Illumoria

You kneel beside him, gathering the scattered materials. “You’re just being dramatic.”

“I am NEVER dramatic,” he gasps.

You give him a pointed look.

“Well… hardly ever,” he amends.

You begin bending a long evergreen strand into a curve. Astarion watches warily, like the plant might suddenly attack him again.

“How do you even know how to do that?” he asks.

“I used to help make decorations in my village,” you explain. “It’s simple. Look—bend here, weave here, and—”

You tuck a sprig through the loop. The shape begins to form.

Astarion leans closer, curiosity winning over disdain. “Hmph. It’s starting to look like something. Still pointless. But… symmetrical. I can respect symmetry.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Here. Try adding some berries.”

His nose wrinkles. “You want me to… what? Handle tiny spheres of fruit like some sort of woodland servant?”

“Astarion.”

He sighs heavily.

“Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”

He plucks a cluster of red berries between elegant fingers and hesitantly places it among the greenery. His tongue sticks out slightly in focus—something he’d deny to his grave.

You smile. “That’s perfect.”

“It IS, isn’t it?” He brightens immediately. “I’ve always had impeccable taste.”

He adds another. Then another. Then he gets carried away.

“Careful,” you warn, “you’re overcrowding it.”

He freezes mid-placement. “Excuse me. I do not ‘overcrowd.’ I embellish.”

You laugh so hard you nearly drop a ribbon.

And something in Astarion softens—just a flicker.

Finally, when the wreath is full and bright and beautifully shaped, you lift it up. “See? Not so frightening.”

He tilts his head, examining it. “It’s… attractive,” he admits reluctantly. “In a rustic, provincial kind of way.”

“You helped.”

He smiles, smug and pleased.

“Oh I know.”

You lift the wreath toward him. “Hold it up.”

“Why?”

“So I can see how it looks hung on something.”

He raises it obediently—then startles when you move behind him and slip the wreath around his head like a giant crown.

“Astari—HEY—!”

You burst into laughter.

He stands frozen, framed by green branches and red berries like some forest deity caught off guard.

“I look RIDICULOUS,” he says.

“You look festive.”

“I look like a druid’s fever dream.”

You reach up and adjust a stray branch. “You look cute.”

He stops talking.

Completely.

His lips part just slightly. His eyes soften, confusion and warmth battling for dominance.

“…cute?” he repeats quietly.

You nod.

Slowly, he lifts a hand and touches the side of the wreath like he’s unsure how to react—then he huffs, failing to hide the shy smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning just an inch closer, “if it’s you saying it… perhaps I don’t mind looking ridiculous.”

You gently remove the wreath.

He catches your hand before it falls.

“Let’s hang it somewhere we’ll both see it,” he says softly. “A reminder of… this.”

The moment he won’t name.

He glances at you.

“But I suppose I can make an exception for you.”

You smile and lift your gaze. “The stars are beautiful tonight.”

“Are they?”

His tone isn’t dismissive—just distant. Pensive.

“You don’t think so?”

“Oh, no,” he says, stepping closer, “they’re stunning. But beauty tends to lose its charm when it’s been hanging above you for two centuries, indifferent and unreachable.”

His eyes linger on the constellations in a way that suggests the night sky feels more like a locked door than something to admire.

“They’re still worth looking at,” you say softly. “Even if they don’t change.”

Astarion scoffs lightly. “Spoken like someone who has not stared at the same view for lifetimes.”

You bump his shoulder gently. “Maybe you just needed better company.”

He opens his mouth—to tease you, no doubt—but stops.

Completely stops.

Because a single star overhead brightens, flaring across the sky in a long, brilliant streak.

A shooting star.

You gasp softly. “Did you see—”

“Yes,” he says quietly. No sarcasm. No dramatic flourish. Just one breath of wonder.

You watch it disappear beyond the horizon.

Astarion watches you.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low, “there was a time when I believed shooting stars were omens.”

“Good ones or bad ones?”

He shrugs one elegant shoulder. “Depends whom you asked. But I always thought of them as… indulgences. Little moments the world allowed itself, brief and beautiful.”

You tilt your head. “That sounds like something you’d appreciate.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs—too quickly.

But you see it.

The softness he’s trying to hide.

You pluck a tiny star-shaped snowflake from your sleeve and hold it up. “Even the snow is getting in on the theme.”

