives at first, too busy focusing on hiding his own condition, saving himself in a way.

Now, though, he found himself part of this ever-growing, chaotic group, trudging along the path back to the Grove with a dog nearly tripping him up for the hundredth time.

“Honestly...” Astarion muttered, stopping abruptly as Scratch veered into his path again. He looked down at the dog, who gazed back at him with pleading eyes, his tail wagging.

Astarion sighed dramatically, his free hand dipping down to pat the dog on the head. “Fine.” he said, his tone exasperated but not unkind.

Scratch’s eyes lit up, his tongue lolling out in delight as he licked Astarion’s hand.

“Ugh..” Astarion groaned, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “Why are it's eyes so pleading? They’re like Gale’s. Big, brown, and perpetually sad. Although, I suppose Gale drools more.” he said and smiled.

Gale, who was walking just ahead with Karlach, sputtered indignantly, his head whipping around to glare at Astarion. “I do not drool!” he said, his tone haughty.

Karlach burst out laughing, her fiery eyes bright with amusement. “You kind of do, Gale, remember when we found that cache of books and scrolls?” she teased, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve got that pleading dog energy down pat.”

“Look who’s talking!” Gale retorted, his indignation fading into a soft smile. “You’re the one with the happy dog energy, bounding around with those big fiery eyes of yours.”

Karlach threw her head back and laughed, the sound hearty and unapologetic.

Lae’zel huffed loudly, crossing her arms as she walked behind them. “One pair of pining idiots is enough.” she said, her sharp tone cutting through the banter.

The implication wasn’t subtle, and Wyll flushed slightly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t lump me in with those two.” Astarion said, lifting his chin. “I’ll flirt with whoever I like, thank you very much.”

Scratch chose that moment to lick Astarion’s hand again, his tail wagging furiously.

“Ugh, stop that mutt...” Astarion muttered, though he made no effort to pull his hand away.

From the back of the group, Halsin and Shadowheart chuckled softly, their mirth carrying faintly on the breeze.

As the group continued walking, the strange camaraderie among them felt almost comforting, despite the teasing and bickering. Astarion glanced down at Scratch, whose loyalty was already becoming apparent, and then over at Wyll, whose warmth and steadiness were… maddening.

Yes, this was a band of strays and misfits, but it was his band of strays now, and he supposed he could, at the very least, tolerate them.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the glade outside the Grove, the sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the familiar clearing. The dirt bore faint imprints of where their tents had been before they’d packed up to head into the Underdark. It felt almost surreal to return, as though they were retracing steps from another life.

Setting up camp again was a strangely comforting routine, each member of the group moving with practiced efficiency. Gale, ever the magician both figuratively and literally, retrieved the bulk of their supplies from his bag of holding, the enchanted pouch bottomless.

“Gale...” Astarion said, watching the wizard pull out yet another rolled-up tent with an expression that was part curiosity and part exasperation, “Have you ever considered a career as a traveling merchant? You’d make a fortune with that thing.”

Gale chuckled, unfurling a bedroll with a flick of his wrist. “If this whole saving-the-world business doesn’t pan out, I’ll keep that in mind, my friend.”

Karlach laughed as she hoisted her tent poles into place, her movements as quick and efficient as always. “You’d have to stop giving everything away for free, Gale.” she teased. “You’re far too nice for the cutthroat world of commerce.”

“Too nice, am I?” Gale retorted, though his tone was warm. “I’ll have you know I’ve bartered with the best of them. You’d be surprised at how persuasive I can be.”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes from where she was setting up her own tent. “Yes, nothing says intimidation like a man with a bag of holding full of books and cookware.”

Astarion smirked, glancing at Wyll, who was carefully setting up his tent nearby. “And what about you, Blade?” he asked, his tone teasing. “Any hidden merchant skills we should know about?”

Wyll grinned, not looking up as he hammered a stake into the ground. “Not unless you count being a bit stupid and bargaining with devils.” he said lightly.

Astarion’s smirk faltered for a moment before he quickly recovered, his expression softening slightly. “I suppose that’s one market I wouldn’t mind avoiding.”

As the camp slowly took shape, the group settled into a rhythm, their movements familiar and easy. The glade, bathed in the warm hues of sunset, felt like a quiet reprieve after the chaos of the creche and the Underdark they would soon return to.

Astarion glanced at his side bag, where the egg was still safely nestled in its enchanted blanket. He hadn’t let it out of his sight all day, had kept it close, much to his own annoyance. Sentimental fool, he thought, though the warmth in his chest told a different story.

Nearby, Scratch wagged his tail as he circled Wyll’s feet, earning a chuckle from the man. Astarion watched them for a moment, his gaze lingering on Wyll’s easy smile and the way the golden light caught in his horns just so. How it seemed even the sun favoured him now with the way the light played against his skin..

He shook his head, turning back to his own tent. “Stupid man..” he muttered under his breath. “Stupid, infuriatingly pretty man...”

The camp was ready soon enough, the fire crackling in the centre as the group gathered around it to prepare for the evening meal. It wasn’t perfect Astarion thought, but for the first time in a while, it... well it felt like home to him, in some weird way.

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Astarion’s tent was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the campfire filtering through the dark fabric walls. The egg rested snugly atop a pile of his blankets and pillows, swaddled in its enchanted warmth. He had been reading poetry to it—though he would vehemently deny that fact if anyone asked. The soft cadence of his voice had filled the space, a ridiculous attempt at soothing something that probably didn’t care for his melodious tones or the poetry from Lenore's tower.

The sound of the tent flap shifting pulled his attention, and he looked up to see Wyll stepping inside. The Blade’s presence was as steady as ever, but there was a faint blush dusting his cheeks that made Astarion’s chest tighten.

Wyll stood just inside the entrance, his posture a mix of confidence and hesitation. The dim light played over his features, accentuating the curve of his horns and the faint flush in his cheeks.

“Astarion.” he began softly, his voice steady but tinged with nervousness. “I thought… well, since we have the privacy of the tents now, if you’d like to feed…”

Astarion tilted his head, his crimson eyes glinting in the darkness. “How thoughtful of you, darling,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “I won’t say no to your delectable blood, of course. But truly, I can hunt if needed now. No need to waste your blood on me.”

Wyll shook his head, stepping closer as he sat down. “It isn’t a waste.” he said firmly, though his voice softened as he continued. “I want to help. And… well, it’s nice having you close. I... like it.”

The flush in Wyll’s cheeks deepened as he spoke, and Astarion found himself momentarily speechless, his teasing retort caught in his throat. Instead, he watched as Wyll tilted his neck, exposing his skin in a silent invitation.

“Oh, you make it far too easy for me..” Astarion murmured, a sly smile curving his lips. He moved closer, his fingers lightly grazing Wyll’s jaw. “But tell me, darling… are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something a bit more… intimate?”

Wyll’s brows furrowed in confusion for half a moment before Astarion added, his voice a low, sinful purr, “After all, I’ve mentioned feeding from your thigh before haven't I?” Astarion wanted to tease, to make Wyll blush like he had all the other times he had offered this.

Wyll’s blush deepened to a crimson that rivalled Astarion’s eyes, and he stammered, his words barely audible. “I-I wouldn’t mind...”

Astarion froze. For a moment, all his usual composure evaporated, leaving him staring at Wyll as his mind conjured vivid, tantalizing imagery. Wyll, flushed and needy, under him as he nipped and finally sank his fangs into that tender flesh, so close to the the man's straining co—

“Oh, gods-” Astarion groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as if to banish the thoughts. “You cannot just say things like that... Do you have any idea what mental images you’ve just unleashed on me?”

Wyll, to his credit, managed to meet Astarion’s gaze despite his own embarrassment. “Well… you keep teasing me about it..” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “And.. I really.. well I wouldn’t mind.”

Astarion’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as Wyll’s words sent a fresh wave of want coursing through him. “You are going to be the death of me… again.” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against Wyll’s ear as he whispered, “If you remove those pants, Wyll, I’m sure I can't stop myself from simply having you...”

Wyll’s breath caught, his body stilling as his fingers flexed nervously at his sides. The weight of his words and the tension between them hung thick in the air.

This man, this stupid, infuriatingly sweet man, was going to unravel him completely.

Astarion tried to keep his composure. He really did. But his body betrayed him—his stomach fluttering, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he moved closer to Wyll. Every kind word, every understanding look, every maddening blush that painted Wyll’s cheeks had slowly been eroding the walls he had so carefully built around himself.

Damn him, Astarion thought.

Wyll was looking at him now, his gaze soft and steady, and whatever he saw in Astarion’s eyes made him smile. A small, genuine smile that twisted something deep in Astarion’s chest.

When Wyll tilted his neck again, offering himself with such trust and quiet confidence, Astarion’s resolve crumbled. Wyll had said he liked him close, and when Astarion fed, there was no avoiding closeness.

He moved, straddling Wyll’s lap as his hands rested lightly over the man's shoulders. His fangs grazed the tender skin of Wyll’s neck, and he could feel the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his lips.

As he bit down, the warmth of Wyll’s blood flooded his senses, rich and intoxicating. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him, as his hips started moving against Wyll in slow rolls.

Wyll’s hands came up then, resting on Astarion’s back. They weren’t forceful or demanding, just steady and warm, grounding him in a way that made his heart—or the phantom ache of it—clench.

Astarion drank deeply, his movements becoming more deliberate as he pressed closer, impossibly closer. The faintest tremor ran through Wyll, and then Astarion felt it—a matching hardness pressing against him.

He groaned, the sound vibrating against Wyll’s skin as he shifted his hips again, this time with purpose. His hands moved to Wyll’s shoulders, gripping them as though to anchor himself against the storm of sensations coursing through him.

Wyll’s breathing hitched, his hands flexing slightly on Astarion’s back but never pushing, never forcing. He was just there, a steady, unshakable presence that only made Astarion’s movements more fevered.

The taste of Wyll’s blood, the feel of his body, the warmth of him, his hands—it was all too much and not enough. Astarion pulled back slightly, his crimson eyes meeting Wyll’s as his lips hovered just above his neck.

“Wyll.” he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. “You… you undo me.”

Wyll smiled again, softer this time, his own voice a quiet murmur. “Then let me please.”

Astarion shuddered, his resolve shattering completely as he leaned in, pressing his lips to Wyll’s with a fervour that spoke of months—no, years...no a century—of longing finally unleashed.

The kiss was a revelation.

Astarion had imagined this moment countless times, though he would never have admitted it. He had thought about Wyll’s lips, wondered if they would be as warm and soft as they looked. Now he knew—and they were so much more. Sweet, yielding, and impossibly wonderful, they seemed to steal the very breath from him that he didn’t need to take.

This wasn’t a calculated move, not part of his usual repertoire of charm and manipulation. No, this had been instinctual, born from the heat coursing through his veins and the ache in his chest that had finally become too much to bear.

Wyll responded immediately, his hands tightening ever so slightly on Astarion’s back as he made a sound—soft and full of pleasure—that sent a bolt of desire straight to Astarion’s already straining cock. Gods, Astarion thought, his body tightening at the sound. The heat in his stomach pooled lower, and his already aching cock throbbed painfully against the constraints of his pants.

He deepened the kiss, his lips parting to take more, his fangs grazing Wyll’s lower lip in a way that made the other man shiver. Wyll’s warmth surrounded him, his scent—spiced and earthy—filling his senses until there was nothing else.

Astarion’s hands roamed, one sliding up to cradle Wyll’s jaw while the other rested on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his palm. It was intoxicating, the way Wyll’s body responded to him, so open and trusting...

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into Wyll’s face. His crimson eyes searched the other man’s features, drinking in the flush on his cheeks, the slight parting of his lips, the way his eye glimmered with something that could only be described as want.

“You’re…” Astarion began, his voice low and rough. He swallowed hard, his usual eloquence failing him in the face of this man who had undone him so thoroughly.

“You are so handsome,” Astarion whispered, his voice reverent, each word wrapped in tenderness.

Wyll looked at him then, his single crimson eye searching, as if trying to find the truth in Astarion’s words. Astarion recognized that look—the doubt, the uncertainty. He had seen it in others before, but seeing it in Wyll stirred something deep within him.

The changes to Wyll’s body, the horns, the eye, the subtle otherworldly glow about him—he had not yet come to terms with them. Astarion could see the way Wyll carried himself, the quiet hesitation, the lingering insecurity.

But Astarion would show him. He would make sure Wyll understood just how desirable he was, how utterly captivating he had always been.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Astarion murmured, his lips brushing against Wyll’s as he spoke. “How you leave me breathless with just a glance. How my chest aches when you smile, even if it’s not for me. How maddeningly perfect you are...”

Wyll’s flush deepened, his body shivering faintly at Astarion’s words. “Astarion…” he began, but whatever protest or disbelief he intended was silenced as Astarion leaned in.

The vampire’s lips pressed against Wyll’s in the softest of kisses, barely more than a whisper of contact. He kissed him again, and again, each peck tender and deliberate, as though savouring the taste of him.

Astarion’s fangs grazed Wyll’s lips in playful nibbles, each one sending a shiver through the man beneath him. And then, finally, Astarion deepened the kiss. His mouth moved against Wyll’s with slow, deliberate passion, his hands cupping Wyll’s jaw to hold him close.

It was only then, as their breaths mingled and the world seemed to fade away, that Wyll’s hands began to move.

They started hesitantly, brushing over Astarion’s back, the touch tentative but growing bolder with each passing moment. Soon, Wyll’s hands were roaming, one sliding down to rest at Astarion’s waist while the other tangled in his hair, pulling him closer still as they kissed.

Astarion moaned softly against Wyll’s lips, the sound low and needy, his hips shifting instinctively against Wyll’s as his body responded to the man’s touch. Wyll’s response was wordless, a deep hum of agreement as he pressed Astarion even closer, their bodies fitting together as though they had always been meant to.

Astarion’s body moved instinctively, the same rhythm that always overtook him when he fed—a slow, deliberate grind of his hips. But this time, it wasn’t just hunger driving him. It was Wyll.

Wyll’s hand slid down to Astarion’s hip, strong and steady, and for the first time, he didn’t just follow Astarion’s lead—he urged him on. His grip was firm but not demanding, his fingers pressing into Astarion’s flesh as he began to move with him.

The friction was maddening, exquisite in its simplicity. Astarion’s hips rolled against Wyll’s, their bodies finding an unspoken rhythm that left both of them breathless.

Wyll let out a low, strangled moan, his head falling back slightly as Astarion leaned in, his lips brushing against his throat. The sound sent a jolt of heat straight through Astarion, making him shudder.

“Wyll…” Astarion whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of Wyll’s throat, his lips lingering there for a moment before trailing up to his jaw. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Wyll’s only response was to tighten his grip on Astarion’s hip, guiding his movements as their hips pressed together more insistently. His other hand moved to Astarion’s back, holding him close, steady and grounding even as their breaths came faster, mingling in the charged air between them.

Astarion moaned softly, the sound vibrating against Wyll’s skin as he nipped at his jawline. His own hands roamed, one tangling in Wyll’s hair while the other gripped his shoulder.

The heat between was building, and Astarion could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his core. Every brush of Wyll’s body against his own, every sound the man made, only pushed him closer to the edge.

They moved together, rutting against one another with a desperate urgency that left no room for thought, only feeling. The moment was raw, unfiltered, and Astarion found himself entirely lost in it, in Wyll.

“Perfect..” Astarion murmured, his lips brushing against Wyll’s ear as his movements grew more frantic. “You’re utterly perfect.”

Wyll’s answering groan was all Astarion needed to hear, the sound wrapping around him and pulling him under, deeper into the intoxicating haze of want and need that consumed them both.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of their movements was intoxicating, their bodies pressed so close that Astarion could feel every shift, every shudder of pleasure that coursed through Wyll. The sound of Wyll’s breathless moans was like a drug, each one making Astarion’s need for him grow, his body burning with want.

He murmured between their movements, his voice low and filled with an unguarded sincerity that surprised even himself. “You’re so beautiful… so kind… so perfect, my dear Wyll. I want you. Gods, how I want you.”

Wyll’s hands held him closer, steady and unrelenting as though afraid to let him go. His lips found the curve of Astarion’s neck, leaving a trail of kisses that made the vampire shudder and groan, his hips grinding against Wyll’s in desperate, hungry motions.

Their mouths found each other again, lips parting as tongues slid together, deepening the connection between them. The kiss was heated, full of longing and something more—something neither dared put into words just yet.

Astarion broke the kiss just enough to speak, his voice trembling with desire. “What do you want, Wyll?” he asked softly. “Do you want to keep going like this… or something more intimate?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy with meaning, and Astarion felt the heat rising to his cheeks. He knew what he wanted, what he had wanted for what felt like an eternity. But this wasn’t just about him. Whatever Wyll wanted to give him, he would take. He would wait, no matter how much his body begged him now to do otherwise.

Wyll’s hands stilled for a moment, his head dipping so their foreheads pressed together. “Astarion..” he murmured, his voice quiet but full of emotion. “If… if we do something more intimate, I want it to be on a proper bed. In a room we can lock. Somewhere we won’t be overheard or... or interrupted.”

Astarion froze, his brain momentarily short-circuiting as he processed the words. Wyll’s gaze stayed steady, his warmth grounding as he continued.

“I want to take my time with you.” Wyll said, his tone soft and earnest. “To love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

The weight of those words hit Astarion like a bolt of lightning. For a moment, all he could do was stare, his mouth slightly open as if to speak but no sound escaping.

“You… want to stop?” he finally managed, his voice quieter than he intended.

