Archive of Our Own ^beta

Astarion moved through the grove with feline grace, his usual confidence reduced to something colder, more mechanical. The air buzzed with celebration—laughter, music, the crackle of firelight—but it grated on him, setting his teeth on edge.

Weeks. Weeks spent crafting every glance, every lingering touch, every husky whisper in the dark. It was a game he knew well, a role he had perfected over two centuries. He wasn’t just good at it—he was meant to be good at it. Seduction was his craft, his survival. It was supposed to be effortless. Inevitable. Irresistible.

And yet Tav had smiled at Shadowheart tonight with a tenderness he had never managed to coax from them. The sight had frozen him mid-step, his mask threatening to crack as realization sank in.

It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself, as he slipped away into the quiet shadows beyond the revelry. Jealousy implied attachment, longing. No, this was simpler, rawer: the sting of failure. Of effort wasted.

Astarion clenched his fists as he stalked toward the edge of the grove, his nails biting into his palms. He’d spent 200 years perfecting this persona, wielding his beauty and charm like a finely honed blade. For two centuries, people had fallen at his feet, eager to please, desperate for his favor. His purpose had been singular: lure them back to Cazador. And he had always succeeded. Always.

The clearing he wandered into was dimly lit by a sliver of moonlight filtering through the canopy. Sitting there, cross-legged on a worn blanket, was Gale. His face caught the silver light as he gazed upward, the lines of his perpetual melancholy softened. A single glass and a half-empty bottle of Esmeltar Red sat beside him, an unimpressive offering for someone of his supposed sophistication.

Astarion clicked his tongue as he approached, breaking the silence with his characteristic flourish. “Well, well, what have we here? The great Gale of Waterdeep, reduced to the company of poor-quality wine and the cold, unfeeling stars. How… poetic.”

Gale didn’t startle. His gaze remained skyward, though a corner of his mouth curved slightly. “The stars are never unfeeling,” he said, voice low and reflective. “They burn for us, even from incomprehensible distances. A humbling reminder, wouldn’t you say?”

Astarion plopped himself onto the blanket uninvited, smoothing his shirt and giving the wine bottle a disdainful glance. “Humility has never been my forte, darling, but I’ll concede the stars have their charm. Though this wine—” He sniffed the air dramatically. “—smells like desperation.”

"It was the best the grove could offer," Gale replied lightly. "I’m not one to spurn a gift."

Astarion picked up the bottle, tilting it toward the light with a sigh of exaggerated defeat. “Gratitude can be so tragically tasteless.” He poured himself a glass nonetheless and leaned back on one hand, swirling the liquid idly. His eyes flicked to Gale, his smirk growing sharper. “So, what’s the great wizard brooding over tonight? I thought you’d be waxing poetic to Tav, given your… peculiar brand of charm.”

Gale chuckled softly, the sound laced with self-deprecation. “Tav’s attentions are otherwise occupied. And what are you brooding over tonight?”

Astarion’s smirk faltered for an instant, a crack in his mask so slight it could have been imagined. “I hardly brood. I’m merely… reevaluating my options.” He took a sip of the wine and grimaced. “You’re in an unusually pensive mood tonight. Ooh, let me guess—musing over your ill-fated devotion to your beloved goddess? Are you here to drown your sorrows?"

Gale’s expression sobered, his gaze turning back to the stars. For a long moment, he was silent. “Devotion is a complicated thing. It’s not all worship and reverence. Sometimes, it’s a quiet yearning. Other times, it’s the weight of duty pressing against your chest. And yes,” he added with a faint, bitter smile, “sometimes it takes the edge off to have a drink.”

Astarion tilted his head, studying Gale. “Duty, you say? And here I thought love was supposed to be freeing.”

Gale laughed softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t call it love. It’s… something else. A connection to something vast and ineffable. Beautiful, but cold." He gestured toward the stars with his wine glass. "Mystra is as distant as those lights above, and yet, she looms in every moment of my life. It’s... complicated."

Astarion leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Complicated, indeed. And here I thought I was the only one with a flair for destructive entanglements."

Gale swirled the remnants of his wine in the glass, watching the way the meager liquid clung to the edges. "Mystra was never cruel to me," he said quietly, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell of the clearing. "She offered wisdom, power, and guidance. It was my decisions, my arrogance, that twisted those gifts into folly."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips pulling downward in faint disbelief. "Ah, so the goddess is blameless, is she? How convenient for her."