He steps closer, inspecting it with exaggerated seriousness. “Hmph. I suppose even the weather is trying to imitate me now. Naturally.”

You roll your eyes. “Everything’s not about you.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear without touching. “Isn’t it?”

Your breath catches.

The starflake melts between your fingers.

Astarion watches that too.

Then, in a moment that feels stolen from a quieter world, he reaches out and taps your wrist—lightly, barely a touch.

“You know,” he says softly, “if I did believe in omens… I’d say that star streaked across the sky at the exact moment you looked up for a reason.”

“And what reason is that?” you ask, voice hushed.

He smiles—not wicked, not sharp.

Something gentler.

Something rare.

“Because you’re finally looking at something worthy of your attention.”

Silence.

Stars burning overhead.

Astarion standing close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath.

“It smells nice here,” you say quietly, hand brushing the evergreen’s lowest branch.

Astarion watches your fingers trace the needles, eyes narrowing—not in annoyance, but in concentration, like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Hmph,” he says, moving closer. “If I must be assaulted by tree scents, at least this one is tolerable.”

You grin. “Tolerable?”

“Pleasant,” he corrects quickly. “If one is into… earthy things.”

He leans in, inhaling near your hair rather than the tree.

“That includes you, of course.”

Your breath hitches. “Astarion…”

He straightens with a smirk, pretending that wasn’t a little too honest. “Yes, yes, don’t faint. I’m only complimenting your scent, not proposing marriage.”

He walks around the evergreen, tapping its trunk. “Now then, why have we trekked into this frigid wilderness? A ritual sacrifice? A stargazing picnic? Some dreadful tradition involving sap?”

You reach up and pluck a small cluster of needles. “We’re gathering greenery for camp. You know—decorations.”

His face does something complicated.

Like he wants to scoff.

And also maybe doesn’t.

“Oh,” he says lightly. “How festive.”

You offer him some branches. He stares at them as if you’ve handed him a newborn child.

“Astarion,” you tease, “it’s just foliage.”

“It’s sentimental,” he counters. “I don’t do sentimental.”

“You carried me through a blizzard yesterday.”

“That was survival,” he says sharply. “Practical. Entirely unsentimental.”

But he takes the branches.

Very carefully.

You pretend not to notice.

As you gather more trimmings, he lingers close—unusually quiet. The evergreen’s scent clings to both of you, mixed with cold air and the faint sweetness of snow.

“Evergreen,” he murmurs after a while, almost to himself. “A strange thing, isn’t it?”

You look at him. “How so?”

“It stays alive,” he says softly. “Through frost, storms, everything. When every other leaf withers, it remains exactly what it is.”

Something in his voice makes you still.

“And what does that make you think of?” you ask gently.

He pauses.

Too long.

Then he gives you a smile that is sharp and fragile at once.

“Nothing at all, darling.”

You reach up, tucking a small sprig of evergreen behind his ear.

Astarion freezes—literally freezes.

Then: “OH. That’s… bold of you.”

“It suits you.”

He touches the sprig, expression flickering between vanity and something unbearably soft.

“Well,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “I suppose if I must wear nature, it’s best when it comes from you.”

You cling to him, arms around his neck as the blizzard rages. The cold bites at exposed skin like a living thing, but Astarion presses your face into his shoulder, shielding you from the worst of it.

“Honestly,” he mutters as he trudges forward, “if some miserable winter god has a grudge against us, they could have had the decency to send a polite warning.”

Another gust slams into you both. He tightens his hold.

“But no,” he continues, “they simply must throw a tantrum.”

You manage a faint laugh. “You’re complaining a lot for someone who doesn’t even feel the cold.”

“Yes, well,” he snaps, “I feel your cold.”

The words leave his mouth and hang there—unguarded.

He stumbles over them a second later. “I mean—that you’re freezing and I don’t want to lug a human icicle around. Very inconvenient.”

But he pulls you closer.

The storm roars louder, drowning out everything but his voice.

“Stay awake,” he says firmly. “No drifting off. You’ll be warm soon.”

You can barely hear him now, the wind so loud it feels like the world is splitting apart. The blizzard is pure chaos, swirling white that blinds, freezes, and swallows every breath.

But Astarion keeps going.

Step by step.

Through snow up to his knees.

Through wind that tries to rip you from his arms.

He shields you with his body, curls around you when the gale is too strong, bares his teeth at the storm like he can intimidate it into submission.