Whatever expression he wore must have said more than his words because Wyll leaned in and kissed him again, slow and deep, pouring his desire into the motion.

When they broke apart, Wyll’s eye searched Astarion’s face, his own expression filled with longing. “Stopping is the last thing I want...” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I want you so badly it hurts. I’ve wanted you for so long... But you deserve more than a thin bedroll on the cold ground.”

Astarion’s voice hitched, his hands tightening slightly on Wyll’s shoulders as he struggled to process the sheer tenderness of the words. His lips parted as though to respond, but instead, he kissed Wyll again, his heart—if it had been capable of beating— was feeling as though it might burst.

“You’re going to ruin me..” he whispered against Wyll’s lips, his voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and affection. “You already have I suppose.”

Wyll smiled softly, his hands sliding up to cup Astarion’s face, his touch so gentle it made Astarion’s chest ache. “Good.” Wyll murmured. “Then we’re even.”

Astarion laughed quietly, though it was tinged with a raw, unspoken vulnerability.

Astarion's crimson eyes roamed over Wyll, drinking in the sight of him. The transformation wrought by breaking his pact had left its marks, some obvious, some subtle, but what lay before him now was utterly mesmerizing. His gaze lingered, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he truly took in Wyll’s hard cock.

“Oh, my dear Wyll..” Astarion murmured, his voice soft and low, laden with desire as his hand moved closer. He let his fingers trail teasingly along Wyll’s length, exploring the ridges that had was placed along his shaft, starting just under the glans. The texture was fascinating, unlike anything he’d touched before, and the way Wyll shivered under his touch only made Astarion’s hunger for him burn hotter. His fingers wrapped around Wyll fully, his grip firm but careful, as though savouring the sensation. Slowly, he let his hand glide along Wyll’s cock, dragging the skin down just enough to expose the head of him. The sight was enough to make Astarion’s own cock ache, and a soft, almost involuntary moan escaped his lips.

“You’re mouth watering...” he whispered, his words tumbling out before he could process what he was saying. His hand continued its slow motions, his thumb brushing over the seemingly sensitive ridges, eliciting a gasp from Wyll.

Leaning forward, Astarion brought his lips close to Wyll’s ear, his voice dropping into a heated murmur. “Do you know what I’m thinking, darling?” he asked, his tone playful yet dripping with want. “I’m thinking about how perfect you’ll feel inside me. How I’m going to take this glorious cock of yours the first chance we get. I ache to feel these ridges drag against me...”

Wyll let out a shaky breath, his body tensing under Astarion’s touch. “A-Astarion-” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as his eye squeezed shut, his hand reaching out to grip Astarion’s thigh.

Astarion smirked, leaning back just enough to catch Wyll’s gaze. “What’s the matter, my love?” he teased, though his voice was soft, lacking its usual sharp edge. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been on the receiving end of such promises?”

Wyll’s flush deepened, and his hand tightened on Astarion’s thigh. “Not ah- like this.” he admitted, his voice rough, his eye locked on Astarion’s with a mixture of desire and awe.

“Then let me show you..” Astarion whispered, his hand continuing its slow, purposeful strokes. “...how much I want you.”

Every word was a promise—a promise of more, of intimacy and desire that went far beyond the confines of merely this moment. Astarion could feel Wyll trembling beneath him, and the thought that he had reduced the noble, unshakable Blade of Frontiers to this state only made him want him more.

Wyll’s breathing grew heavier, his gaze flickering between Astarion’s face and the pale, aching cock in front of him. It was as though he suddenly remembered that he was allowed to touch, and his hand reached out tentatively.

At first, his fingers brushed lightly over Astarion, sending a shiver through the vampire’s entire body. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, Wyll wrapped his hand fully around Astarion’s length, the contrast of his heat against Astarion’s cool skin sending sparks of pleasure coursing through him.

Astarion couldn’t stop the sound that escaped his lips—a soft, needy mewl that made Wyll’s breath hitch. His hips jerked slightly into Wyll’s grip, and his free hand came up to clutch at Wyll’s shoulder, as if grounding himself against the onslaught of sensation.

“Oh, gods..” Astarion whispered, his voice trembling with pleasure. 

Wyll’s movements started slowly, his hand exploring Astarion’s cock with growing confidence. The warmth of his touch was intoxicating, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head before gliding back down.

Astarion’s own hand tightened around Wyll, his strokes quickening as he worked over the ridges that had fascinated him earlier. He could feel Wyll’s cock twitch under his touch, hear the soft, breathy groans spilling from his lips, and it only spurred him on.

He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Wyll’s, their breaths mingling as his hand moved faster. “You feel incredible..” Astarion murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I adore this. I adore you.”

Wyll let out a low, shuddering groan, his grip on Astarion’s cock tightening slightly as he began to match his pace. His hand was firm yet careful, and each stroke drew soft moans from Astarion, the sound filling the small, dark tent like music.

They moved together, their hands working each other toward the edge, the connection between them deeper than just the physical. It was raw and unguarded, the kind of closeness Astarion hadn’t dared to let himself imagine in far too long.

“Wyll-” Astarion gasped, his hips jerking forward as he felt his release building, his hand never faltering on Wyll’s cock. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Wyll’s own breathing was ragged now, his hand tightening slightly around Astarion as he moved with growing confidence. Astarion could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the flush spreading down his neck and across his chest.

Their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the close space, each of them utterly consumed by the other. Astarion’s hand worked faster over Wyll’s cock, his strokes matched to the erratic rhythm of his own desire. He couldn’t help the soft, desperate sounds spilling from his lips, each one a testament to how deeply Wyll had undone him.

“You’re… magnificent,” Astarion murmured, his voice shaky and breathless. His other hand moved to Wyll’s cheek, his thumb brushing against the soft skin there as he leaned in for a kiss. Their mouths met in a heated clash of lips and tongues, the kiss messy and unrestrained, but perfect in its raw passion.

Wyll groaned into the kiss, his hand on Astarion moving faster, his grip firm and sure as he chased both of their pleasures. “Astarion,” he gasped when their lips broke apart, his voice low and needy. “You’re— gods, you’re so beautiful like this.”

The praise sent a fresh wave of heat through Astarion, his hips jerking into Wyll’s hand. His strokes on Wyll’s cock became almost frantic, his fingers brushing over the ridges and teasing the sensitive head with every movement.

“I want to see you,” Astarion whispered, his voice trembling with anticipation. “I want to see you fall apart for me.”

Wyll’s eye fluttered shut, his head tipping back slightly as a deep groan tore from his throat. His body trembled under Astarion’s touch, the tension coiling tighter with every stroke.

Astarion was close too, his own release building fast, the pleasure coursing through him like fire. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against Wyll’s ear as he whispered, “Come for me... Let me see you.”

Wyll’s breath hitched, and with a shuddering moan, his body tensed, his release spilling over Astarion’s hand. The sight, the sound, the sheer feeling of Wyll coming undone for him was enough to send Astarion over the edge.

He cried out softly, his body arching as his own climax overtook him, his release mixing with Wyll’s as their hands slowed, their movements gentle now in the aftermath.

They stayed like that for a moment, their breaths mingling, their bodies pressed close. Astarion let out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead resting against Wyll’s as he looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Well..” he said, his voice still trembling slightly. “ I cannot wait to see what happens when we have that proper bed of yours.”

Wyll flushed deeply, but he smiled, his hand brushing over Astarion’s cheek. “I’ll make sure it’s worth the wait..” he murmured, his voice soft and filled with quiet promise.

Astarion’s smirk softened into something warmer, something more real, as he leaned in to steal another kiss. “I have no doubt, darling,” he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of trust he hadn’t thought himself capable of giving.

Chapter Text

The kiss they shared in the aftermath was slow, languid, and filled with something deeper than just pleasure. Astarion hummed against Wyll’s lips, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the lingering taste of him. He felt pleasantly light, his body humming with satisfaction, his limbs relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in centuries.

When they finally pulled apart, Astarion couldn’t help but smirk as he glanced down at the mess they had made between them. “Well, my dear Blade,” he purred, amusement lacing his voice. “You’ve certainly left your mark on me.”

Wyll let out a soft chuckle, his eye flickering over Astarion’s flushed face before trailing lower. His blush deepened when he took in the sight of Astarion’s spent cock, the evidence of their release smeared across both of them. “You’re one to talk,” Wyll murmured, a shy but pleased smile tugging at his lips.

Astarion tilted his head, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over Wyll’s chest as he chuckled. “Mm, I suppose we’ll call it mutual destruction, then.” he mused, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Wyll laughed, low and warm, and Astarion felt his chest tighten at the sound. Gods, how he adored him.

As the moment stretched between them, reality began to creep back in—the distant sounds of the camp, the knowledge that at any moment Karlach or Gale could barge in without warning. Astarion sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the bedroll with an exaggerated pout.

“As much as I’d love to stay tangled up with you, darling, I do believe we are in desperate need of cleaning up...” he drawled, gesturing at the sticky mess between them. “And unfortunately, our accommodations lack a proper bath.”

Wyll grinned, rolling onto his side so he could prop his head up on one hand. “We do have a river not far from camp,” he pointed out, his tone teasing. “I’m sure if we’re quick, we won’t scandalize the entire party.”

Astarion gasped, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Me? Scandalize them? Wyll, you wound me.”

Wyll raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Karlach would cheer. Shadowheart might roll her eyes. Gale would probably faint.”

Astarion snorted. “And Halsin would offer to join us, no doubt.”

Wyll groaned, running a hand down his face. 

Laughing, Astarion reached for the cloth he kept tucked in his tent for situations just like this. He tossed one to Wyll before taking another to clean himself up, humming as he did so.

Once they were both somewhat presentable, Astarion reached for his shirt, but before he could slip it on, Wyll caught his wrist.

Astarion looked at him, brow arched, and Wyll hesitated for a brief moment before murmuring, “Stay with me tonight.”

The words were simple, quiet, but they sent a warmth through Astarion that had nothing to do with blood. His smirk softened, his fingers curling around Wyll’s wrist in return.

“I suppose I could be convinced...” Astarion murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against Wyll’s once more before he pulled Wyll with him.

Astarion crouched at the edge of the river, eyeing the gently moving water with suspicion. He extended one pale finger, hesitantly dipping it in. When his skin didn’t immediately sizzle or blacken, he let out a soft sigh of relief. Still safe, then.

He could technically bathe now without issue, but something in him always hesitated when it came to running water. It was an old fear, ingrained deep, a relic of his undead nature—one he had tested before after getting the damn tadpole, but never fully shaken.

Straightening, he cast a glance toward Wyll, who was already undressing, looking entirely too at ease with this. Astarion sighed dramatically. “Lovely. Just lovely. It’s freezing.”

Wyll chuckled, kicking off his boots as he prepared to wade in. “It’s a little chilly, sure,” he admitted, stepping forward until the water lapped around his calves. “But it’s not freezing.”

Astarion huffed. “Easy for you to say, darling. You’re practically boiling at all times.”

Wyll grinned at him, and gods, he had no right to look that good with his tunic unlaced, his broad chest catching the faint moonlight. “I’ll warm you up after,” he promised, his voice rich with amusement.

Astarion knew Wyll probably meant sharing body heat under the blankets—perhaps curling up close in their bedrolls for warmth—but his mind immediately betrayed him, diving straight into the filthiest depths of the gutter.

Heat rose in his cheeks before he could stop it, his entire body flushing as he imagined Wyll’s hands really warming him, his mouth pressing against his chilled skin, his body pinning Astarion down—

Oh, for the love of the gods.

Astarion turned away sharply, as if the river itself had personally offended him. “Wicked man,” he muttered, yanking off his own shirt before quickly stepping into the water.

It was cold.

Not unbearably so, but enough to make him tense as the chill seeped into his skin. He moved quickly, ducking under and resurfacing with a sharp inhale, running his hands through his wet curls before hastily scrubbing himself down.

Wyll, standing waist-deep a few feet away, chuckled at Astarion’s obvious discomfort. “I thought you liked dramatic things,” he teased. “This is very brooding hero bathing in a cold mountain stream.”

Astarion shot him a look. “Gale is the brooding hero. I’m the irresistible scoundrel who deserves warm baths, scented oils, and a soft bed with silk sheets.” He scrubbed at his arms and chest before giving another exaggerated sigh. “I swear, this is the most suffering I’ve done since meeting you people.”

Wyll laughed, shaking his head. “You’ll survive,” he said, wading over toward Astarion, who was making quick work of his washing as if he could escape the water through sheer willpower alone.

Astarion shot him a narrow look. “I better be properly warmed after this, Blade,” he murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something unmistakably heated.

Wyll’s expression flickered, his eye darkening just a fraction before he smiled, reaching out to brush a stray curl from Astarion’s face. “I always keep my promises,” he said, voice just as soft.

Astarion’s stomach flipped, his fingers tightening slightly at his sides. Gods damn him.

Astarion took a deep breath—an old habit, unnecessary but ingrained—and let himself sink beneath the water. It was quiet down here, the cold pressing in around him, numbing the heat Wyll had stirred under his skin. He scrubbed quickly, running his fingers through his now-loose curls, knowing they’d be a mess later but not caring. He just wanted to be done.

When he resurfaced, he wasted no time making his way to the river’s edge, wringing water from his pale hair as he climbed onto the bank. He didn’t think twice about turning his back to Wyll, too focused on getting dry and out of the miserable chill.

Wyll, still waist-deep in the water, had been admiring the way droplets clung to Astarion’s pale skin, catching the moonlight like scattered diamonds—until his gaze fell on the markings carved into his back.

The breath left Wyll’s lungs, a deep, sinking feeling settling in his stomach.

It wasn’t just a scar. It was script.

And not just any script.

Infernal.

Wyll knew the twisting, curling language all too well—had seen it inked into his own contract, in the fine print of his damnation. He couldn’t read it, not fully, but he knew what it was.

His throat felt tight as his mind raced with questions.

Was it there before he was turned? Gods, he hoped so. Because if it had been carved into Astarion’s back after… If someone had cut into his undead flesh and managed to leave a scar, it meant holy water, divine magic, or something far worse.

His hands clenched into fists beneath the water, the thought making him physically ill.

Did Astarion know what it was?

Wyll swallowed hard, watching as Astarion towelled off, completely at ease, making no move to conceal the markings.

He didn’t act like a man burdened with a contract. He didn’t seem haunted by the way those words marred his skin.

So… did he know?

Wyll hesitated, torn between saying something now or holding his tongue. If Astarion believed it to be something else—something harmless—was it his place to shatter that illusion?

His hands flexed at his sides, his mind spinning, but in the end, he made his choice.

For now, he stayed quiet.

Instead, he took a slow breath, schooling his expression as he waded toward the bank. He would wait—watch, listen. If Astarion spoke of it, if there was a moment to ask… he would.

But if not?

He would find out who had done this to him.

And then he would burn them.

Astarion, predictably, had not stopped talking since they stepped out of the water.

“The things I suffer through,” he bemoaned dramatically, wringing out his hair with exaggerated flair. “My poor curls, completely ruined! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to fix them without a mirror? It’s practically an art form.”

Wyll, still towelling off beside him, let himself smile despite the weight still pressing at the back of his mind. He focused instead on this moment—on Astarion, alive in his own way, standing half-dressed in the moonlight, scowling at his own reflectionless existence like it was personally out to spite him.

“You still look nice,” Wyll offered, his voice warm as he ruffled his own damp curls with the towel. “Softer, maybe.”

Astarion turned to him with an exasperated huff. “Darling, you have no taste.”

Wyll grinned, shifting closer. “I like you, don’t I?” he said, his voice soft but teasing. “I’d say that means my taste is exceptional.”

Astarion froze just slightly, as if the words had caught him off guard, but then he scoffed, turning away as he finished drying off. “Flatterer,” he muttered, but his usual sharp edges were dulled, his voice lacking its usual bite.

Wyll chuckled, but his heart squeezed in his chest.

Because gods help him—he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

It wasn’t just the teasing, the banter, the easy way Astarion slipped into dramatics. It was everything. The little moments. The way he still held himself apart, even as he let Wyll closer. The way his eyes softened, even when he tried to pretend they didn’t. The way, despite everything, despite all that had been done to him—he was still here. Still fighting to be here.

And Wyll, foolish man that he was, wanted nothing more than to keep him here. To show him that he deserved to be here.

Astarion, meanwhile, had begun fussing over his hair again, trying in vain to tame the curls that had already begun to dry into soft, looser waves. Wyll watched for a moment before reaching out, his fingers brushing lightly against the damp strands.

Astarion stilled, his crimson eyes flicking up to meet Wyll’s. “What are you—”

“You really do look good like this,” Wyll murmured, his thumb lightly grazing Astarion’s temple before trailing down to rest against his jaw. “Even without a mirror, you must know that.”

Astarion swallowed, his lips parting slightly, his breath hitching in a way that made Wyll’s stomach twist.

Then, with a quiet scoff, Astarion turned his head slightly—just enough to press a fleeting kiss to Wyll’s palm before stepping back, his usual smirk returning, though softer than before. “Come on, darling,” he purred, motioning toward the camp. “You did promise to warm me up properly, didn’t you?”

Wyll let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head as he followed. “That I did,” he said.

And, the gods willing, he always would.

Astarion sighed dramatically as he pulled Wyll toward his tent, still towelling off his curls as he went. "Honestly, if you'd really wanted to warm me up, we could have skipped the whole wretched bathing part..." he huffed. "I would’ve been much happier wrapped in you rather than dunked in freezing water."

Wyll chuckled behind him, the warmth of his presence lingering close. "You do realize it wasn't actually freezing, right?"