And somehow you reach a shallow cave—a sliver of shelter carved into a mountainside.

He ducks inside and lowers you carefully against the rock wall.

Then his hands are on your shoulders, your face, brushing ice from your lashes with a gentleness he should not know how to possess.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your lips tremble—not from cold this time.

Astarion’s expression shifts.

A rare, flickering fear.

“Don’t… scare me like that,” he says quietly.

It’s almost lost beneath the storm.

He clears his throat instantly. “I mean, don’t slow us down again. Obviously.”

But he pulls your frozen hands into his own, warming them between his palms like he’s afraid to lose you to the snow.

“My touch is irresistible,” he argues smoothly. “It couldn’t handle the pressure.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you, darling.”

He bows, pleased.

But as you turn to head back to camp, something cold slips down the back of your neck.

You squeal, whipping around. “ASTARION!”

He’s standing a short distance away, expression wide-eyed and innocent—if one ignores the missing icicle in his hand.

“What?” he says lightly. “Is it snowing?”

“You dropped that down my shirt!”

“I would never,” he gasps, hand on heart. “Unless it was exceedingly funny.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

You charge at him, scooping up a handful of snow. Astarion shrieks—actually shrieks—and darts away with vampiric speed that would be impressive if it wasn’t used to avoid a snowball.

“Don’t you dare—” he warns.

You throw it.

It hits his shoulder.

He stares at the imprint of snow like he’s been mortally wounded.

“How could you?” he demands. “This is an outrage.”

“You started it.”

“I’m adorable when I start things,” he retorts. “You, on the other hand, are clearly a menace.”

You grab another handful of snow.

He gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

You absolutely would.

Astarion lunges—not away, but toward you. His hands circle your waist, spinning you both in the snow. You gasp as your back hits a tree, his body pinning you there in a blur of white breath and laughter.

For a moment everything stops.

Your faces inches apart.

Snow drifting around you.

His red eyes burning with something warm beneath the mischief.

Astarion’s voice drops low, velvet and dangerous.

“My sweet, do you really want to wage war with me?”

Your breath catches. “Maybe I do.”

He leans in—not kissing you, but close enough that the cold air between you warms. “Careful,” he murmurs, brushing a stray snowflake from your cheek with a cool fingertip.

“I play to win.”

You swallow.

He smiles—slow, sharp, delighted.

Then he steps back, releasing you.

“Very well,” he says with regal confidence, “your move.”

You toss a snowball at his chest.

You study him—how the falling snow softens him, makes him look less like a creature built of sharp edges and old wounds, and more like something almost… peaceful.

Astarion’s eyes flick to you, catching the way you’re watching him. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Snow,” you reply, reaching up before you can think better of it.

Your fingers brush the chill of his skin as you gently wipe the delicate frost from his cheek. For a moment—just one—he doesn’t pull away. His breath catches so subtly you would have missed it if you weren’t so close.

Then he laughs under his breath. Softly.

A careful sound. One he rarely lets slip.

“Look at you,” he drawls lightly, lips curling. “Adoring me even when I’m covered in nature’s dandruff.”

You roll your eyes. “Snow is pretty.”

“Yes. But you should see it from my perspective.”

He leans in—too close, warm breath against your ear despite the cold.

“It falls, and suddenly… everything is silent. Still. Even the world forgets to breathe.”

A pause.

A rare, unintended truth.

“And I—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if banishing a thought too revealing.

“Never mind.”

You lift your hand and let a snowflake land on your glove, melting instantly. “You were going to say something.”

“I say many things,” he says smoothly, slipping back into his mask with practiced ease. “Most of them delightful. Some… unnecessary.”

You turn to him again. “Astarion.”

He meets your eyes. Steady.

For once, not for manipulation—just… present.

Finally, he exhales a soft laugh, giving in.

“It’s simply… pleasant,” he admits. “Seeing the world like this. Quiet. Gentle. Untouched by cruelty.”

His voice lowers.

“Almost makes one believe in tenderness.”

Your chest tightens.

He notices immediately. “Now, now, don’t look at me like that,” he says, wagging a playful finger. “One sentimental comment and suddenly you’re ready to swoon.”

But he steps closer.

Just enough that your breath mingles with his.

“Come,” he murmurs, offering his hand with theatrical flourish. “Walk with me. Before the others wake and ruin the magic with their incessant chatter.”

You take his hand—cool, elegant, steady.