Astarion ignored him, stepping inside his tent and immediately checking on the egg. His fingers ghosted over the thick blanket, making sure it still held warmth before gently pressing his palm to the shell. A quiet moment passed as he focused, feeling for any movement, any sign of life.

There—just a faint shift beneath his hand. His lips twitched, unbidden, and he let out a small hum of satisfaction. It was still well, still thriving.

Only then did he reach for his shirt, though he could feel Wyll’s gaze on him, watching—not judging, not mocking, just… observing.

Astarion arched a brow, turning his head slightly. “What?” he drawled. “Are you jealous of my little bundle of unwanted parental responsibility?” He smirked as he pulled the shirt over his head. “Should I be holding you in my arms instead?”

Wyll, to his credit, didn’t fluster. He smiled, warm and genuine, as he leaned against one of the tent posts. “I wouldn’t be opposed.” he said easily. “But no, I’m not jealous. I just think it’s… nice. Seeing you care for something.”

Astarion scoffed, reaching for his belt. “Oh, darling, please. I care for all sorts of things.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Fine wine. Silk sheets. My own well-being.”

“And apparently, one unhatched gith egg.”

Astarion paused, his fingers hesitating on the buckle.

Wyll wasn’t wrong.

Gods. What was he doing? He was checking on it, warming it, doting on it like some… father.

The realization made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t care to examine.

He forced a smirk, rolling his eyes. “Yes, well, the poor thing was practically abandoned. And I do have a weakness for strays. I mean, look at you lot.”

Wyll laughed at that, shaking his head. “If you say so.”

Astarion tugged on his trousers with an exaggerated sigh, still grumbling under his breath. "Ugh, I hate this cold… The worst part is that I don’t even warm up. I could wrap myself in ten blankets, and I’d still feel like a corpse."

Wyll, still seated comfortably in Astarion’s tent, chuckled. “Well, I could lend you some of my warmth,” he offered, stretching out with an easy smile.

Astarion huffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes, my own personal furnace, how generous of you.” He fixed the bedroll, smoothing it down before grabbing one of his blankets.

But one wasn’t nearly enough.

He stood abruptly, brushing past Wyll as he slipped outside. “Stay put,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m not stealing from the egg’s nest, so I’m borrowing from your hoard instead.”

Wyll shook his head, amused, as he watched him go. He didn’t mind, really. Astarion could take all the blankets he wanted if it meant keeping him comfortable.

Astarion returned a moment later, triumphantly holding up Wyll’s blanket like a prized trophy. “I suppose I could return it,” he mused, eyeing Wyll with a teasing smirk. “But since you’re already here and planning to warm me anyway, I may as well keep it.”

Wyll grinned, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Astarion smirked. “And yet, here you are.”

He settled back onto the bedroll, wrapping himself up as best he could before glancing at Wyll expectantly. “Well? Don’t just sit there, darling. Get in here and do your job.”

Wyll laughed, shifting closer, the heat of him already noticeable even before they touched.

Astarion, cold by nature but warmed only by Wyll’s blood inside him, felt the difference acutely. Wyll’s warmth was constant, steady—alive. Not like his own, not that artificial heat that came and went with feeding.

No, this was different. This was real. And gods help him… he wanted it.

Astarion let out a pleased sigh, burying himself deeper against Wyll’s warmth, his face pressed to the broad expanse of his chest. His body still felt chilled from the river, but Wyll was blazing—all heat and steady comfort, solid beneath him.

“Ugh,” he muttered, voice muffled against warm skin. “Why are you so perfect?”

Wyll froze for half a second, his breath hitching at the sudden closeness, but Astarion felt the moment he gave in—when his arms eased around him, careful at first, then more certain. Wyll held him, let him settle however he liked, no hesitation, no questions.

“I’m not,” Wyll murmured, his voice quieter now, thoughtful.

Astarion made a displeased sound, shifting against him, his nose brushing Wyll’s throat. “Hush, darling. I wasn’t asking.”

Wyll huffed a soft laugh, but Astarion could hear the way his heartbeat stuttered, could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath him. He was so alive. So present.

“You’re not so bad, you know,” Wyll murmured after a moment. “Even if you pretend otherwise.”

Astarion stiffened slightly, the words hitting a nerve. His fingers twitched against Wyll’s side, and he forced a scoff. “Oh, please. I am far from good.”

Wyll sighed. “You always do that.”

Astarion blinked, half-lidded as he nuzzled into Wyll’s warmth. “Do what?”

“Brush off kind words,” Wyll said, voice steady, fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns along the curve of Astarion’s back. “Like they’re nothing. Like you don’t deserve them.”

Astarion’s entire body tensed, a tightness forming in his chest that had nothing to do with the cold. He felt exposed in a way he wasn’t used to, wasn’t prepared for.

Wyll didn’t let go.

He just held him.

He didn’t press, didn’t push—just let the silence settle between them, warm and steady.

Astarion exhaled slowly, forcing his body to relax against Wyll’s. He let the warmth sink into his skin, let himself exist in this moment without pulling away.

“…Old habits, I suppose...” he finally murmured, barely more than a breath.

Wyll’s fingers didn’t stop moving, soft and unhurried, grounding him. “Well,” Wyll said, voice warm against the top of his head, “I hope you unlearn them.”

Astarion swallowed, eyes fluttering shut, letting himself be held. For once, he didn’t have a clever remark.

The warmth, the steady rise and fall of Wyll’s breathing, the quiet, rhythmic brush of fingers over his back—it was all so soothing. Astarion hadn't realized how exhausted he was until now, curled against Wyll’s heat, the world reduced to nothing but the soft, steady presence of the man holding him.

His body, still cooling from the river, pressed closer instinctively, drawn to Wyll's warmth like a moth to flame. He felt his muscles slowly loosen, the tension that lived in his bones easing, unwinding in a way that almost felt dangerous.

It was so easy. Too easy.

For centuries, he had stolen warmth where he could, grasping for fleeting comfort in stolen moments—never lingering, never trusting, never allowing himself this kind of closeness. But now… now Wyll simply gave it to him. No expectations. No demands. Just steady hands and steady breath, grounding him in a way that Astarion hadn't let himself feel in centuries.

His body, traitorous thing that it was, melted into it.

The gentle rise and fall of Wyll’s chest against his cheek, the heat of his skin against Astarion’s own—it was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with blood. A different kind of hunger, a different kind of craving. Not for flesh, not for power, not for survival.

For this.

For warmth, for safety. For something real.

His eyelids grew heavier, his mind slowing, the usual sharp edges of his thoughts dulling as his body gave in, let go.

For the second time in centuries, Astarion tranced.

Not a restless, shallow half-sleep. Not a fitful attempt at quieting his mind.

But true, deep rest.

And the last thing he felt before slipping away into it was Wyll’s hand, still smoothing over his back, and the steady beat of Wyll’s heart beneath his ear.

Chapter Text

Astarion drifted back into wakefulness slowly, the world returning in soft sensations—the warmth of the blankets wrapped around him, the steady rhythm of Wyll’s breathing, the faint crackling of the campfire just beyond the tent.

He felt rested. Truly, deeply rested.

It was such an unfamiliar sensation that he almost didn’t recognize it. His body didn’t ache from exhaustion, his mind wasn’t clouded with the usual sluggishness of pretending to sleep.

Wyll was still beneath him, still here, and Astarion became acutely aware of the way they were tangled together—his own body half-draped over Wyll’s, his arm slung lazily across Wyll’s chest, his face still tucked into the crook of his neck where he had nestled the night before.

And Wyll, damn him, was still sleeping.

The man who always woke early, the ever-dutiful, ever-alert Blade of Frontiers, was sleeping peacefully, his body relaxed, his face soft in the dim light of the tent.

Astarion didn’t move. He should probably move. He knew that. But instead, he just stared.

Wyll was beautiful. Annoyingly so, really, in that warm, effortless way of his. The curve of his jaw, the slight part of his thick lips, the way his dakr lashes rested against his cheeks, it was unfair how breath-taking he looked, even in sleep.

The worst part, though? Astarion wasn’t used to seeing people like this. Not just vulnerable, but safe...

Wyll didn’t sleep like a man with enemies lurking in the shadows. He didn’t tense, didn’t stir restlessly as if waiting for danger to find him. He simply existed, here in this moment, unguarded and trusting.

And gods, that did something to Astarion’s chest that he wasn’t ready to name.

Slowly, carefully, he reached out, barely resisting the urge to trace his fingers along the curve of Wyll’s cheek, to touch, to feel—to reassure himself that this was real. That this warmth was his to hold, even if just for a little while.

But he stopped himself.

Instead, he simply watched, letting the quiet stretch between them, letting himself have this—this simple, stolen moment where no one was looking, where there was no expectation on him, no need to perform.

Just him. And Wyll. And the unbearable, impossibly warm feeling blooming deep in his chest.

Astarion wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that—just watching, drinking in the quiet serenity of Wyll’s sleeping form. He memorized every detail, every slow rise and fall of his chest, every flicker of movement beneath closed lids. He let himself have this moment, unguarded and unhurried, something warm curling in his chest that he dared not name.

Eventually, though, the pull became too much. He needed to feel it again—that steady, rhythmic reminder of life beneath his fingertips.

Carefully, he shifted, resting his head against Wyll’s chest once more, pressing his ear to the warmth of his skin.

And there it was.

The soft, comforting thrum-thrum of Wyll’s heartbeat beneath his cheek, strong and steady.

Astarion exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut. It was such a simple thing, so normal, so mortal—and yet, it soothed him in a way he couldn't explain.

He had been close to living, beating hearts before, of course. Had pressed himself to countless bodies, had felt the rush of blood under warm skin. But those moments had been fleeting, stolen in pretence and not truly his to take at all.

This? This was so much more different.

There was no hidden voice compelling him, no hunger driving him, no performance to keep up. Just this—this soft, gentle connection, Wyll's warmth against his own unnatural chill, the proof of his life beating steadily beneath Astarion’s ear.

He almost didn’t notice when that rhythm changed, when Wyll’s breathing shifted, deepening, then slowly drawing back toward wakefulness.

Astarion stayed still, waiting. Then, after a few quiet moments, he felt Wyll stir beneath him, felt the muscles shift as his breathing hitched, his body slowly coming back into awareness.

And yet, Astarion still didn’t pull away. He stayed there, close and still, waiting for Wyll to wake fully, waiting to see if the man would say anything, if he’d shift away, uncomfortable, if he’d—

A sleepy, contented hum rumbled through Wyll’s chest, vibrating under Astarion’s cheek.

And gods, he felt it everywhere.

Astarion bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to make it bleed, trying toi ignore the way something in his stomach flipped.

Astarion barely had time to brace himself before Wyll’s arms wrapped around him, holding him closer.

Not pulling him away, not shifting him aside—just keeping him there.

And then—gods help him—Wyll kissed him.

It was nothing more than a gentle press of lips to his still-messy curls, a soft, sleepy thing, warm and unthinking. But Astarion felt it, felt the tenderness in it, the easy, natural way Wyll did it, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Like Astarion belonged here.

The realization made something in his chest tighten, something sharp and terrifying and good in a way he didn’t know how to process.

So, instead, he just melted.

His body betrayed him, relaxing entirely, every last ounce of tension leaving him in an instant as he nuzzled closer, chasing that warmth, letting it seep into him as much as it could.

He should say something, he thought vaguely, some quip, some teasing remark—but the words just didn’t come.

Instead, he let himself have this. Let himself be held. Let himself be wanted. Astarion had barely settled into that rare, precious feeling of safety when his mind betrayed him—ripping him away from warmth and back into fear.

Cazador.

The thought struck like ice in his veins.

What if he found out?

What if this—this stupid, reckless closeness—was a mistake?

What if he was taken back?

Astarion’s breath hitched, his body tensing against Wyll’s. His thoughts spiralled faster, sinking into old horrors.

Sebastian.

He had thought—gods, he had thought that maybe, just maybe, he could have something of his own. That he could have someone who cared.

And then Cazador had found out.

And he had taken him away.

Astarion had heard the screams, the horrible sounds of suffering through the walls of the dungeon, had felt the terror grip him as Cazador made him listen.

Sebastian had been taken, had died because of him.

Because he had been foolish enough to think—to hope—that he could have something more than the cold, miserable existence his master allowed them.

And now Wyll—gods, what would Cazador do to Wyll? If he found out?

If Astarion was dragged back to him, forced to kneel before his master once more?

Cazador would make an example of them both.

He’d start with Wyll.

Make Astarion watch.

Then he would punish him.

The coffin. The suffocating, inescapable darkness. Left to starve for a year. Maybe more this time.

And the worst part?

He wouldn’t even care.

Because he would be mourning Wyll.

He barely realized how fast his breathing had become, how his body had curled in on itself, how his fingers had clutched at Wyll’s tunic like a lifeline.

Wyll noticed.

“Astarion?” His voice was soft, worried. One of his hands, so warm, so steady, rubbed slow, soothing circles against his back. “You’re safe. We’re safe. Talk to me.”

Astarion couldn’t.

His throat was too tight, his chest ached, his whole body trembling under the weight of panic. His hands gripped tighter, as if anchoring himself to Wyll was the only thing keeping him from being ripped away.

Wyll shifted, trying to ease them into a more comfortable position, his grip never loosening. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, I’m here. Just talk to me. We're safe...”

Astarion clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe, even though it was of course useless, it felt like nothing could stop the crushing weight of it all.

But Wyll was here.

Wyll was safe.

And when Astarion finally managed to speak, his voice was broken.

“We will not be...” he whispered. “Not if he finds out.”

Wyll’s arms tightened around him immediately. “Who?” he asked, still gentle, still steady. “Who, Astarion?”

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into Wyll’s shoulder. “Cazador.” The name felt like poison in his mouth.

And Wyll—sweet, wonderful Wyll—just held him tighter.

Astarion trembled in Wyll’s arms, his breath coming in uneven gasps as the weight of his fears threatened to drown him. He could still see it—Cazador’s cruel smile, the cold gleam of his eyes as he stripped everything away, as he made Astarion watch while he destroyed the one good thing he had dared to hold close.

Wyll’s hands—strong, steady, warm—tightened around him, grounding him, anchoring him before he could spiral further.

“Astarion,” Wyll murmured, his voice low and certain, “do you think anyone here would let him even come close to touching you? To harming you?”

Astarion stiffened, his breath catching.

His mind supplied the image of Karlach, axe in hand, eyes burning like molten fire as she dared anyone to take what was hers to protect.

Of Lae’zel, standing firm, her sword sharp and unwavering, unyielding in the face of any threat.

Of Gale, clever and dangerous, who would unmake Cazador with a flick of his wrist if he so much as tried.

Of Shadowheart, who had hidden his secret, who had tended to his wounds, who cared in that quiet, guarded way of hers.

Of Halsin, kind and powerful, who had spoken with such rage at what had been done to him, who had promised to rip his master apart.

They wouldn’t let it happen.

None of them would.

And then there was Wyll.

The man who held him now, so gently, so certainly.

The Blade of Frontiers. The man who had slain demons, who had cut down vampires before, who had dedicated his life to saving others.

“I have fought vampires before,” Wyll said, his voice darkening. “He will be no different—except now…” His fingers curled against Astarion’s back, his grip protective, possessive. “Now, I will not be merciful.”

Astarion shuddered.

Not from fear.

Not from panic.

But from something else.

Something deep. Something warm.

Something that settled in his chest, curling around his ribs like a promise.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at Wyll’s face. His eye—his beautiful, fierce, devoted eye—held nothing but certainty.

Astarion swallowed thickly. “You—” His voice wavered, but he steadied himself. “You mean that.”

Wyll nodded, slow and sure. “Of course I do.”

Astarion searched his face for any hesitation, any doubt. He found none.

The realization hit him hard, left him reeling.

For the first time in over two centuries, someone was promising to fight for him.

Astarion yanked him down, his fingers curling tight around one of Wyll’s horns, pulling him into the kiss with a force that left no room for hesitation.

And gods, Wyll let him.

He didn’t resist, didn’t flinch—he leaned into it, let out a low, pleased sound as Astarion claimed his mouth, as if he liked being manhandled, as if he enjoyed Astarion’s desperate, needy grasp on him.

And needy it was.

This was not a slow kiss.

Not careful. Not testing.

It was desperate.

It was everything Astarion had been too afraid to want, too terrified to ask for.

Wyll was here.

Wyll was his.

And no one—no one—was going to take him away.

The thought made Astarion’s fingers tremble where they still clutched at Wyll’s horn, made his lips part further, made him gasp against Wyll’s mouth as heat coiled low and tight in his stomach.

He wanted more.

More heat. More touch. More Wyll.

But then—

A sudden, loud crack from somewhere beyond the tent snapped Astarion’s mind violently back to reality.

They froze.

Lips inches apart, breathing hard, the heat between them still burning.

Then—

Karlach’s unmistakable, booming laughter echoed through the camp.

Astarion groaned, dropping his forehead against Wyll’s as frustration thrummed through him. “If that woman ruins one more perfect moment, I swear—”

Wyll, still breathless, still flushed, let out a strangled laugh, his fingers twitching against Astarion’s back. “At least she is in good spirits...” he murmured, voice wrecked.

Astarion huffed, sitting back just enough to meet his gaze before shaking his head.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them, “is precisely why we need a proper bed, with locked doors and no interruptions.”

Wyll smiled, slow and warm, his eye soft in the dim light of the tent. “So you do want me in a bed, then?”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Obviously, darling.” He leaned in again, this time pressing a slow, teasing kiss to the corner of Wyll’s mouth, dragging his lips down to his jaw. “I want you everywhere. But I’d prefer to have you somewhere where Karlach won’t be cackling like a bog witch in the background...”

Wyll let out a shaky breath, his hands tightening on Astarion’s hips. “Then I suppose we should hope to find somewhere more... private soon.”

Astarion grinned against his skin. “Finally, some sense from you.”

But before he could continue, another loud burst of laughter erupted from outside, followed by Gale’s panicked squawking, She is probably trying to 'help' Gale cook.

Astarion groaned dramatically. “I hate this camp....”

Wyll laughed, pulling him close again. “No, you don’t.”

Astarion pouted against his skin. “…No. But I hate this moment being ruined.”

Wyll hummed, rubbing slow circles against his back. “Then we’ll just have to make another even more special momrnt later.”

Astarion pulled back, looking at him before he flops dramatically into Wyll's lap. "I don't think I can survive this much longer..."

Wyll just moves his hands up to Astarion's undone curls, petting him as he hums softly. 

Chapter Text

It had been days since their return to the glade. Days of stuffing their packs full of whatever supplies they could scrounge up from the merchants in the Grove, of Gale grumbling over scrolls and components, of Karlach cheerfully making sure everyone had enough dried meat to last them through the darkness ahead.

Astarion couldn’t help but feel his mood souring as the hours went by, each preparation and carefully packed satchel nothing more than a reminder of the wretched place they were about to descend into.

The Underdark. Again.

“Cheer up, Fangs!” Karlach called to him that morning, her boisterous voice carrying through the trees as she finished strapping the last of her gear to her back. “I’ll protect your pretty little arse if you’re worried.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, though his lips quirked upward despite himself. “Worried? Me? Whatever would give you that idea, my dear Karlach? It’s just the knowledge that we’re descending into the depths of hell with nothing but moss and madness for company... I didn't have the best experience the last time my dear.”

“Hell is perhaps a stretch?” Gale said, sorting through his various potions with a distracted expression. “But I will admit the conditions are… less than ideal.”

Halsin chuckled softly. “Nature exists in many forms, both beautiful and fearsome. The Underdark is but another aspect of the world’s balance.”

“Balance.” Astarion sniffed, clutching the precious bundle of blankets that held the egg he’d somehow ended up guarding like a madman. “It’s more like nature’s attempt at a joke, and one with particularly poor taste.”

His grumbling earned him a quiet chuckle from Wyll, who’d been gathering some firewood to bring down. The man had been watching him all morning, his gaze soft, patient, and infuriatingly amused. As if he found Astarion’s displeasure nothing more than charming, something to be soothed and teased rather than taken seriously.

To make matters worse, Scratch had taken to curling up beside him, his wet nose nudging at Astarion’s hands whenever they weren’t preoccupied with cradling the egg or sifting through his pack.

“Go on, you mangy creature. I’ve not got a single bit of food for you, and I’m certainly not interested in being your chew toy.”

Scratch whined softly, his tail wagging and thumping against the ground in clear disregard for Astarion’s displeasure.

“Great...” Astarion muttered. “First the egg, now the dog. I’m practically a traveling orphanage at this point.”

“Better than traveling alone maybe?” Wyll said from beside him, his smile easy, his eye watching him with that same, steady warmth.

Astarion sniffed, his fingers trailing over the blanket-wrapped egg, making sure it was still secure, still warm. “Debatable...”

The descent was just as horrible as Astarion remembered it last time.

The air was thick and oppressive, a damp chill clinging to his skin, he felt how he grew colder with every step down he took. 

The air was thick and oppressive, a damp chill clinging to his skin no matter how many layers he wore. The bioluminescent fungi cast everything in shades of sickly green and eerie blue, shadows stretching and twisting in unnatural ways.

And the smell—gods, he had forgotten how vile it was.

Dead things. Rot. That unmistakable wet smell of mildew and decay.

At least he wasn’t starving this time.

Wyll had made sure of that, offering his neck so freely it almost made Astarion’s teeth ache with want. They had kissed again—several times, in fact. They had touched each other, hands and mouths and bodies pressing close with a familiarity Astarion was still getting used to.

But he liked it.

More than that, he craved it.

It was why he carried the egg in his side bag, wrapped in Gale’s enchanted blanket. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant—why he was so insistent on keeping it safe—but something about the fragile life contained within the shell made his chest feel tight and warm in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Lae’zel kept a sharp eye on him, her posture tense whenever he so much as shifted the egg’s position. He had half a mind to toss it at her and be done with the whole ridiculous endeavour, but… he couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

The others were occupied with a thousand different problems, all of them insisting on helping anyone and everyone who so much as sneezed in their vicinity.

They had found references to something called a ‘Great Forge’—some ruin over the water, its name scrawled on a parchment clutched in a rotting drow’s hand.

More clues had surfaced in the mushroom village, the Myconid Colony with its unsettling, fungal creatures and their quiet, hive-minded existence.

And of course, the hivemind fungi people had made everything worse. Always wanting them to kill someone or fetch something or take on some task that had nothing to do with their own pressing concerns.

They all had better things to do... He had better things to do. 

Like sit by the campfire, holding onto the damn egg like some overprotective father, while Scratch pressed his cold, wet nose against his arm, begging for pets.

He glanced down at the dog with a scowl. “If you insist on hounding me, the least you could do is make yourself useful and fetch me something worth drinking from...”

Scratch only barked, his tail wagging with obnoxious enthusiasm.

“Ugh.” Astarion glanced over his shoulder, watching the others argue about what their next move should be. “Idiots, the whole lot of them. Why do we have to help every last thing we stumble upon? Don't we have enough problems without adding to it?”

He ran a hand over the egg, his fingers absently tracing the curve of the shell through the blankets, feeling the warmth of it, the way he could hear the life inside it.

“Come on then, you mangy mutt. Let’s see what trouble the do-gooders get us into this time.” His hand found the dogs head and petted it... mainly to keep it from jumping on his newly oiled Drow armour... actually that was the only reason, it wasn't like he enjoyed the closeness. Not at all.

And despite his grumbling, when Wyll’s gaze caught his own, when the stupid made gave him that damn smile- Astarion couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit warmer.

Astarion was not having a good time.

The heat alone was enough to make him miserable, sweat slicking his skin even when he didn’t technically sweat. The sheer blistering warmth of the place clung to him, oppressive and heavy, like molten iron pressing against his skin.

And the lava—gods, the fucking lava—flowing just beneath their feet, the orange glow dancing along the walls like some fiery beast waiting to devour them all. One wrong step and he would be reduced to nothing but ash. And worse, the egg would be lost.

But it wasn’t just the lava or the heat. Oh, no. That would be too merciful.

No, it was the goddamn gnomes.

They had found them, of course, just as Wyll and the rest of their band of hopeless do-gooders had been determined to do. Poor, wretched creatures trapped in the depths of the Great Forge, forced to labor under the Duergar’s harsh control.

The moment Halsin had seen them, his eyes had turned hard, mouth twisted into a scowl that promised wrath if anyone so much as touched the gnomes again.

Karlach had damn near roared her rage, her words more growl than speech, her Infernal Engine thrumming with a heat that almost rivaled the magma’s glow. “I am going to tear them apart.”

And Gale, bless his hopeless little soul, had been just as determined. “Slavery is unacceptable, no matter what part of the world we find ourselves in. It cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Never seen anyone else quite so angry on behalf of someone they’ve never met,” Astarion had drawled, voice full of lazy amusement even as his own fingers tightened protectively over the egg in his side bag. “But by all means, let’s waste more time saving everyone we come across.”

“Would you rather we just leave them?” Wyll had asked, his voice sharp, his eye blazing with righteous determination.

Astarion had sniffed, rolling his eyes. “If you want to risk your hide for a bunch of ungrateful little wretches, that’s your business. But do remember the other hundred or so responsibilities we seem to be collecting along the way.”

“Being decent isn’t a responsibility,” Wyll had shot back. “It’s who we are.”

And, of course, Astarion couldn’t argue with that. Not when Wyll’s eyes burned so fiercely, not when his voice trembled with the intensity of his conviction.

So they had charged in, weapons drawn, spells crackling along fingers, and fury blazing in their eyes.

The Duergar had been... well, difficult to say the least. But even they weren’t a match for their party’s reckless determination. They’d cut down the slavers one by one, freeing the gnomes from their chains and throwing Nere’s broken body to the ground like a piece of discarded trash.

Astarion had been the one to cut off Nere’s head—mostly because everyone else had apparently developed a sudden case of weak stomachs at the thought...

“Oh for gods’ sake-” Astarion had grumbled as he dug his blade into the bastard’s neck, the skin and bone giving way beneath the sharp edge. “What are you all so squeamish about? It’s just a head. And it’s not as if he had a particularly good one.”

“Right...” Gale had mumbled, turning a pale shade of green. “Well. Good work, Astarion. And… remind me not to ask you to help with dinner preparations please.”

“You would think you adventurers would be a bit more accustomed to a little mess...” Astarion tsked as he licked the blood from his blade, rolling his eyes at the lot of them. “Honestly, you people are hopeless.”

Lae’zel, the only one who seemed remotely unbothered by his actions, nodded with approval. “You wield your blade well, Spawn.”

“Ah, a compliment from our fierce Warrior.” Astarion smirked. “I may just faint from the sheer honour of receiving it.”

But now—now they had gnomes to escort back to the Myconid Colony. A handful of twitchy, scrawny little things with eyes too big for their heads and voices far too high for his liking.

“Keep moving.” Lae’zel barked at them, her scowl promising pain if they dawdled for even a moment. “You waste our time with your shuffling.”

“Perhaps they’re just admiring the view...” Astarion drawled. “After all, how often do they get to be herded like sheep by such a magnificent group of heroes?”

The gnomes kept their distance from him, their eyes flickering nervously to the blade, still strapped to his hip and quickly up to his face.

Good. Perhaps they’d actually keep pace then.

They were on the move again, winding their way through the darkened paths with the gnomes huddled together in a shivering clump. Halsin and Karlach kept to the front, their presence enough to keep the gnomes calm, at least to some extent.

Astarion, however, was left to trail along the back of the group, the egg still tucked securely in his bag, and the damn dog circling his legs as if determined to trip him.

“Must you?” he snapped as Scratch sniffed at his hand, his tail wagging furiously. “I’m trying to walk here, you idiotic mutt.”

Scratch, predictably, paid him no mind and kept crowding him.

And worse, Wyll was giving him that look again—the one that said he found Astarion’s misery to be nothing more than the most endearing thing he had ever seen.

Astarion narrowed his eyes, grumbling under his breath. “If you think I’m carrying one of them should their pathetic little legs give out, you can think again, Blade.”

Wyll laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of asking you.” His smile was soft, his eye still bright with amusement. “But I’d wager you’d complain far less if I asked you to carry me?”

“Oh, I’d carry you, darling. Right to my tent and no further...”

The blush that crept across Wyll’s cheeks was worth the miserable walk.

But as they pressed onward, the weight of the egg in his bag was oddly reassuring, a solid presence against his side. And when Wyll’s hand brushed against his own, fingers entwining, he found he didn’t mind the journey quite as much. 

Astarion wanted to claw his own eyes out.

The Underdark was bad enough on its own—cold, damp, crawling with hideous creatures that wanted to either eat them or enslave them, and every single bloody mushroom looked like it was trying to lure him to his death.

But this?

This heat? The lava pouring from cracks in the earth like the place had been dipped into the Nine Hells and left to roast? It was pure, undiluted torture.

The Myconid Colony had at least been tolerable, with its strange, cloying scents and softly glowing lights. The mushrooms had greeted them with all the grace of shambling corpses, speaking of communion and sharing their spores and the like.

As far as Astarion was concerned, it was just mushroom orgies with a side of mind-melding and head-penetration.

He’d offered them Nere’s head without hesitation. “There, your disgusting little trophy. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have more pointlessly heroic deeds to attend to.”

The mushrooms had been positively thrilled. Or at least, as thrilled as fungus could be. Talk of spores and communion and something about transforming the head into something “useful” was exchanged in that awful droning voice.

“What in the Nine Hells do you think they’ll do with it?” he’d asked Gale, who looked half-fascinated and half-disgusted.

“I imagine something involving cultivation?" Gale had answered, which was about as vague and useless as he usually was.

“Ugh. I’ll take your word for it.”

Now, they were heading right back toward the Great Forge, hauling their ever-growing collection of stray puppies, one gnome, and gods knew what else.

Astarion’s boots scraped against the rough stone, his hand still curled protectively over the egg at his side. Despite his complaints, he kept it wrapped in the enchanted blanket, his fingers occasionally brushing the surface to check for warmth and movement.

He’d been talking to it. Just... softly. Little snippets of things, murmured under his breath when the others weren’t listening.

Utterly pathetic.

And now they were going back into the stifling heat of the forge, sweat clinging to his skin like a second layer of clothing. The air was thick, suffocating, his skin prickling with irritation at the sheer warmth of it all.

“Oh, how I loathe this place...” Astarion bemoaned as he trudged along, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Why can’t we simply leave? Surely we have better things to do than running ourselves ragged chasing after every single problem this damned place presents.”

“It’s called doing the right thing, Astarion.” Wyll replied with that infuriatingly gentle smile of his. “We help those who can’t help themselves.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot I’m surrounded by bleeding hearts.” Astarion’s voice was sharp, but the heat was stealing the strength from his barbs.

“Come now.” Halsin rumbled from the front of the group, his voice like distant thunder. “A challenge such as this will only make our success all the sweeter.”

“Speak for yourself-” Astarion snapped. “If I have to endure one more moment in this gods-forsaken furnace, I’m going to throw myself into the lava just to be done with it.”

Karlach let out a bark of laughter. “You’d be more like charcoal than ash, I reckon. But hey, you look good in black.”

“Oh, thank you, darling. Such a compliment.” Astarion rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite hide the twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips.

But then his eyes strayed to Wyll—walking with that calm, purposeful stride of his, a small smile lingering on his face even as the heat painted a sheen of sweat over his skin. His tunic clung to him, accentuating the curves of muscle and the tantalizing lines of his body.

Astarion found himself staring. Again.

It was becoming a habit, a wretched, shameful habit.

But could anyone blame him, really? With the way Wyll’s horns caught the light, how the sharp lines of his face were softened by that ridiculous earnestness of his? How he always, always had a smile for Astarion, even when he was being impossible?

“I do hope you’re not suffering too much..?” Wyll said suddenly, his voice low enough for only Astarion to hear.

Astarion nearly stumbled over his own feet. “Oh, yes. Because I’m positively thrilled to be roasting alive. If you wanted me chargrilled, you could have just asked me to crawl into the campfire instead...”

Wyll chuckled, and gods, that sound went straight to Astarion’s core. “It’s not so bad.” Wyll continued, his gaze softening. “If it helps, you can always stay close to me. My body’s warm, sure, but I’m not molten rock.”

“You are terribly warm...” Astarion muttered, his voice more a frustrated growl than anything else. “And entirely too kind for your own good.”

“Just how I am, I suppose.” Wyll’s smile grew. “And I would be remiss not to mention that you look rather fetching right now, even when you’re feeling miserable.”

Astarion shot him a glare, but it lacked any real heat. Instead, he found himself ducking his head, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

They pressed on, the darkness growing heavier the further they went. And through it all, Astarion’s hand kept straying to the egg, his thumb tracing over the smooth, warm shell.

If the rest of them were intent on playing hero, then he supposed he could at least make sure none of them got themselves killed while doing so.

Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do... not unless he wanted to do it alone, and right now? 

Well... he was busy looking at Wyll's glorious backside as he walked to the front of their little troupe. 

Chapter Text

It really was unfair, Astarion mused bitterly as he watched Wyll through the faintly glowing shadows of the Underdark. The man sweated like he was made of pure heat himself, his skin glistening with it. And instead of looking a dreadful, dishevelled mess like any normal person would, Wyll somehow managed to look obscenely handsome. Like something out of a ridiculous romance novel. The kind with the oil-painted covers and dramatic titles like Crimson Desires or The Rogue’s Redemption.

Astarion swallowed, his eyes refusing to leave Wyll’s frame as he worked on some wretchedly boring task. His shoulders rolled with each effortless motion, the muscles of his arms straining just so, the sweat making his skin catch the dim light. And then there was his voice, that charming, steady tone as he talked to Karlach.

So. Unfair. And even worse? The damnable gnome Barcus was camped outside his tent. The same gnome they’d rescued from that absurd windmill weeks ago, the one who, for some unknown reason, seemed to have adopted Astarion as his personal shadow, never straying far.

“You know, darling.” Astarion grumbled under his breath as he walked toward Wyll’s tent, his steps heavy with frustration, “I think your habit of collecting strays is contagious. Now they’re clinging to me...”

Wyll looked up from where he was crouched by his bedroll, his own supplies half-sorted and his shirt discarded in a way that made Astarion’s mouth go dry. Bare skin, sweat-slicked and glistening, his torso broad and powerful and so—

Focus, Astarion.

“Ah, Barcus?” Wyll asked, amusement glinting in his eye. “You’d think he’d have the sense to cling to Karlach or Halsin instead.”

“Or even you, seeing as you’re the most gallantly helpful of us all.” Astarion sniped. “But no, apparently I’m the lucky one. He’s made himself a cozy little spot right outside my tent.”

“Well, you did save him. Twice, was it?”

“Just the once thank you. I just happened to be there the second time...” Astarion huffed.

Wyll chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down Astarion’s spine. “He probably thinks you’re his protector, or just very grateful.”

“Poor fool. If he knew better, he’d be running in the opposite direction.”