You chuckled. “It’s for sore muscles. Keeps them from aching in the morning.”

“Mm. Delightful. Do go on.” His smirk curved wickedly, but he stretched out beside you anyway, reclining like a cat claiming its corner. He always did this, slipped into your space as though it belonged to him.

Without asking, he plucked the tin from your hand, dipped a pale finger in, and began to work it into your shoulder. His touch was deceptively light, careful, as if he knew how fragile mortals could be.

“See?” he murmured near your ear. “Not so bad, is it? You fuss with your little ointments, and I, magnanimous creature that I am, assist.”

You leaned into the touch despite yourself. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He gave a quiet laugh, breath warm against your temple. “Guilty. But then, pampering you is infinitely preferable to watching you hobble around in the morning, groaning like an old man.”

You elbowed him lightly, and he hissed, feigning injury. “Careful, darling. I might just withhold my services.”

When he finally drew back, you noticed the faintest shift in his expression — something softer beneath the mask. He reclined on his side, head propped on his hand, watching as you adjusted the blanket around yourself.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, voice gentler now, “why do you bother? The washing, the creams, the rituals. Every night, as though tomorrow is promised.”

You met his gaze, steady despite the weight of the question. “Because it makes me feel… human. Grounded. And if tomorrow isn’t promised, then tonight should still feel like mine.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then Astarion smiled. Not  his sharp, mocking grin, but something quieter. Something almost real.

“Well,” he said softly, reaching to tug the blanket snug around your shoulders with surprising care, “then let’s make tonight yours.”

You set the jar down. “We read together,” you say, as if the words aren’t ridiculous the moment they leave your mouth.

Astarion’s laugh is soft and genuine. Always the most dangerous kind on him. “Is that what they call it in Waterdeep? How scholarly.”

“He showed me a cantrip to make ink gild itself along the page.” You try to sound annoyed. It comes out wistful. “It wasn’t—”

“—seduction? Of course not,” Astarion says, in the tone of a kindly physician diagnosing a terminal illness. “He merely wrapped you in the Weave and let it hum against your skin while speaking poetry in a baritone. Entirely academic.”

You should be laughing. You should be sharper than this. Instead, the memory of Gale’s careful hands guiding your fingers through the shape of a sigil slides over you – warm, careful, fragrant with parchment and spice bread. He’d looked at you like discovery itself, like you were something rare and wonderful that had wandered into his keeping and might still choose to stay.

“Jealous?” you tease, because with Astarion, your tongue always looks for the thorn.

“Darling,” he says, some glint of sincerity quickening beneath the purr, “I, unlike our resident archmage-by-appointment, do not share well.”

You hear the approach before you see him. Gale’s steps are unmistakable: measured, steady, as if he were crossing a library floor instead of a muddy clearing. He clears his throat gently. “I brought–ah. There you are.”

His eyes flick to Astarion, and though his smile remains, it tightens around the edges. Gale holds a little tin wrapped in linen. “Honey cakes,” he offers, lightly. “Wyll and Karlach were about to duel over the last one, so I hid these for you.”

You blink up at him. “You baked?”

“Conjured.” Gale lifts a finger. “There’s a difference. One involves butter, the other involves butter and hubris.”

Astarion’s mouth twists. “How charming. Will you also conjure a blanket fort so the two of you can read under it with a candle?”

Gale’s gaze dims a half-shade, but he refuses to rise to the barb. “If one wishes to appreciate poetry, comfortable seating helps.”

“What if one wishes to appreciate biting?” Astarion asks sweetly.

Gale’s patience feels like a ward he renews every morning. “Then one might try biting their tongue.”

“Boys,” you say, before the fire can catch the tremor in your voice. “I’m not a trophy rotisserie at the Goblin Camp. Stop circling.”

Astarion straightens with lazy grace, but his eyes never leave yours. “Who’s circling? I prefer a direct approach.” He lifts your hand without asking – the daring of it is its own confession and presses his mouth to the delicate pulse at your wrist. It is an elegant kiss, not a threat; the restraint is obvious. A courtesy, and a reminder of all the ways it could not be. “Choose well,” he murmurs to your skin.

Gale’s breath catches. In the shadow of the fire, his composure cracks just enough to let warmth pour through. “You don’t need to be cornered,” he says softly to you. “By hunger or by habit.”