“But he’s not.” Wyll tilted his head, his expression softening. “Because he sees what I see. Someone who’s much kinder than he lets on?”

Astarion scoffed. “Kindness, again? You must be mistaken, darling. I’m just a terrible, handsome thing pretending to be useful.”

“Pretending?” Wyll echoed with a small, fond smile. “I think you’re much better at it than you realize.”

“Ugh.” Astarion flopped down beside Wyll’s bedroll, his shoulders slumping. “Why must you insist on being so... infuriatingly nice?”

“It’s my nature, I suppose.” Wyll’s voice was warm, the kind of warmth that seemed to seep into Astarion’s bones, soothing the tension even as he tried to cling to it.

“Hmm. And it’s your nature to invite helpless little creatures into your tent as well, is it?”

“Not usually, but...” Wyll’s gaze met his, that open earnestness radiating from him like sunlight. “You’re always welcome in here. You know that.”

He shouldn’t feel so pleased by it. Shouldn’t feel that curl of comfort in his chest, like Wyll’s words were something more than just polite accommodation.

But he did. Astarion forced himself to look away, his gaze landing on the scattered blankets and supplies in Wyll’s tent. “I suppose I’ll have to impose upon you, then. Unless I want to listen to that gnome babble on about the ‘great kindness I’ve shown him’ and how he’s ever so indebted to me. It’s enough to make me gag.”

“I don’t mind.” Wyll’s voice was softer now. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Gods, this man... It would be so much easier if Wyll was like the others Astarion had known. If his kindness was conditional, if his warmth came with strings attached. But it didn’t. And that terrified him.

“Don’t say things like that...” Astarion muttered, his voice coming out far too small. “You might regret making them.”

Wyll’s hand found his, those strong fingers curling around his own. And when he spoke, his voice was as steady as always.

“I won’t.”

Astarion looked down at their joined hands, his eyes tracing the calluses along Wyll’s palm, the way his thumb brushed softly over his knuckles.

Maybe it was the exhaustion from the endless heat. Maybe it was the comfort of having Wyll close.  But he let himself relax, just for a moment. Let himself feel the warmth of Wyll’s touch, the quiet assurance of his presence.

“Fine...” he grumbled, his voice betraying more fondness than he intended. “But if you snore, I’m going to bite you. And not in the way you’re hoping for.”

Wyll chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made Astarion’s chest feel uncomfortably tight. “I wouldn't mind.”

After dinner has been served and eaten, people venture either to their tent or away from their little camp, probably to snoop around. Astarion had gone back to his tent, just to grab the bag with the egg, if he is staying with Wyll he doesn't want to leave it there... just incase something happens to it.

Astarion sighed, his gaze drifting once more to Wyll. The man had taken to braiding his hair back, close to the scalp—a practical choice for their current circumstances, but one that only accentuated the sharp lines of his face and the strong curve of his jaw. It was maddening how effortlessly handsome he remained, even amidst the grime and chaos of their journey.​

The oppressive heat of the forge was relentless, but at least it meant Astarion wasn't plagued by the usual chill that clung to him. Still, his mind found new avenues for worry. He had pestered Halsin endlessly about the egg's well-being in such warmth. The druid had assured him repeatedly that the egg was fine, but doubt gnawed at Astarion's thoughts. What if Halsin was merely placating him? What if the heat was too much, and he was failing in his newfound responsibility?​

His eyes flicked back to Wyll, watching the way the firelight danced over his features. Astarion couldn't help but long for a proper room—a space with a sturdy bed and a door that locked. The constant presence of their companions, and now the ever-present Barcus, was wearing on his nerves.​

"Ugh..." he muttered to no one in particular. "If I don’t get a room with a proper bed and a door that locks soon, I may very well commit a crime."

From ahead, Barcus, because of course—piped up cheerfully. "Something wrong, friend?"​

Astarion shot him a withering look, his patience wearing thin. "Ugh... Don't try to relate to me..." he pouted, turning on his heel and stalking toward Wyll's tent.​Wyll looked up from where he was seated, his expression a mix of amusement and curiosity. "Trouble with our gnomish companion?"​

Astarion huffed, folding his arms across his chest. "He's taken to loitering around my tent. I can't fathom why. It's as if rescuing him has turned his brain..."

Wyll just chuckles but ignores his yammering mostly.

Astarion lays his side bag down, carefully in the corner. And then slumps down on the rug like a cat. "The new braids look nice..." He murmurs​ quietly.

Wyll turned slightly at the quiet compliment, eyes catching the low gleam of whatever passed for light down here. His brow rose, lips twitching into the smallest of smiles as he tugged one of the braids lightly.

“You think so?” he asked, almost shyly.

Astarion didn’t look up from where he was sprawled, lounging like a long-suffering feline with the dramatic air of someone who had absolutely had enough of everything. His cheek pressed to the side of a cushion, one arm tucked beneath it, the other lazily draped across his waist. He huffed softly, the kind of sigh that suggested a man half a second from weeping or biting someone—possibly both.

“I do...” he murmured again. “Makes your face look… ugh, unfairly sculpted. Like a statue carved to tempt.”

Wyll chuckled as he sank down across from him, sitting cross-legged with that ever-present ease of someone too good for this world. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one,” Astarion said, eyes drifting shut for a moment. “Don’t get too used to it.”

He cracked an eye open just enough to look at his side bag—the egg tucked away inside, swaddled in its enchanted blanket like some secret, precious thing. His lips twitched faintly. Gods, what was his life now? Vampire spawn, cradle-thief, dog-wrangler, and now... complimenter of handsome men with frustratingly lovely braids and backsides...

“You’re worrying about the egg again, aren’t you?” Wyll asked softly, not unkindly.

“I am not worrying.” Astarion lied smoothly. “I am cautiously attentive. Entirely different thing.”

Wyll tilted his head, the braids glinting faintly as he smiled. “Halsin said it’s fine. The blanket’s doing what it should. You’ve kept it warm, safe. You’re doing well, Astarion.”

Astarion looked up at that, eyes narrowing slightly. “Careful now, you’re dangerously close to being sincere again.”

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Wyll grinned and leaned back on his hands.

Astarion let his head fall back onto the cushion with a dramatic groan. “Ugh, don’t encourage me to feel things. I’m tired, Wyll. Tired, and dirty, and I have lava sweat in places I didn’t know I even had places.”

Wyll’s laughter was low and warm, his hand reaching out to brush against Astarion’s shoulder, grounding and steady.

“Once we’re out of this blasted cave,” he said, “I promise you—first inn we find. A room. A lock. A real bed.”

Astarion peeked one eye open again and smirked. “Will you be joining me in this fabled bed, my dear knight?”

“If you’ll have me?” Wyll said, voice soft now. Earnest.

Astarion’s smile faltered for a beat, just long enough for something tender to show beneath it. Then he smirked again and turned his head, eyes drifting toward the soft shape of the side bag in the corner.

“Only if you promise to keep the damn gnome out.”

“Done.” Wyll said, chuckling. “I’ll post Shadowheart outside the door if I have to.”

“Perfect.” Astarion closed his eyes again, letting the tension in his limbs fade just a little more. “Now shut up and sit here. I’m too tired to flirt properly, and too sore to do anything about it even if I wasn’t.”

Wyll leaned down, just enough to brush a kiss over his curls. “You’re lovely.”

Wyll’s voice was quiet, but it still reached Astarion clearly through the echoing heat of the forge, somewhere between where the others were rifling through ancient tools and trying not to fall into molten lava.

“I wish I could do more...” he said, gaze lowered. “I know I’m courting you, but this… this isn’t much of a way to do it properly, is it?”

Astarion paused mid-motion, one hand still pulling a stubborn tangle from his curls, the other shooing Scratch—again—from trying to lick at his side bag where the egg lay bundled. He turned his head just enough to look at Wyll, who stood a few paces away, the forge light casting gold into his dark skin and catching the braids and his horns in shimmering light.

Gosh he looked unfairly handsome. He always did.

Astarion arched a brow, lips curving into a dry smile. “If you make me another flower crown—but this time from Underdark mushrooms—I will freak out.” he warned. “Possibly sob into a toadstool. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Wyll’s laugh was low and sheepish. “I promise, no more crowns. Unless you ask.”

“I won’t.” Astarion huffed.

“But still,” Wyll went on, more serious now, “you deserve better than what I can give you here. Finer things. Dinners and wine and rooms with real beds and doors that lock and no damn gnomes listening in from two feet away—”

“I’m trying not to imagine that,” Astarion cut in quickly, with a shudder. He gave Barcus a very pointed look over his shoulder. The gnome waved back cheerily from where he was crouched beside Astarion's tent.

Wyll huffed. “My point is, I want to treat you right. And this…” He gestured around the oppressive heat of the forge, the sulfur in the air, the scattered soot and chain-locked doors. “This isn’t how it should be.”

Astarion blinked, quiet for a long moment as he smoothed his hair into something approximating order, then gave a soft, almost too-vulnerable sigh. “Wyll, darling…The world is rarely so kind as to give us the perfect stage for affection. We take what we can get.”

Wyll looked at him, brow furrowed. “But—”

“No buts.” Astarion interrupted, a slight smirk playing at his lips again. “You’ve already given me more than most ever have. I’m warm. I’m fed. I’m…” His eyes softened, gaze catching on Wyll’s mouth before flicking back to his eyes. “Wanted. Do you know how rare that is for me?”

Wyll flushed, the way he always did when Astarion was too sincere. He rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced away. “Still. I want to give you more. One day, I will.”

Astarion leaned in just a little closer, enough that Wyll had to look at him. “One day,” he repeated with a smile, “you’ll get your chance. Until then… you can start by keeping that gnome away from my bloody tent. Deal?”

Wyll laughed, bright and boyish, his hand finding Astarion’s briefly before he went back to going through his supplies and looking over his bag. 

Astarion had been reading, still lying sprawled out on Wyll's carpet, that was until Scratch takes that has his cue to come cuddle him. He let out the longest sigh he could muster, dragging it from the very depths of his unbeating lungs, full of anguish and melodrama. "I used to be feared..." he murmured, his voice muffled by the open book half-sprawled under his cheek. "I used to inspire both terror and awe. People trembled when I smiled at them."

Scratch gave a soft boof of contentment and shifted, pressing more of his weight onto Astarion’s side, resting his snout across his ribcage. The vampire grunted in protest but didn’t move—he didn’t really mind, though gods forbid he’d admit that aloud.

Wyll, seated a few feet away and supposedly focused on polishing one of his blades, had long since given up pretending not to watch him. His crimson eye sparkled with amusement, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as Astarion dramatically sprawled like a fainting noblewoman denied her favourite chaise longue.

“You do look rather comfortable for someone so tragically put upon.” Wyll said lightly, one brow arched.

Astarion didn’t lift his head. “Comfortable? I am buried alive, Wyll. This mutt—” he jabbed a thumb half-heartedly toward Scratch, who thumped his tail lazily at the motion “—has mistaken me for a rug. And you—”

“Yes?” Wyll’s smile widened.

“—are looking at me. Like you enjoy this.”

“I do.” Wyll said, completely unapologetic. “You’re adorable when you pout.”

“Ugh.” Astarion flopped an arm dramatically over his eyes. “That’s it. I’m ending it all. Let the lava take me.”

Wyll chuckled and moved a little closer, enough that Astarion could feel the warmth of him. Unfair, how warm Wyll always was. That kind of heat should be illegal. And he got to be attractive while doing it. Horrible.

“Need a hand up, my tragic little rug?” Wyll asked, voice thick with amusement.

“No. I shall perish here. Tell the others I died nobly, smothered under the weight of affection and obligation.”

“You’re still so dramatic,” Wyll murmured, reaching out to brush a lock of white hair away from Astarion’s face—now loose and curling wildly from the heat of the forge, as he’d predicted.

Astarion dared to peek up at him, his eyes soft despite the sigh he let out. “You’re lucky I find your voice pleasant, my dear. Otherwise, I would have stabbed you by now.”

“And yet,” Wyll murmured, voice dipping low, fond and teasing, “you’re still here.”

Scratch shifted again, settling more of his weight against Astarion’s hip, earning another exaggerated groan. "You’re plotting my downfall. I can feel it."

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Wyll said. “Though… I might be plotting how to get you alone again. You know. Away from nosy gnomes and clingy dogs.”

Astarion tilted his head, watching him now, less mocking and more thoughtful. “Are you now?”

“Mmhmm.” Wyll said and smiled. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. It was… warm. Companionable. The sound of Gale rattling on about nitrates or noxious moss filtered through the tent walls, paired with Barcus’s eager affirmations. Astarion wrinkled his nose.

“I swear...” he murmured, “if either of those men come near me with a flask or a fungus, I will bite them.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” Wyll said, eyes gleaming.

Astarion blinked slowly. “It is meant as one.”

“Still not sure it would work. Gale might even enjoy it.”

“Gods-” Astarion groaned, and turned to bury his face in Wyll’s leg. “Put me back in the coffin.”

Wyll reached down and let his fingers trail softly through Astarion’s hair, a quiet gesture, gentle and full of affection. “No coffins. Just a tent. You and me. And a dog. And an egg, apparently.”

Astarion let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “…Fine. But only because the egg is tolerable...”

“And what about me?”

Astarion peeked up at him, eyes catching the light. “Well. You’re warm. And stupidly handsome. And you do have an excellent backside...”

Wyll flushed, of course he did. That lovely red blooming up his cheeks, curling around the tips of his ears.

Astarion shifted dramatically, arm flung over his face. “Where, exactly, are we heading next?” he drawled, voice heavy with despair. “And why in the hells are we still in this lava-infested furnace of a cavern? I didn’t sign up to be baked like a pastry.”

Wyll, kneeling a few feet away as he polished his sword—because of course he was doing something noble and responsible—offered a soothing smile.Of course it looked effortlessly regal.

“We’re looking for an exit,” Wyll said, ever patient. “Shadowheart and Halsin went ahead to scout the far tunnels. They should return soon.”

Astarion groaned, dragging his hand dramatically across his chest. “Yes, yes, they’re scouting. More like she’s out there climbing Mount Halsin like a great, glistening tree while the rest of us melt into puddles.”

There was a sharp cough from Wyll’s direction, followed by a splutter. Astarion turned his head just enough to see it—the flush blooming on Wyll’s cheeks, that crimson hue rising up to the tips of his ears. Glorious.

Astarion grinned. “Oh, darling...” he purred, eyes glittering with mischief, “do try not to blush so prettily. It’s hard to properly appreciate the view when my brain is boiling in my skull.”

Wyll rubbed the back of his neck, clearly trying to maintain composure. “I… was just surprised by the phrasing.” he said carefully.

Astarion hummed, stretching like a cat in the sun—though the sun had long since abandoned them for brighter places. “Mm. I rather like it. Suits them, don’t you think?” Wyll just gave a strangled sort of chuckle and went back to his sword.

Meanwhile, Scratch chose that exact moment to shift, plopping his head directly on Astarion’s stomach with a thud. Astarion didn’t even flinch. He only sighed.

“Traitor..” he muttered at the dog, staring balefully down at the mutt.

Gods, he missed the sun. He missed real beds, privacy. And Wyll. Well. Wyll looking like that in the firelight wasn’t exactly helping things.

He glanced again at the egg nestled safely in the corner of his tent, wrapped in its enchanted blanket. Then back at Wyll. Then to the lava. Then back to Wyll.

Astarion flopped his arm over his face again. “If we don’t find a bed soon...” he muttered, “I will combust. Either from the heat or from pure sexual frustration. Possibly both.” Wyll choked again.

Barcus, somewhere in the background, asked cheerfully, “Did someone say combustion?”

“Do not engage me, gnome!” Astarion shouted without lifting his arm.

Scratch licked his hand. Wyll was still blushing so prettily.

And Astarion—gods help him—was so in love it hurt.

Chapter Text

Astarion’s mood had already soured the moment Halsin reappeared, striding back into camp with that gleaming smile and Shadowheart at his side, both of them looking far too pleased with themselves. They’d been scouting, they said—found a path, they said. One that led deeper through the forge and, eventually, to the Shadowlands.

“Marvellous,” Astarion muttered, venom coating the word as he watched them return. “Nothing like a trek through more gloom and doom to really brighten the spirits... Even the name is horrible.”

He could already hear Wyll’s laugh before it reached his ears—warm, low, a little amused as always. The Blade was helping Gale roll up the cooking supplies, but his gaze flicked to Astarion in that quiet, habitual way. He always watched him. Like he was checking for a crack in the façade, a slip in the smile. Astarion hated how comforting that had become.

Even more infuriating, Barcus had taken it upon himself to be helpful. Which wouldn’t have been a problem if the little gnome hadn’t been so efficient.

“Got your bedroll folded, your pack lightened, and—oh, is this your silk shirt? Lovely stuff. Do you want it on top, or…?”

Astarion exhaled a hiss between clenched teeth. “Barcus. Dearest. Do me a kindness and let me handle my own things before I do something unkind. Like setting you on fire, hmm?”

“Oh! No offense taken!” Barcus said completely unbothered. “You’re just grumpy because you didn’t get your beauty rest, aren’t you?”

A muscle in Astarion’s cheek twitched. He spun on his heel, pack half-done, eyes scanning the rest of camp. Most were ready. Karlach was already bouncing with excitement like they weren’t about to hike into a cursed realm of horrors. Shadowheart was double-checking her pack. Lae’zel looked annoyed they hadn't moved out yet. And Wyll—Wyll was walking toward him.

“Want me to help you?” Wyll offered, easy smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at the half-packed bag by Astarion’s feet.