You look between them. One offers constellations and verse; the other offers quicksilver nights with teeth hidden like stars behind clouds. Both are dangerous. Both make you feel alive in ways you barely admit to yourself.

“Walk with me?” Gale asks. “Five minutes. The Weave is… well. It’s a bit brighter tonight. I’d like to show you something.”

“Or,” Astarion counters, guiding your wrist to your lap as if setting a relic back on its stand, “you might stay by the fire with me. We could watch everyone sleep. Think of the stories we could invent.”

You do the only thing you can do when the world splits: you say yes to both, in the wrong order.

“Five minutes,” you tell Gale. “Then I’m coming back.” You glance at Astarion. “And you’re not watching anyone sleep without me.”

His smile sharpens. “Perish the thought.”

…………..

Gale leads you past the ring of tents and through the ragged fringe of trees where puddles hold small moons. He does not reach for you; he lets the night fill the spaces between you instead. You’re grateful for it. Your body feels like a borrowed book – thumbed, read, kept too long under lamplight.

He clears his throat. “You needn’t apologize,” he says, which is a silly thing to say, because you haven’t spoken since you left the fire.

“For what?”

“For existing at the intersection of my fondness and his appetites.” There’s a ruefulness in his voice that makes you want to put your head against his shoulder. “I do not pretend to be impartial where you are concerned.”

“Gale—”

He lifts a hand and the Weave answers, silk through water. Light gathers, unspooling from his fingertips in filaments, weaving itself into a luminous shape: a small, imperfect star, edges fuzzed like breath on glass. It floats, humming softly between you. “You see?” he says, voice quiet. “Even a novice with a steady hand can coax starlight into form.”

“Are you calling me a novice?” you ask, smiling despite yourself.

“I would never,” he says, mock-affronted. “I’m calling you… luminous.”

“You’re very bad at this,” you tell him, gently, because it isn’t true. He’s very good at this; at kindness, at attention, at making you feel like a home he’s already begun to furnish with little conjurations of care.

He laughs under his breath and lets the star drift closer to you. “I shouldn’t compete,” he says softly. “It’s not a fair arena, and I am not without my own… flaws.”

You think of the way he watches the sky sometimes, as if expecting judgment to fall from it. “We all have those.”

He meets your eyes then, and for all his words, this is the truest thing he’s said all night: “Stay – with me. Not only tonight. Learn the Weave the way it wants to be touched. Let me make a life with you that is made of more than running and fear.”

The star hovers between you like a held breath.

You don’t answer because you can’t. At least not yet. Not when the memory of Astarion’s lips on your wrist is still singing in your blood like a sin you liked too much to confess.

Gale sees it – that is the worst and best thing about him. He sees you. He nods, a heartbeat’s disappointment passing through him like a cloud over the moon. “Five minutes are up,” he says, gentle. “I said I’d show you something. I did. I’ll be at the fire. Take your time.”

He leaves you with the star. It follows your shoulder like a faithful moth as you make your way back.

…………

Astarion is where you left him, lounging against a log as if it were a chaise in Cazador’s salon, campfire honeying the white of him into something almost mortal. He looks up at once.  He always knows when you return.

“Ah,” he says, eyes flicking to the timid star at your shoulder. “Souvenir?”

“Magic,” you say, sitting near enough for your knees to touch. Your little conjured star bobs, settles, and gutters out when it meets the warmth of the fire. You watch the last thread of light vanish and feel oddly bereft.

Astarion watches your face, not the light. “He asked you to stay,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Eventually. After the cakes and constellations.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing.” You angle your knee against his. “Yet.”

“Mm.” He leans in, the line of his mouth curving so minutely you feel rather than see it. “You do like to make us both suffer. Wicked girl.”

“Jealous,” you say again, because it needles him, because part of you wants to see what lives beneath all that silken mockery.

“Yes,” he says, so simply that for a moment you forget your own name. He studies the firelight in your eyes. “Are you shocked? I am very good at it. It kept me alive.” His voice gentles, sanded down by something older than either of you wants to name. “You are a feast I am trying not to devour. That makes me… testy.”

You let the truth of it settle. “I don’t want to be devoured.”

“Liar,” he says, but it’s fond. His fingers find your jaw, light as mist, then decide to be braver; his thumb traces the line of your lower lip, reverent. “You want to be wanted. There’s a difference.” He leans closer, a breath from kissing you, and you feel the tremble that betrays him – a restraint taught by terror, not courtesy.

“I won’t be owned,” you say, because the night has made you brave and the star’s gone and there is only the brutal honesty of heat and hunger.

Something in his expression goes terribly soft. “Then let me court you like a proper monster.”

Before you can roll your eyes at that, Gale’s shadow darkens the edge of the firelight. He carries a blanket and a book. He stops when he sees the two of you close enough to share a single whispered thought.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says. His eyes flick to Astarion’s hand at your jaw; he does not flinch, but his throat works. “I thought you might be cold.”

“Always so thoughtful,” Astarion drawls, not moving, not looking away from you. “Shall we knit a scarf for her heart while we’re at it?”

Gale breathes in, and when he exhales, he chooses grace over pride. He holds the blanket out to you. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “wanting isn’t a sin, Astarion. Nor is being wanted.”

Astarion’s hand falls from your face. For a fraction of a second, that unarmored look returns. Something like hurt, or hope malformed by years of use. He masks it with a smile so sharp it could cut open the night.

You rise and take the blanket. Your fingers brush Gale’s; he flushes, the color of a sunrise through fog. You drape the wool over your shoulders, then ignoring both of their startled sounds, you hold one end out to Astarion, the other to Gale. An invitation and a dare.

“Fine,” you say, throat unsteady but voice not. “If we must be ridiculous, let’s be warm about it.”

They stare at you as if you have conjured a new school of magic: audacious, impractical, dangerous. Then, slowly, Gale steps forward, and Astarion, after a theatrical eye-roll that fools no one, slides in on your other side.

You sit like that: you between them, blanket gathered over three pairs of hands, the fire muttering conspiracies. The camp snores and rustles. Somewhere, an owl decides you’re all fools and hoots its judgment.

Gale opens his book and, without preamble, begins to read. Not an incantation, but a poem the color of late summer. His voice is a low tide. Astarion listens with the expression of someone mildly surprised to find himself enjoying something he meant to dislike on principle. Every now and then his knuckles bump your thigh. You count the bumps like beads, like prayers.

When Gale reaches a line about a heart choosing its own house, he falters. “I can stop,” he says.

“Don’t,” you answer.

Astarion’s head tilts, and in the slow gravity of the moment he leans in, not to kiss you, not to claim. Simply to rest his temple against your shoulder, light as the ghost of a star. When he feels your startled breath, he scoffs at himself and makes to pull away.

You don’t let him. You turn your cheek and press it to his hair. He stills. The smallest sound escapes him – too thin to be called a sigh, too honest to be called anything but relief.

Gale keeps reading. His free hand edges along the blanket’s rim until his fingers find yours beneath the wool. He laces them through, tentative. You squeeze back. The poem carries on, and when it speaks of light, you don’t know whether it means firelight, starlight, or the pale brave light that opens inside a person when they decide not to run.

Later, when the flames soften to embers, you’ll disentangle yourself and draw lines on the ground – boundaries, choices, promises. You’ll tell Gale you won’t be a sanctuary he builds to hide his ruins; he’ll tell you he wants to build with you, not under you. You’ll tell Astarion you won’t be a wound he tends for the intimacy of it; he’ll tell you he wants you alive, not dependent.

He tilted his head, lips curling into a smirk, though there was something tired beneath it. “Believe me, I’ve had more sex than anyone could possibly want. I’ve given my body to others until there was nothing left of me. And what did it earn me? Chains. Bruises. Nightmares I’ll never truly be free of.” His voice lowered, the humor slipping away. “I don’t want that with you.”

The words cut through your fear like a knife through cloth.

“But – ”

“No.” He leaned back slightly, still keeping his finger under your chin, gentle. “If that’s all you fear disappointing me with, then consider yourself absolved. You are not here to be my bed warmer, my pretty distraction. You are…” He trailed off, searching for the words, eyes softening in a way he’d never allow in front of the others. “You are the only person who’s ever treated me like more than a tool. That’s worth far more than fumbling about under the blankets.”

Your chest tightened. He made it sound so simple.

“But what if you – want it?”

“Then I will want it with someone who wants it too.” His smile turned sharp again, teasing, though you could see how deliberately he chose to mask the sincerity that lingered. “Don’t look so worried, darling. I assure you, there are countless other ways to keep me entertained.”

It was the first time you breathed easy.