“I don’t need help!” Astarion snapped, sharper than he meant. “I had it until this.... this tiny engineer decided to throw my belongings into disarray.”

Wyll didn’t rise to it. He rarely did. Instead, he knelt beside the bag and adjusted a buckle. “Looks like he made it more compact. But I know you like things done your way.” A pause. “Still, I’m guessing the real irritation is the destination?”

Astarion narrowed his eyes. “Insightful as ever, darling.”

Wyll glanced up at him, eyes steady. “It’s not a place I’d choose either, but that's where the absolute is and that's where Halsin needs to go...”

Something in that softened Astarion’s shoulders, just barely. He let out a breath and turned his face away. “I just don’t see the appeal in stepping foot into yet another realm where every corner wants to consume your soul, your sanity, or worse, both.”

Wyll latched the pack closed. “Then I’ll keep watch while you rest. Or walk beside you. Whichever you need.”

There it was again... that. The casual way Wyll offered himself. Like it cost him nothing. Like Astarion’s moods didn’t scare him. Like he wanted to be there, even if all Astarion had to offer was barbed words and an unbeating reluctant heart.

Astarion looked down at him, mouth twitching.

“Fine,” he said. “But if I so much as hear a single heroic speech on the way, I will throw you into the nearest chasm.”

Wyll smiled and said easily. “Noted.”

As the party began moving toward the stone path Halsin and Shadowheart had discovered, the darkness ahead seemed to pulse with a strange, heavy stillness. Astarion lingered beside Wyll, one hand just close enough for his fingers to brush the back of Wyll’s glove as they walked, the other safely over his side bag. He didn’t need help. Not really. But he wasn’t going to refuse it anymore either.

They had barely cleared the elevator platform, the groaning metal cage still clanking behind them, when the smell of ozone and old parchment hit Astarion square in the face. That alone would have been bad enough.

But then the old man came into view. Robe-draped, silver-bearded, eyes like dying stars—every inch the archetype of “old and powerful and probably full of shit.” Astarion didn’t like him on sight.

Gale froze mid-step. His voice, when it came, was a stunned whisper. “Elminster?”

Astarion folded his arms, unimpressed.

Karlach, bless her well-meaning heart, squinted and nudged Shadowheart with her elbow.

“ Oh my Gods! Is that Gale’s grandad?”

Shadowheart stared forward, blinking slowly. “Not quite I think.”

The conversation that followed was a blur of strained politeness, uncomfortable revelations, and escalating tension. Elminster—the Elminster, apparently, had come not to offer wisdom, but to remind Gale of the ticking time bomb inside him. The orb. The Weave’s residue. Mystra’s gift, as he dared to call it.

“Mystra...” Elminster said, voice grave, “believes the only way forward may be sacrifice.”

Gale had gone still. His fists clenched at his sides. Everyone else remained awkwardly silent. But not Astarion.

“Oh, absolutely not,” he said, stepping forward like one of his knives unsheathed. “You ancient sack of sanctimony—did you really come all this way just to tell Gale he should kill himself for some divine bint who couldn’t even manage to keep her 'favourite' pet safe?”

“Astarion—” Gale started, quiet and embarrassed.

“No!” he snapped. “This is insulting! Mystra can go blow herself up if she’s so desperate for a martyr. In fact, I hope she does. And if she misses her pretty little puppet so much, maybe she can summon a nice fat cock into her divine mouth and stuff it until she learns to shut the fuck up!”

The silence was… absolute.

Elminster, to his credit, or because he was simply too old to care, only raised a snowy eyebrow. “You have passion... Misguided, but admirable.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Astarion said sweetly, taking Gale’s arm. “He’s not yours anymore, not hers either. So unless you're here to actually help, do kindly toddle off into your next freaking century and leave us the hell alone."

"It was never Mystra’s intent to destroy Gale. The fault lies in his own hunger to reach where mortals were never meant to go.”

“Oh please,” Astarion spat, throwing his hands up, the shadows curling unnaturally tight around his form. “So it’s his fault, is it? For daring to want something more? The man was in love with a goddess—pardon me if I don’t find it scandalous that he tried to impress her the only way he knew how!”

Elminster, wisely, said nothing further. Instead, he raised his hand, muttered something, and then the familiar hum of magic rippled through the air. Gale gasped softly—the orb in his chest pulsed, then dimmed. Stabilized.

“Gale.” the old wizard said, “Choose well.”

And then he was gone. Just like that. Like a particularly smug ghost.

They moved forward in silence after that—into a place that made even the Underdark feel like a sun-drenched paradise. The very air down here hated them. The walls groaned like they were remembering every soul that had ever died between them. Sound came oddly—warped, muffled, too near or too far at once. Astarion could feel it scraping over his skin, an itch under the surface of his armour that made him want to tear it off and scream.

And then Gale had the gall to speak.

“...Elminster said, if it comes to it—if it’s the only way to stop the Absolute—I should consider it. That it might be the only path forward.”

Astarion froze.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he snapped. “Are you seriously—seriously—still considering that? After everything, Gale? After getting out from under her divine thumb, you’re now what? Her magical suicide note?”

Wyll put a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. He shook it off.

“She could help us—should help us! She’s a goddess! A creature of boundless power and beauty and smug fucking silence while the rest of us are fighting tooth and nail just to breathe down here.”

Gale opened his mouth, maybe to offer something rational, measured, but stopped. Because Astarion wasn’t yelling at him. Not really. Gale smiled.

Astarion’s voice dropped low, trembling around the edges. “She used you. She claimed you and broke you and now wants to end you under the guise of salvation, of redemption. And you’re smiling about it?!”

“I’m not smiling because of her.” Gale said softly, stepping closer.

Astarion looked at him then—really looked. And yes, he was smiling, that crooked, wistful thing he did sometimes.

“I’m smiling because you’re angry for me.” Gale said, so quietly it barely cut through the wailing air. “Because you care. Because it’s not about me disappointing you. It’s about me dying. And that thought bothers you.”

Astarion blinked, mouth parting, but no words came. He hated this place. He hated the gods. He hated the Absolute, the shadows, the death that clung to every inch of this place. But more than anything... He hated that Gale was right.

The camp was lit like a stage—every torch blazing, every enchanted orb humming bright and unnatural. Because apparently, if the shadows so much as touched them, they'd eat them alive.

“Charming,” Astarion muttered, pacing the length of his tent like a caged wolf.

Scratch lay curled near the entrance, tethered to a rope that only gave him a small radius to roam. He let out a low whine, ears twitching as if he, too, could feel the dread breathing down their necks.

“I know,” Astarion said, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s ghastly out there. But you are not going after any more hyenas, do you hear me? What that thing did to its own kind—I have seen monsters, darling, and that still turned my stomach.”

Scratch huffed and dropped his head to his paws, eyes glowing faint in the torchlight.

Astarion crouched near him, not touching—just breathing for a moment. The scent of oil, metal, and sulfur still clung to him from the forge. His gloves were off. He hated that his hands shook.

He heard the soft scuff of boots before the voice reached him.

“You were right,” Gale said from the edge of the tent, not daring to cross the threshold. “About Mystra. About the whole bloody idea.”

Astarion didn’t look up. “Oh? Did the divine inspiration wear off already?”

“I’m not defending her,” Gale said. “Or what she asked. I’m only saying… thank you. For being angry. Even if it wasn’t entirely for me.”

That made him look. Astarion turned, eyes sharp as glass. “Don’t mistake me for one of your sweethearted companions who believes every spark of indignation is for some noble cause. I was angry because that woman—with all her power—dared to ask a mortal man to die for her convenience. And because you nearly agreed. That’s not loyalty, Gale. That’s goddamn madness.”

Gale didn’t argue. He offered a small, tilted smile. “Friends get angry on each other’s behalf sometimes.”

“We are friends, yes,” Astarion agreed, flicking his fingers in the air. “You’re a dear. We’ve bonded over shared trauma and close proximity. That doesn’t mean I won’t slap the next divine being who looks at you funny.”

Gale chuckled and turned to go. But he paused just outside the light’s edge. “If Wyll came in here right now,” he asked over his shoulder, “what would you do?”

Astarion’s mouth twitched. “Throw him over my shoulder and take him to bed.”

“Ah. Well then. I shall leave you to your seething.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the silvery haze of their too-bright, too-tense camp.

Astarion exhaled slowly, then rubbed his temple.

Wyll. Gods, Wyll. The way he’d stood there during the whole mess, eyes quiet and watchful, not butting in like the rest of them might have. Not asking him to calm down or to stop. Just there. Solid. Warm.

Astarion wanted to kiss him until the world outside stopped being so loud.

He looked at Scratch, who blinked at him.

“What? You don’t get a vote. You’ve been licking your own arse for twenty minutes.”

The dog huffed and let out a bark.

Astarion flopped onto his bedroll, one arm draped across his eyes.

"Ugh... Why am I even talking to you.. and why didn't I tether you to Halsin's tent hmm?" Astarion murmured.

He wouldn’t go to Wyll tonight. Not yet. Not with this fire in his blood and the shadows clawing at the edges of everything. But maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

The camp was still, or as still as it could be in this gods-forsaken pit of nightmares. Even the fire crackled like it was nervous. The shadows beyond the ring of light seemed to twitch and hiss, curling just outside vision, waiting. Astarion could feel them. In his skin. In his teeth. In the back of his goddamn skull.

And he hated that the only thing keeping them at bay were lights bright enough to burn.

He lay sprawled on the bedroll, arm thrown over his eyes like he could block it all out—the camp, the unnatural hush, the faint, wrong creaking that sounded like breath on stone. Scratch had dozed off again, though he’d growled low when a shadow shifted too close to the edge of camp. Astarion had tugged the rope tighter. He wouldn’t lose the bloody dog on top of everything else.

He didn’t hear Wyll approach. Just the soft rustle of leather and the faint thump of boots—so familiar now, part of the rhythm of travel, of camp, of this strange little found family they’d fallen into.

He didn’t move.

Wyll stood in the entrance for a moment. He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at him.

Then he stepped inside. Quiet. Unassuming. Not like he expected a greeting. Not like he came with a plan. Just… being there.

The flap settled shut behind him. The glow of the campfire outside cast strange, warped lines on the walls of the tent. They shifted as the flames flickered, but Wyll was a solid silhouette in the center of it all—calm, warm, real.

Astarion shifted his arm just enough to see him.

He was standing with his hands loose at his sides, eyes on Astarion. He didn’t ask to come in. He didn’t offer any soothing words. And saints bless him for that.

“I don’t need—” Astarion started, voice rough.

“I know.”

Wyll didn’t interrupt again.

He just sank down beside the bedroll, cross-legged, quiet. The space was small—he had to duck his head slightly to fit—but he didn’t seem to mind.

Didn’t try to touch. Didn’t try to comfort. Just… stayed. It shouldn’t have helped. But it did.

Astarion let the silence stretch. Long. Heavy. He didn’t have to talk. And Wyll didn’t press for it. Not like the others sometimes did.

“I hate this place...” Astarion muttered eventually, voice thin and hoarse. “It’s worse than the Underdark. At least down there, the monsters made sense.”

Wyll hummed, soft agreement.

“Everything here feels wrong. The air’s too thick, the shadows move when they shouldn’t, and the air is full of screaming that just hasn’t started up properly yet. And they want him—Gale—to throw himself into a glorious explosion to save us all...”

Still no platitudes. No “he won’t.” No “it won’t come to that.” Just the quiet.

“Can you believe that?” Astarion asked, sitting up halfway, bracing himself on an elbow. “He has a goddamn orb in his chest, and some high-and-mighty divine thinks he’s expendable because he dared to love her once, love her too much.... Because he wanted more. And now he might die and none of them seem to think it’s as fucked up as I do?”

Wyll’s head tilted. “We all think it’s fucked up.”

Astarion blinked. He let himself collapse back against the roll, staring at the tent ceiling like it would offer answers. His voice, when it came again, was softer. “Thank you.”

“I keep thinking about what she could do. What Mystra could do, if she only wanted. snap her fingers and fix it yeah? She’s a goddess. A real one. Not some parasite Hag in the woods whispering promises. And she still wants to use him. It.. it just makes me want to claw her eyes out.”

Still, Wyll said nothing to argue. Just let the storm work through him. After a while, Astarion turned his head. Looked at him, really looked. That strong, noble jaw. That tired little crease between his brows. That mouth, too soft for a place like this.

“Why are you here?” he asked. Not harsh. Not biting. Just… wondering.

Wyll looked at him, eyes steady. “Because you looked like you needed it.”

Astarion laughed. Just a little. It sounded like it cracked on the way out. “Gods, you’re too good for this world.”

“Not really.” Wyll murmured. “I just don’t want you thinking no one sees what you’re carrying.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Astarion reached out. Not to touch, but to place his hand between them, palm up. Open.

Wyll’s fingers found his without hesitation. No pressure. No questions. Just there. And for once, the quiet wasn’t so bad.

The campfire still burned beyond the tent. The shadows still whispered. But with Wyll beside him, Astarion didn’t feel like he was going to be swallowed whole.

He exhaled slowly, hand tightening just slightly in Wyll’s.

Chapter Text

The tent was quiet save for the soft flick of the torches outside, their golden light spilling faintly in through the seams. Scratch lay sprawled across the little carpet Astarion had insisted on dragging into the space—completely unbothered, tail flicking lazily, one ear twitching occasionally at the sound of the unnatural groaning far outside the light’s reach.

But inside the tent, it was warm. Close. And Wyll was there. Astarion had nearly fallen into trance there on his back, hand still clutching Wyll's, curled just enough to keep his distance without really keeping it. But then came that familiar voice—low, patient, so so tender.

"Do you need to feed?" Wyll asked, no pressure, no demand. Just… offering. As always.

Astarion stilled. He tried to remember the last time he had fed properly. Not just a few drops stolen here and there from a beast. Not the iron tang off the battlefield. But real proper feeding. Wyll. And he couldn’t remember. Which meant it had been too long.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he turned, quick, fluid, and reached for him. One hand slid behind Wyll’s neck, the other curling in the collar of his shirt. And then he tugged.

Wyll made a soft sound of surprise, but he came willingly, like he always did. Astarion’s fingers moved and caught on the base of one horn, pulling him in like it was a handle meant only for him, and then their mouths collided—hot and greedy, tongue against tongue, all sharp teeth and aching want. Wyll kissed back just as deeply. No hesitation. His hands came up to cradle Astarion’s waist, holding him steady even as the vampire crawled over him, straddling his lap with movement that was far too practiced, far too intentional.

And then he leaned down and mouthed against Wyll's neck—he bit. Not really gently. He sank his fangs in like he needed it, moaning into the side of Wyll’s throat as warm, rich blood rushed over his tongue. The sweetness of it, the heat—it hit him like a punch. Astarion shuddered. Pressed himself down harder. Grinding into Wyll’s lap like he couldn’t help it. Like his body demanded more the moment the first drop touched his tongue.

Wyll gasped softly—more from the sensation than the pain. He tilted his head, gave him more, always gave him more, the stupid kind man...

One hand curled around Astarion’s waist, the other slid up his back, fingers splayed wide, grounding him. Letting him take.

Astarion drank like he was starving, hips moving with slow, sinuous need. Every moan vibrated through Wyll’s skin. Every wet swallow was laced with pleasure. His cock was hard, pressed tight against Wyll’s stomach through the layers of fabric. He rutted against him, panting, needy in a way that was almost too raw.

Scratch stretched on the rug, rolled to one side, and let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a groan of dogged tolerance. His tail thumped lazily again.

Inside the tent, Astarion whined against Wyll’s neck, fangs still buried. He couldn’t stop himself. Feeding from him was too much. Too good. Wyll didn’t stop him. Didn’t ask him to slow down. Just held him. Let him grind and feed and make those soft, desperate little sounds that Astarion couldn't help but make.

When Astarion finally pulled back, lips and chin stained red, eyes burning—he stayed close. Breathing ragged, he licked over the bite, sealing it with a slow, reverent drag of his tongue. Then he buried his face in Wyll’s shoulder, still straddling him, still aching, but not saying a word. Just…being held.

Scratch gave a soft huff. 

Wyll’s hands, so steady even when Astarion was all teeth and need, shifted—slid from waist to back to shoulders—and then pulled. Not urgently. Not roughly. But firmly, like he wanted every inch of Astarion’s body pressed flush against him. Astarion let himself be moved, let himself be drawn into that warmth and steadiness and strength. His thighs tightened where they straddled Wyll’s lap, his hands fisting into the front of Wyll’s shirt as he gasped softly into the side of his neck, the taste of blood still bright in his mouth.

His mouth captured Astarion’s, deep and sure, tongue sweeping between parted lips to claim whatever Astarion hadn’t already taken. The kiss was slow, but not soft—it had heat, pressure, intent. There was something grounding in the way Wyll kissed him. Like he was anchoring him. Like he wanted him unraveled but still in control.

Astarion moaned, low in his throat, the sound swallowed by the kiss. His hips shifted, seeking friction, and that was when he felt it—him. The unmistakable hardness beneath him, matching his own, pressing up through Wyll’s trousers and nudging against the straining line of his own cock. The friction sent a shiver through him. Astarion arched subtly, deepening the kiss, grinding down in a way that made him gasp against Wyll’s lips, and gods, the man let him. No startled recoil this time, no fumbling retreat. Just strong arms circling tighter around him, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, holding him in place like Wyll didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Astarion melted into it. He gave in to the kiss fully, mouth working hungrily against Wyll’s, teeth grazing his lip, tongue sliding over his. His fingers clawed at the fabric of his shirt, anchoring himself to something solid as his body trembled with hunger and something deeper—need, raw and swollen, too much to name.

He ground down again, slower this time, and felt the hitch in Wyll’s breath, the subtle twitch of his hips in return. Their bodies moved in tandem, a slow, aching friction that teased and tormented without relief.

When the kiss finally broke, it was only for air—Astarion’s lips slick, swollen, his breath catching in the space between them. Wyll’s gaze was dark, pupils blown wide, lips parted. And he looked at him like he was precious and wanted.

Astarion’s voice came out wrecked. “You’re hard.”

Wyll’s smile was slow, dizzying. “Can you blame me...? Either way so are you.”

Astarion’s fingers trailed down Wyll’s chest, curling into the space between them. His entire body ached, throbbed, needed—and yet, he didn’t rush. He didn’t tear. He didn’t demand. He stayed where he was, panting against Wyll’s mouth, feeling that hard, insistent pressure between them and basking in the fact of it.

Wyll wanted him. Not as a monster. Not as a weapon. Not even as a tragedy. Just him.

Astarion knew that Wyll wanted to wait. He’d said it with that steady voice, low and kind, like it was a vow—When we have a bed, privacy, when it’s right… I want it to be proper, that he somehow deserved that. And gods, how Astarion had ached at that. Not with frustration. Not exactly. No, it was something far worse. Tenderness.

Because it wasn’t rejection, or just having him, because who in their right mind wouldn't? It was reverence. Wyll was honouring him in a way no one else ever had. And that was enough to make him mad with want.

He ground against Wyll again, slow and insistent, feeling that matching hardness trapped between them. His breath caught, his fingers flexing against Wyll’s chest, and he almost said it—Just this once. Let me. Take me. Please. He didn’t care how. Who bent who. Who held who down. He wanted to be filled or to fill, to fuck or be fucked—it didn’t matter. Just wanted. He’d bend Wyll over right here, press his face into the sleeping roll and take him slow, gentle if that’s what he needed. Or he’d let Wyll throw him down, split him open and leave him marked. Gods, he would beg for it, offer himself up, bare and desperate, if Wyll would just—

But Wyll kissed him again. Sweet, deep, steadying. And Astarion whimpered into it, because he knew. Still no. It wasn’t a hard no. It was a promise. Not yet.

And Astarion wanted to scream with the force of it, with the ache in his gut and the throb between his legs that wouldn’t let up, because he wasn’t used to waiting... Or rather, he wasn’t used to being worth the wait.

But that wouldn't stop him from doing other things. Wyll’s hands roamed now, slow and deliberate—down his back, over his hips, tracing the shape of him like he was something beautiful to be admired, not just used. Astarion trembled, teeth scraping over his own lip as Wyll’s palm cupped his arse, squeezing just enough to make his cock twitch where it strained in his trousers.

“Fuck-” Astarion gasped, grinding harder, chasing friction, chasing something.

Wyll pulled him closer still, their cocks pressed tight together, the heat between them building unbearably.

Astarion hissed, pressing his forehead to Wyll’s. “You drive me mad, you know that? I want to crawl inside you—I want you inside me—I don’t care how, just that it happens.”

Wyll chuckled softly, voice like a velvet rasp even as his cheeks flushed. “I know. I want it too.”

“Then why—”

“Because I love you,” Wyll murmured. “And you deserve more than a rushed fuck in a half cursed tent while a dog watches us...”

Astarion, cheeks warm and flushed at that comment glanced back to the entrance. Scratch was still on the rug, now chewing on his paw, tail wagging once at the attention.

“He is unbothered...” Astarion said faintly. “Thoroughly used to our nonsense. I assure you he wouldn't mind, and if he makes a fuzz, Halsin can take the mong-”

Wyll smiled, thumbing along Astarion’s lips, shushing him. “Still. I want you in a bed. I want you comfortable. I want to be able to take my time.”

And gods help him, Astarion melted again, how did this man have such control of him, why did it make his body feel all wrong and so right at the same time... the want—oh, the want—never eased. It just simmered, deeper than before. Sweeter. Worse.

So he let his hands move instead—down Wyll’s chest, over his belt, teasing just beneath the waistband of his trousers. Wyll hissed softly when Astarion palmed him through the fabric, hard and hot and utterly his.

“I’m not asking for everything right now...” Astarion said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But let me give you this. Let me show you what you do to me.”

Wyll’s breath hitched. 

Astarion shifted with purpose, his knees sliding against the bedroll as he lowered himself down, dragging kisses along Wyll’s jaw, then down his neck—soft and reverent now, where his fangs had once sunk deep. The taste of blood still lingered faintly on his tongue, copper and sweet, but it was desire that drove him now, not that hunger.

Wyll was pushed slowly back, now braced on his elbows, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was already uneven. His shirt was rumpled from where Astarion had fisted it earlier, and now it hung open, exposing the smooth warmth of his skin and the firm, scarred lines of his abdomen.

Astarion kissed every inch he passed—along the sternum, over the ridge of an old blade wound, down the faint ripple of muscle that tensed beneath his mouth. The trail of kisses turned wetter, hungrier. He nuzzled along Wyll’s hipbone, fingers already tugging at the laces of his trousers, breath hot against skin.

Wyll let out a breath—steady, but shaken at the edges. “You don’t have to—”

Astarion looked up, eyes glowing faint in the low torchlight, lips already swollen from earlier kisses. “Darling,” he purred, fingers slipping beneath the waistband, “if you think I don’t want to put my mouth on you, I fear I’ve been terribly unclear so far.”

He slid the trousers down slowly, dragging them past hips, thighs, down to where they bunched at the knees. And then—he took a moment. Just to look. Gods, he was beautiful. Hard already, flushed and thick, twitching slightly in the cool air. Astarion licked his lips, hunger curling low in his belly again—different from before.

“Mind the teeth...” he said silkily, gaze flicking up with a wicked glint. “Though I am very good at minding them. But I thought it only fair to warn the devilishly handsome man I’m about to suck off.”

Wyll’s breath stuttered. “N-noted.”

And then—Astarion lowered his mouth. He started slow. A warm lick along the underside, tongue dragging up the vein, deliberate and slow. Then the head, slick with precome, his tongue flicking against the slit before he wrapped his lips around it and took him in inch by inch.

Wyll’s hands found his hair, fingers gentle, not really guiding—just there. A deep groan escaped him, bitten down almost immediately. Wyll breathed out “Gods-” like a prayer, low and aching.

Astarion moaned around him, the sound vibrating down his cock, and took more, relaxing his throat just enough to slide down further. His hands gripped Wyll’s hips, not restraining but holding, feeling every twitch and tremble as every muscle underneath tried not to buck.

He sucked slow, expertly, letting his tongue swirl, his pace patient and indulgent. He wanted to ruin him, yes, but he wanted to please him even more. Wanted Wyll to fall apart under his mouth and know, know, that Astarion wanted this. Wanted him.

Wyll’s voice broke through in a strained whisper. “Astarion… gods, that feels—” He swallowed his own moan. “You feel incredible.”

Astarion looked up again, hollowing his cheeks, lips stretched and eyes glowing in the lamplight, reflecting back like a cat. He hummed low in his throat, the vibrations pulling a strangled sound from Wyll that might’ve been a curse if it hadn’t caught on his tongue.

Scratch, gave a soft huff and yawned from the rug.

But Astarion didn’t pay attention to the damn dog now. Not really. His world had narrowed to this: Wyll’s heat in his mouth, the trembling of his thighs, the weight of his cock pressing deeper each time Astarion moved, licked, took. How he could hear his heart thunder behind his ribs, feel the veins echo it in his mouth. 

The sounds Wyll made were beautiful. Low and rough, like they’d been dragged out of his chest against his will—sharp exhales, quiet curses half-swallowed, and soft, reverent gasps that made Astarion’s spine arch with need. They were almost enough to make him spill in his own trousers, painfully hard where he was rutting faintly into the bedroll for friction as he swallowed around the thick weight of him. Almost. But not quite.

Wyll’s hands slid into his hair then again—warm, steady, fingers threading through the pale strands with a tenderness that made Astarion whimper around him. For a second—a breathless, aching second—Astarion thought Wyll would take control then. Thought he might grip tighter, push himself deeper, fuck into his mouth like he meant it. Gods, the thought. It sent a thrill through him, white-hot and filthy. He’d let him. Happily. Eagerly. Take him all the way down, make his eyes water, use his throat until he couldn’t speak for how full he’d been.

But no. Wyll’s hands remained gentle. Stroking. Petting. Like he didn’t want to hurt him. Like he didn’t trust himself to move. The restraint was devastating. And sweet. And so Wyll it was infuriating. Astarion let his mouth slide off him with slow, wet deliberation. His tongue dragged down the shaft as he pulled back, lips parting with a soft pop as he licked the taste from his lips and looked up—eyes gleaming, cheeks flushed, mouth red and wet.

“You can go harder, you know,” he said, voice low, purring. “You can thrust. Use me, if you want. I don’t need to breathe, and—” He smiled, sharp and wicked. “I have no gag reflex.”

Wyll blinked. And then he blushed. So hard and fast it was like watching flame catch silk—his ears, his cheeks, even the hollow of his throat flushed a deep, brilliant red.

“I—” he started, voice breaking slightly. “You—you can’t just say things like that and expect me to remain chivalrous.”

Astarion’s grin widened, pleased beyond measure. He leaned up slowly, crawling along Wyll’s body until they were chest to chest again, Wyll’s cock still slick between them, trapped between their bellies.

“Why not?” Astarion asked, breath hot against Wyll’s jaw. “It’s the truth. And you, my sweet, handsome, utterly gorgeous Blade, look like you’re about to combust.”

“I am,” Wyll groaned, eyes fluttering shut as Astarion kissed along his throat. “Gods, you’re going to be the end of me.”

“Mm,” Astarion purred, licking just under his ear. “Not yet, darling. I’m not done with you you see...”

And he truly wasn’t. Not until Wyll was gasping his name and coming undone under his hands, his voice spilling out in those soft, perfect sounds that Astarion would crave for nights to come.

Chapter Text

Astarion didn’t stay nestled against Wyll’s chest for long. The feel of him—warm, panting, flushed beneath him—was like a drug. Every breath Wyll took made his skin tremble, and Astarion felt it, every little shift of tension in those lean, perfect muscles. He wanted more. Gods, he wanted everything.

So he kissed his way back down. A slow, wet trail of reverent worship—mouth soft at first, pressing open-mouthed kisses along Wyll’s sternum, then nipping lightly at his ribs, the gentle ridges of old scars. His tongue flicked over them, as if he could rewrite the pain they’d been born from, leaving something warmer in their wake.

Wyll moaned again, low and lovely, head tipped back against the bedroll, one hand curling into the blanket beneath them, the other sliding weakly down to Astarion’s shoulder as if he didn’t trust his hand to behave in his hair. Astarion grinned against the skin just below Wyll’s navel.

“Oh, my sweet thing…” he murmured, just loud enough to be heard over Wyll’s shaky breathing, “the very first bed I see—gods help you... You’re getting thrown onto it.”

Wyll’s hips jerked at that, a helpless little motion, and his groan was nothing short of wrecked.

“You will feel my wrath..” Astarion went on, licking slow, wet circles lower, dragging his teeth lightly just for the reaction. “If it’s got legs, a mattress, or even just something mildly soft, you’re done for. No more waiting. I’m going to ride you until you forget your own name and purpose...”

Wyll whimpered—whimpered—and Astarion could feel how hard he twitched in the open air. He looked up briefly, lips parted, tongue darting to taste the precum already beading at the tip.

“And I expect you to do the same, of course,” he added, voice sultry and raw. “I’ll have waited so long by then… it would be cruel if you didn’t fuck me absolutely senseless.”

Wyll looked like he’d been struck by lightning. Red-faced, slack-jawed, pupil blown wide, he could only nod, his breath coming short and fast, hips jerking once before he caught himself.

“That’s what I thought..” Astarion whispered, then—finally—took him into his mouth again.

And this time, Wyll didn’t quite manage to stay still. Wyll's hips moved. Just a little at first—tentative, like he was testing the waters, unsure if it was really allowed. His breath hitched as his cock slid deeper into Astarion’s mouth, guided not by force, but by want.

And Astarion moaned. The sound was deep, obscene, and it vibrated along the length of Wyll’s cock in a way that made his hips jerk again, a little sharper, a little bolder. That was all the encouragement Astarion needed. He let out another needy little whimper, one that spoke of satisfaction, of yes, more, do that again, and his hands slid from Wyll’s thighs up to his hips—firm and wanting.

He dug his fingers in just enough to leave the promise of bruises. He didn’t guide him, not exactly. He invited. Gave permission without words. And Wyll moved. Slick and slow at first, but deeper. Each thrust more confident, more deep. He was holding back still, the gentleman in him warring with the need etched into every trembling muscle, but Astarion could feel it—that tension, that aching restraint—and gods, it turned him on even more.

Astarion sucked harder in response, hollowing his cheeks, flattening his tongue and moaning like he was being fucked, not just fed. He wanted it—wanted Wyll to move, to take, to use him, and every sound he made, every twitch of his fingers digging into Wyll’s hips told him so. He pulled Wyll in closer, groaning low and desperate, letting the head of his cock hit the back of his throat—no flinch, no gag, just eager submission.

Wyll’s voice broke—barely a whisper. “Astarion—gods—if you keep—”

Astarion moaned around him again, as if to say yes, that’s the point, and dragged his nails up the backs of Wyll’s thighs.

And Wyll, finally—finally—gave in. He began to fuck into Astarion’s mouth, slow but with purpose, each thrust deep and smooth, trembling with the effort to keep it from spiraling out of control. His hands tangled in Astarion’s hair again, not yanking, just holding—anchoring.

And Astarion took it all. Took him, like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Like he’d been made to do this. No, not made—not crafted for this, not born to please. Astarion had lived under that kind of thought for far too long. The idea that his body was a tool, a weapon, a lure. That pleasure was just another performance. That if he made someone moan, they wouldn’t notice the way he was. That if he was good enough—obedient enough—he’d survive another day.

But this wasn’t that. Not with Wyll. There was nothing filthy in it. No shame, no degradation pretending to be praise. No script he was forced to follow. Just want. Just him.

Wyll moved inside his mouth, slow and reverent even as his control began to fray, and Astarion wanted it. Gods, he wanted it. Not because he had to, not because it earned him affection or safety, but because it was Wyll. And Wyll made it feel like more than hunger and heat. There was no guise. No pretense.

He sucked him like it was heaven. Like he enjoyed it—because he did. The taste of him on his tongue, the sound of his voice, the grip of his fingers tangled in Astarion’s hair—it was all so intimate, so devastatingly tender.

Wyll wasn’t pushing him. He wasn’t thrusting to the edge of cruelty, wasn’t asking for anything beyond what Astarion gave. And that—that—was what made Astarion want to give him everything. He moaned again, throat flexing around him, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed closer, hands now splayed over Wyll’s hips to feel every little tremble, every stuttered breath.

This wasn’t survival.This was wanting. This was freedom.

And it tasted like heat and salt and Wyll—and it was the most human Astarion had felt in.. well as long as he could remember.

The way Wyll’s breath hitched, caught in his throat like he was trying to hold it in, to behave, even now—like his body didn’t want to betray him, but it was. The small, choked whimpers he let out with each thrust, the tension building under his skin like a storm barely contained.Oh, he was close. Astarion could feel it. And gods, his hands—those steady, careful hands—tightened in Astarion’s hair, no longer just holding, but gripping, as if he needed something to anchor him while the rest of him unraveled.

He’d learned to read people like scripture, written in heat and skin and sound. But with Wyll, he didn’t need centuries of experience. The signs were clear, honest, raw. He hollowed his cheeks again, taking Wyll deep, swallowing around him with practiced, eager ease. His own cock was aching, untouched and straining in his trousers, but he didn’t care. Not right now. All that mattered was Wyll—gorgeous, flushed, trembling beneath him, on the edge of breaking.

Astarion moaned low in his throat, letting the vibration roll down Wyll’s length, encouraging him, urging him on. His hands splayed wide over Wyll’s thighs, holding him there, inviting him to move as much as he needed.

He glanced up once, eyes half-lidded, lips stretched wide and wet around Wyll’s cock—and gods, the way Wyll looked back at him, mouth open, eye dark and dazed, face flushed that perfect shade of red—It was everything.

He could feel it, in the tension of Wyll’s stomach. In the way his thighs trembled. In the stutter of his hips, the whimpering breaths he couldn’t quite silence.

So Astarion went slower—then deeper—then faster. Just a little. Just enough. And he knew. He knew. Wyll was about to come. And Astarion wanted every drop.

Wyll’s grip tightened—firm, almost trembling now—his fingers curling in Astarion’s hair like he was holding on for dear life. And maybe he was. His hips stuttered, unsure whether to press forward or pull back, caught in the thick, dizzy haze of pleasure that was cresting hard and fast. Astarion felt the shift—sensed it in every part of Wyll’s body beneath his hands. The way his thighs trembled, the heat rolling off him, the strangled, choked moan that escaped between clenched teeth.

That sound—that sound—nearly sent Astarion over the edge without being touched. It was beautiful, raw and helpless, and it told him everything he needed to know.

So Astarion took him deeper. No hesitation. No pause. Just opened his throat, lips stretched wide, and swallowed him down until the head of Wyll’s cock nudged the back of his throat and he held him there.

That was all it took. Wyll let out a broken gasp—Astarion’s name, wrecked and glorious—and came. Hot and thick, his release hit the back of Astarion’s throat in pulsing waves, and Astarion drank. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back, just held, hands anchoring Wyll’s hips, mouth working him through it with practiced, reverent ease.