•••••••••••••

With time, the two of you grew into your own rhythm. Astarion was patient in ways you hadn’t expected. He enjoyed touching, yes, but only as much as you enjoyed being touched. He’d curl against your side by the fire, hand draped casually on your thigh, tracing idle patterns with his thumb. He’d press kisses to your hairline, your shoulder, the back of your hand with exaggerated reverence that made you laugh.

And he never pushed further. Not once.

Still, a quiet doubt lingered in the back of your mind. Maybe you were holding him back from something he craved. Maybe he lied to protect your feelings. Maybe he was pretending.

Until one night.

•••••••••••••

It was late. The others slept. You and Astarion sat together by the dying embers of the fire, close enough that your knees brushed. He was telling one of his stories. Ridiculous, probably embellished, but his voice made every word fascinating. And then you interrupted him.

“Astarion?”

He arched a brow, amused at being cut off. “Yes, darling?”

Your throat went dry. “I think… I’d like to try. With you.”

For the first time in a long while, Astarion looked caught off guard.

“You – ?” He blinked, lips parting. Then, just as quickly, his mask slid back into place. “Are you certain? Or is this guilt talking?”

“I’m certain,” you said, steadier than you felt. “I trust you. I… want to know what it would be like. But only if you want it, too.”

For a moment, the silence was so heavy you almost regretted saying anything. Then he reached for you, cradling your face in his hands, and his expression was unlike anything you’d seen before – raw, vulnerable, almost reverent.

“You precious fool,” he whispered. “Do you have any idea what it means that you’d offer me this? After everything I’ve told you? After everything I’ve been?”

You swallowed. “I just know it’s you.”

Something broke in him then. His smirk faltered, and he kissed you. Not with the practiced seduction he used on strangers, not with the hunger of someone who needed to prove himself. But soft. Gentle. Careful.

He pulled back almost immediately, searching your face. “If you ever change your mind, even halfway through, you tell me. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

His smile was small, trembling at the edges. “Then, my love… we’ll go at your pace. Always.”

•••••••••••••

Later, when you lay together – clothed still, tangled in blankets, his arm wrapped protectively around you – you realized what he meant.

For Astarion, intimacy wasn’t about the act. It wasn’t about sex, or desire, or the games he played with others. It was about choice. About freedom. About finally having something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel broken for being who you were. You felt cherished.

Since you'd joined the group, it had been... tense. Karlach was warm-blooded fire, a raging tempest of laughter and heart and impulsive honesty. Minthara was cold precision, cunning wrapped in silk and steel. They were opposites and yet, ever since you'd shown up, they seemed to circle each other like wolves, both zeroed in on the same prey.

You.

“Not everything has to be a contest,” you muttered, standing up and dusting your hands off. “I’m perfectly capable of mending a sleeve without turning it into a battlefield.”

Minthara tilted her head, studying you. “You are more than capable. That is what makes this… maddening.”

“I know,” Karlach said, more subdued now. “You’re incredible. It’s hard not to want to prove we’re worth standing next to you.”

You blinked. “That’s not – wait, is that what this is about?”

The drow’s gaze didn’t waver. “You are not blind. You know it is.”

Karlach scratched the back of her neck, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips. “You’re smart. I figured you caught on by now.”

Oh.

You’d known – somewhere deep down. The way Karlach always seemed to sit next to you, shoulder brushing yours. The way Minthara's gaze lingered just a second too long, or how her voice softened only when speaking to you. You weren’t oblivious. You were just... hesitant.

“You don’t need to fight over me,” you said, quieter now.

“But we do,” Minthara answered, stepping closer. “Because I will not share. And I will not watch you be claimed by someone who doesn’t understand what it means to worship you.”

Karlach laughed, but it wasn’t cruel – it was pained. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

“Worship,” you repeated, stunned. “That’s a strong word.”

Minthara stepped into your space. “And yet it does not suffice. You – are a light in the dark. One I never expected. One I now refuse to go without.”

Karlach wasn’t one for pretty speeches, but her voice was fierce, filled with conviction. “You make me feel like I’ve got a second heart. Like there’s more to fight for than just the next battle. You matter. So yeah – I’m fighting for you.”

You looked between them – Minthara with her burning intensity, Karlach with her raw honesty. And you stood in the middle, caught in the crossfire of something larger than you’d asked for.

“You both care,” you said finally, voice steady. “But this? This tension – this need to win – it’s not what I want.”

Minthara narrowed her eyes. “Then what is it you want?”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t know.