Wyll whimpered, full body tensing, hips rocking once before stilling. His hands in Astarion’s hair loosened, fingers trembling where they had once gripped so tightly, brushing over strands like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now. Astarion swallowed again, slow, licking the head of his cock once more—just to tease, just to hear the gasp that spilled out of Wyll’s mouth as his body jolted, oversensitive now.

He finally pulled back with a wet pop, lips red and glistening, tongue sliding lazily over his bottom lip as he looked up at Wyll—utterly smug, flushed with heat, and utterly pleased with himself. Wyll was panting, reclined back now with one arm flung over his eyes, the other weakly resting on Astarion’s head. His shirt was askew, the scarred muscle beneath flushed and rising with every breath, and his cock twitched faintly against his thigh—softening, still glistening with spit.

Astarion crawled back up his body, every movement slow and indulgent, and pressed a kiss to Wyll’s collarbone, then his throat, then finally his lips.

“Delicious..” he whispered against them, voice a velvet purr. “You spoil me, darling.”

Wyll’s arm slid off his face. His eyes—still dark, still hazy—found Astarion’s, and he smiled. Small. Stunned. Warm.

“You’re going to kill me one of these days,” he murmured hoarsely. Astarion grinned and kissed him again, biting his lip just enough to sting.

“Oh, I hope not,” he whispered, licking the bite. “You haven’t even seen what I’m like in an actual bed yet.”

Wyll groaned, helpless laughter mixing with the remnants of his orgasm. He pulled Astarion closer, arms wrapping around him, holding him to his chest. 

Wyll hadn’t moved in a long while, but Astarion didn’t mind. Quite the opposite. The longer he lay there beneath him, breath slowly evening out, skin flushed and damp, the more Astarion found himself savoring it—every inch of him. He kept kissing him. Soft, wet presses of his mouth against Wyll’s collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the tender place just beneath his ear. His lips trailed the length of old scars with something that might have been reverence, his tongue flicking playfully at the edge of Wyll’s jaw just to feel the man shiver beneath him again.

Astarion nipped once, gently, at Wyll’s throat—just enough to make him twitch and sigh. And Wyll, impossibly good, impossibly kind, let him. Not a word of protest. No hurried words of “you don’t have to” or “I should go.” Just his hands, resting lightly on Astarion’s back, over his scars, fingers splayed wide as if memorizing the feel of him. The heat of those palms seeped through Astarion’s skin, settling low in his stomach like wine.

It was almost enough to forget where they were.To pretend they weren’t nestled in a tent perched on the edge of cursed darkness. To ignore the sound of the unnatural wind screaming just beyond the lights, or the way the shadows twitched like living things too cowardly to breach their firelit ring. Almost. But not quite.

Astarion exhaled against Wyll’s throat, brushing the tip of his nose along the man’s pulse, which was still fluttering faintly beneath the skin.

“If I could keep you here,” he murmured, letting his lips graze the edge of Wyll’s jaw, “pressed beneath me until whatever passes as sun rises here… I would. But I suspect Halsin might come knocking with some urgent nonsense about ‘keeping guard’ and ruin the mood enteriely.”

Wyll chuckled—soft, breathless.  The sound made Astarion’s stomach flutter. He grinned, sharp teeth barely catching on Wyll’s skin as he moved to kiss him again. And again. Lower. A little slower.

“I should be absolutely ravaged by now,” he drawled. “Impaled by the famed Blade of Frontiers, bruised from all your righteous love-making…” His voice dropped, wicked and low. “Yet here I am. Tragically intact.”

Wyll’s fingers tightened slightly on his hips, a wordless answer, a tremble of patience that Astarion both admired and loathed.

“I’ll make you a promise,” he whispered, mouth ghosting over Wyll’s ribs, “the very first bed we see—no rocks, no moss, no cackling undead within earshot—I’m going to throw you on it. And then I’m going to let you decide how much of a gentleman you really want to be, hmm?”

Wyll’s breath caught. His hips arched faintly. Not much—but enough. Astarion nipped again, teeth dragging just enough to make the man gasp. And gods, it was almost too much. The tent was too warm. The air too thick with the smell of sweat, and blood, and something sweeter underneath it all—want. His own cock was still hard, aching between his thighs, and every time Wyll so much as shifted, the friction of it sent sparks up his spine.

Still, he didn’t move to finish it. Not yet. Not when he could keep kissing. Keep tasting. Keep this moment, drawn out and soaked in tension, in need, in the illusion that nothing else existed beyond this tent. His hands smoothed along Wyll’s sides, slow and idle, and he sighed contentedly against his skin.

“This,” he murmured, “is almost enough to pretend we’re not in a shadow-blighted hellhole.”

Wyll was still beneath him, warm and pliant, lips parted just enough to let out those little sighs Astarion had grown addicted to—like sin breathing through reverence. And Astarion, gods, he wanted him. The kind of want that crawled under his skin and burned. He kissed down again, slow and claiming, licking the sweat from Wyll’s chest, dragging his tongue over the soft plane of his stomach until Wyll shivered. The hand in his hair tightened, not to stop him—no, never that—but to feel. Like Wyll couldn’t quite believe he had him like this.

Astarion smiled against his skin.

“You’re too good,” he murmured, nipping the sensitive edge of Wyll’s hipbone. “I should be beneath you. Or bent over for you. Or both, if you feel particularly motivated.” He shifted his hips, grinding down with more intent now, and hissed at the delicious pressure of their bodies sliding together.

Wyll moaned—low, breathy, helpless. His hips arched up into the friction without thinking, and Astarion’s breath caught sharply. He wanted him. Now. With nothing between them. He wanted Wyll to pin him, to grind against him until they were both shaking, to suck bruises into his neck and take, even if it wasn’t all the way. And fuck waiting… Who cared if Karlach heard? Or Gale made some flushed remark about “camp noise levels”? Let them listen. Let them hear how Wyll made him whimper, how he begged with his body.

Astarion kissed him again—harder now. Not playful. Not teasing. Desperate. Wyll met him there, mouth hot and wet, hand gripping the back of his neck as their bodies rutted together in slow, maddening friction. The slide of cock against cock through too-thin fabric, damp with sweat and precome, was almost painful in how good it felt.

“You did promise–” Wyll rasped, breaking the kiss, voice tight with restraint.

Astarion laughed, breathless. “I did. Like some dreadful, self-flagellating priest. And yet…” He rolled his hips again, moaning softly as their cocks pressed together, leaking, twitching. “Look at you. Feel how hard I am for you? And I’m supposed to pretend I don’t want to fuck you through this stupid bedroll?”

Wyll groaned, fingers digging into Astarion’s waist. “You’re not making this easy.”

“Darling, I’m not trying to.” He kissed down Wyll’s throat again, grinding harder now, his own cock aching with every pass. His trousers were wet at the front, every thrust a slow torture of denied pleasure. He could feel Wyll’s pulse under his tongue, his body trembling beneath him. His thighs spread slightly as Astarion rutted against him, giving him space, as if inviting more.

“You could—” Wyll started, but Astarion cut him off with another kiss, swallowing the words.

“I could, yes,” he murmured when he finally pulled away. “I could take care of both of us. My mouth, my hand…” He dragged his fingers down Wyll’s stomach, circling just above the hem of his trousers. “But you wanted to wait. Remember?” He leaned in, licked at the corner of Wyll’s lips. “Wanted it to be proper.”

“I do…” Wyll said, but it came out like a confession. Like a sin.

“And I’ll keep my bloody promise to you cause..” Astarion whispered, biting at his jaw. “But I want you writhing beneath me anyway. I want to hear you. Let the others know whose name you moan here in the dark.”

He stays within the rules. Of course he does. Wyll’s rules—spoken gently, firmly, and held like a line in the sand Astarion had agreed not to cross. And truly, he was trying. He hadn’t bent Wyll over and fucked him into the bedroll, hadn’t ridden him until he begged. He hadn’t even—gods help him—let Wyll fuck him, despite how much every nerve in his body screamed for it. He was behaving. But only just.

Because Wyll looked ruined already, without a single thrust between them.Some of the braids loosening, sweat clinging to his temple, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, lips red from kissing and bitten from trying to stay quiet.

And that look on his face. That overwhelmed, barely-held-together, pleasure-drunk look that made Astarion’s stomach twist with need. And worse than that? The way he kept whispering please. Not for more. Not for harder. Not even for release.

Just his name. Just "please, Astarion." Like he wanted him. Like he trusted him.

And that—that was unbearable. Because Wyll wasn’t just good in bed. Wasn’t just handsome and charming and frustratingly chivalrous. He was good in the deepest sense. He offered his blood without fear. Sat in the tent with him when Astarion was too furious to speak. Touched his scars without asking where they came from. Touched him like he was someone to actually cherish.

Astarion wanted to spoil him. Wanted to keep him trembling under his mouth, hips twitching every time he licked over him. He wanted to fuck him so well that Wyll forgot his devil’s oath. Wanted to make him forget propriety and his damned knighthood and doing things properly, and just writhe. Just come apart. He mouthed down Wyll’s hip again, then lower, kissing the soft skin of his inner thigh, letting his fangs scrape gently—teasing, always teasing—before licking the spot to soothe it. Wyll’s thighs trembled.

“Astarion—”

“Mmhmm?” he purred, voice soaked in sin as his fingers trailed up Wyll’s stomach. “Something you want, darling?”

“I—no. I just…” Wyll moaned, head tipping back. 

Astarion grinned, pressing kisses along his hip, inching dangerously close to his still-aching cock before veering off again, sliding up Wyll’s body like a slow, sensual wave.

“Darling…” he whispered “make it very difficult to behave.” He ground against him again, slow and hard, both of them leaking now, clothes damp and sticking where they rubbed.

“I want to worship you,” Astarion murmured between kisses, breath catching as Wyll’s hands clutched his back. “You’re so good, Wyll. So fucking good. You make me want to be good, too.”

He kissed him again, hard and deep, rocking against him with slow, torturous friction. “But just for tonight,” he hissed against his lips, “let me spoil you wicked.”

And he did—every kiss, every touch, every muffled moan wrung from Wyll’s throat was proof. He didn’t break the rules. But gods, he bent them until they screamed. Wyll had pulled him up, breathless and flushed, his hands sliding along Astarion’s back with a kind of reverence that only made everything worse. Better. Worse.

They kissed again—slow and deep, mouths meeting like they’d done it a hundred times and still wanted more. Astarion moaned into it, pressing his hips down hard, grinding against the solid heat of Wyll’s body, chasing friction with a fever that never quite broke. And when Wyll’s hands roamed, tugging him tighter, when his hips arched up helplessly beneath him, Astarion slipped his hand between them, curled his fingers around the hard, twitching length of Wyll’s cock, and worked.

He didn’t go fast. No—his strokes were slow, wet from earlier, precise. Like a promise and a punishment all at once. And as he kissed him—bit his lip, licked into his mouth—he started to speak. Low and filthy, his voice practically a purr.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispered, dragging his hand up Wyll’s cock, thumb smearing precome over the flushed head. “You look at me with that softness in your eye, say my name like it means something, and all I can think about is how badly I want you to bend me over the nearest bed and fuck me so hard I forget I was ever anything before you.”

Wyll groaned, lips parting, hips bucking up into his hand. Astarion smiled against his cheek. Didn’t stop.

“I want to ride you. Slow at first. Just to feel every inch of you sink into me. And then faster. Until I’m shaking. Until you’re gripping my hips like you think I’ll fall apart, and maybe I will.”

Wyll’s breath hitched—he choked on it, really. The sound shot straight to Astarion’s cock, still pressed against Wyll’s hip, throbbing, untouched.

“I’d be so good for you,” he whispered, kissing the shell of Wyll’s ear, voice wicked silk. “Let you fill me up, leave me leaking, whining for more. Let the others hear. Let them know who wrecks me like that.”

Wyll made a sound like he was trying not to come just from hearing it. His hips jerked up into Astarion’s hand again, chasing the friction, caught in that knife’s edge of restraint and need.

“I’d wrap my legs around you,” Astarion went on, voice softer now, darker. “Claw at your back, beg you to stay inside, even when it’s too much. You’d make me come just from the way you fuck me. I know you would.”

Wyll was panting now, hips moving helplessly, cock slick and hard in Astarion’s hand. His name fell from Wyll’s lips again, a breathless prayer, a curse, a plea. Astarion licked a stripe along Wyll’s throat, then nipped, dragging his teeth over flushed skin.

“But not tonight…” he whispered, stroking him harder now, faster. “Tonight you’ll come in my hand. And I’ll watch your face. I’ll memorize the sound you make when you break.”

Wyll came with a stifled cry, spilling over Astarion’s fingers, hips jerking up in desperate little thrusts. His whole body arched, trembled, shook, and Astarion moaned at the sight of him like that—wrecked and undone and perfect. He stayed close afterward, lips brushing soft along Wyll’s temple, hand easing to gentler strokes as Wyll’s breathing slowed, as the tension eased out of his body in warm, sated waves. Astarion kissed his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. Whispered one last thing against his skin—low, fond, and still thick with want:

“And when we do finally fuck, my dear Blade… the gods themselves will blush.”

Astarion was still aching. His cock strained against the front of his trousers, every brush of fabric a cruel tease. His hair was an absolute mess—tumbled curls wild from where Wyll’s fingers had been buried in them, sticking to his flushed cheeks and forehead. He could feel the warmth in his skin, the bloom of color across his chest and throat, made possible only because Wyll’s blood still surged hot through his veins.

He felt alive with it. Still panting from the intensity of everything he’d just done to Wyll. The taste of him was still thick in his mouth, the scent of sex clinging to the heavy air of the tent. Wyll lay beside him, soft now, wrecked and radiant, one arm behind his head, the other resting lazily across his stomach, chest still rising and falling from the aftershocks. He watched Astarion. Just watched him, with those steady, dark eyes that made it feel like the whole world had narrowed to this tent, this moment.

And Astarion—he couldn’t bear it. He shifted onto his back, legs parted slightly, one hand sliding down his stomach to undo the front of his trousers. The sound of the fastenings coming undone felt loud in the silence. He wrapped his fingers around himself with a soft, broken sound, already so close. His body was electric. Burning. Wyll’s blood, Wyll’s hands, Wyll’s voice still echoed in his skull like a fever dream. He stroked himself with quick, practiced motions—didn’t need to tease, didn’t want to. He was soaked with want, precome smeared across his fingers, his length flushed and twitching with need.

Wyll didn’t say a word. He just turned toward him more fully, propped himself on one elbow, gaze fixed on Astarion with something close to awe. It was too much. Astarion moaned softly, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, his legs falling open further as he chased the edge.

And then—Wyll spoke.

"You’re beautiful like this."

Astarion broke.

He gasped, hips stuttering as he came with a low, desperate cry, his hand jerking once, twice more as thick ropes spilled over his stomach.

The sound he made was obscene—soft and hungry, lips parted around a shuddering breath, spine arched off the bedroll.

He lay there after, breathing hard, blinking up at the tent ceiling like he’d forgotten where he was.

“…Fuck.” he muttered weakly, voice ruined.

Wyll smiled, reaching out to gently push a curl back from his damp forehead.

Astarion just closed his eyes, swallowed, and let himself feel—the heat of his body, the cooling mess on his stomach, Wyll’s eyes still on him like he was something worth worshipping.

It was almost unbearable how much he wanted to do that man justice in wanting him, he really was a sentimental fool…

They lay in the thick quiet that follows pleasure, when the heat hasn’t quite left the air, and the world feels slower—softened by sweat and breath and the heavy press of limbs gone loose with satisfaction. Astarion let himself float there, eyes closed, one hand still draped lazily over his stomach, the other curled into the bedroll. His body thrummed with the last flickers of his orgasm, each pulse fading gently, replaced now with something softer.

And then—movement. The shift of weight beside him. A slow, careful rustling. He opened his eyes just enough to see Wyll sit up, still flushed, but already reaching for the small cloth tucked in Astarion’s bag. Astarion huffed a quiet, breathless laugh. “You keep spoiling me…” he murmured.

Wyll just smiled, folding the cloth with one hand, dampening a corner with the waterskin, and leaned in. He started with Astarion’s stomach, wiping away the thick, cooling mess with slow, gentle strokes. Careful, precise, as if Astarion were something fragile. As if even this mattered.

Astarion let him. He didn’t even make a lewd comment about being cleaned up after being so thoroughly spent. His throat was too tight for it. Wyll’s hand lingered at his hip, warm and steady, and then he cleaned his own stomach, slower now, a bit clumsier from where his limbs were still heavy with the afterglow.

A faint rustling drew their attention, and both of them turned toward the tent’s opening. Scratch had stirred from his blanket, lifting his head slowly with a sleepy huff. One ear perked. He blinked at them once—sleepy, unimpressed—and laid back down with a soft groan like gods, again? before curling up tighter, nose tucked beneath one paw.

Astarion snorted. “Even the damned beast is judging us now...”

“I think he’s just glad it’s quiet again.” Wyll said with a lopsided grin, wiping his fingers one last time and tossing the cloth aside.

He settled beside Astarion again, on his side now, one arm sliding under the pillow to curl around him. And Astarion, still flushed, still glowing from blood and bliss, let himself be pulled in. Just enough. Just close enough to feel Wyll’s heartbeat again, steady against his cheek. He exhaled, long and slow.

It was hell outside. Cursed shadows and death and the constant weight of danger. But here—here, in this little pocket of warmth and firelight—it was almost enough to pretend he was safe.