You liked Karlach’s warmth, the way she made you laugh even on the darkest nights. You liked Minthara’s depth, the way she listened without words and saw through your defenses with ease.

“Maybe I don’t want to choose,” you said, surprising even yourself. “Maybe I’m not something to be claimed.”

Karlach blinked, stunned.

Minthara’s lips twitched. “Not claimed, then. But perhaps… convinced.”

You arched a brow. “Convinced?”

She stepped back, giving you a nod of acknowledgment. “Let me prove my worth. Not with speeches. With action.”

Karlach grinned. “Hell yeah. I like a fair fight.”

You rubbed your temple. “This isn’t what I meant.”

“It’s too late now,” Karlach said, nudging your shoulder. “You lit a fire under both of us.”

Minthara’s voice dropped into a purr. “Let the games begin.”

You groaned, though a laugh slipped free.

You had a feeling this wasn’t going to end any time soon.

And if you were being honest with yourself?

You blinked, unsure if he was joking. His smile was wicked enough to suggest he wasn’t.

Your pulse skipped, and his eyes flicked just briefly to your throat. You pulled the blanket tighter, but the movement only seemed to amuse him.

“Relax, darling,” he murmured, rising to his feet in one graceful motion. He moved closer, crouching beside your bedroll with a predator’s ease. The proximity made your breath catch, and he smiled like he’d heard it. “If I wanted to drain you dry, I’d hardly wait for permission.”

“Not comforting,” you muttered, though your voice betrayed the faintest waver.

“Oh, but that’s the fun of it.” His tone dropped, velvet wrapping around steel. “You never quite know whether you’re safe with me, do you?”

He reached out, and before you could react, his fingers brushed along your jaw, feather-light, tilting your face toward him. His touch was cool, careful, but the sharp scrape of a claw against your skin made your heart leap. He held your gaze with those crimson eyes, pupils dilated, and for one dangerous moment, you thought he might actually lean in – fangs glinting faintly as his lips parted.

But then he chuckled, low and dark, pulling back as though the moment had been nothing more than a joke.

“You smell better when you’re afraid,” he said matter-of-factly, as though discussing wine. “So very…alive. It’s intoxicating.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am.” His grin widened, sharp and gleaming. “You should too. There’s a certain…thrill in being so close to danger, don’t you think?”

Despite yourself, heat curled in your stomach. His nearness, his voice, the way his gaze lingered like he could see straight through you – it was maddening. He knew it, too.

“Don’t worry,” Astarion said at last, straightening with an exaggerated sigh, though his eyes never left you. “You’re far too entertaining to kill. For now.”

The words should have chilled you. Instead, they sent a shiver down your spine that had little to do with fear.

He leaned lazily against the tent post, arms crossed, watching as you shifted to sit up. Every movement you made, his eyes tracked – not with concern, but with the slow, deliberate hunger of someone who was cataloging all the ways he might break you.

And yet, there was restraint. Tense, frayed, brittle restraint.

You sensed it in the way his fingers twitched when you adjusted the blanket. In the way he kept licking his lips as though trying to banish a memory. And in the way his smile, for all its sharpness, never quite reached his eyes.

He was holding something back.

You dared a glance at him, voice soft. “You stayed by me all night.”

He shrugged, lips curving into that infuriatingly charming smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself, darling. Someone had to make sure you didn’t bleed out and leave me short an ally. Hardly gallant – purely practical.”

But there was a flicker in his expression, so quick you almost missed it. A flash of something unguarded, something raw. You wondered if he knew you’d noticed.

You opened your mouth to press him, but he cut you off with a pointed little smirk. “And besides,” he purred, stepping closer again, “I rather enjoy watching you sleep. You look so… vulnerable. Like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.”

Your breath hitched, and he laughed softly, straightening, obviously delighted by the reaction.

“Ah, there it is,” he murmured. “That little tremor in your pulse. Music to my ears.”

The forest had grown brighter with morning light, but the space between you and Astarion remained shadowed, thick with danger and something sharper than fear.

He turned at last, striding toward the fire with a lazy elegance, as though he hadn’t just threatened, tempted, and teased you all in the span of a few breaths.

“Come now,” he said lightly over his shoulder, the smirk still carved into his voice. “You should eat something. You’ll need your strength, especially if you plan to keep throwing yourself into danger. I can’t promise I’ll always be this generous with my…restraint.”