"It’s the truth," Gale said, his voice steady. He looked at Astarion then, his expression somber but resolute. "She didn’t force my hand. She didn’t command me to take the orb into myself. That was my folly alone. My hubris."

Astarion's laughter was sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet night. "You truly believe that? You’d like to believe that the divine arbiter of your life bears no responsibility for your suffering?" His tone was light, almost mocking, but his eyes held a flicker of something darker. "That’s a quaint little delusion, darling. Familiar, too."

Gale frowned, setting his glass down. "It’s not delusion. It’s accountability. I failed her, not the other way around."

Astarion’s smile turned thin, brittle. He looked away, staring into the shadows as if they held the answer to a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual lilt, replaced with a quiet, hollow edge. "I used to think the same thing, you know. That it was all my fault."

Gale blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in Astarion’s tone. He remained silent, sensing something fragile in the moment.

“My master, my creator… Cazador,” Astarion continued, “he… had a way of making me believe it. Every punishment, every humiliation—it was because I failed him. Because I wasn’t strong enough, or obedient enough, or… whatever excuse he could conjure up. And I believed it. I wanted to believe it.”

He turned his gaze back to Gale, his red eyes gleaming faintly in the moonlight. “Do you know why?”

Gale shook his head, his voice caught in his throat.

“Because if it was my fault, then it meant that he cared. That he only hurt me because he wanted me to be better. To be worthy.” A bitter laugh escaped him, a sharp sound. “What a fool I was. I clung to that hope even as he bled me dry, starved me, flayed me, night after night.”

Gale’s expression softened, his brows knitting together in quiet sympathy. “Astarion…”

"Don’t," Astarion snapped, the sharpness in his voice cutting through Gale’s words. But then he sighed, the fire in him burning out as quickly as it had flared. "Don’t pity me. I don’t want that. What I’m saying, my dear wizard, is that it’s easy—dangerously easy—to absolve the powerful of their sins. To carry the weight of their cruelty as if it were your own. But don’t mistake that for accountability. It’s just another leash."

Gale leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he searched Astarion’s face. "I’m not excusing Mystra. Nor am I blind to the ways she... wields her influence. But I can’t blame her for my mistakes. If I do that, what do I learn? How do I grow?"

Astarion tilted his head, his lips curving into a small, sad smile. "Ah, ever the scholar. Always looking for lessons, even in the darkest corners. Admirable, really. But take it from someone who spent centuries at the mercy of a monster: sometimes the only lesson is that power doesn’t care about you, no matter how much you wish it did."

Gale looked away, his gaze returning to the stars. His voice, when it came, was soft but steady. "Mystra didn’t hurt me the way Cazador hurt you, Astarion. What I feel for her... it’s complicated, yes, but not cruel."

Astarion snorted, draining his glass. "If you say so, darling. But take it from someone who spent two centuries tangled in a web of cruelty and denial: gods and monsters are not so different. Both demand devotion, and both will break you if it serves their purpose."

Gale let the silence stretch between them, the weight of Astarion’s words pressing against his chest. Finally, he picked up the wine bottle and refilled Astarion’s glass, offering it without a word.

Astarion accepted, their hands brushing for the briefest moment. He raised the glass in a mock toast, his voice light once more, though the shadow of his confession lingered in his eyes. "To divine folly, then. May we both survive it."

Gale clinked his glass against Astarion’s, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "To survival," he echoed. And for a while, they drank in silence, the stars bearing quiet witness to their shared wounds.

The tension between Astarion and Gale was palpable, an invisible thread binding them in the aftermath of their late-night conversation. It wasn’t spoken of; neither had the inclination to put words to the strange, fragile understanding that had formed between them. Instead, it lingered in the quiet moments, in the side glances, and in the way they fought alongside each other.

In the thick of battle, it was instinctive. No time for words, no time to hesitate.

A foe loomed over Gale, his robes billowing as he desperately tried to ready another incantation. The gnashing teeth of the gnoll’s crude blade came down—but before it could strike, a flash of silver shot from the shadows. Astarion was there, his dagger gleaming, slicing across the gnoll’s exposed throat in one fluid motion. The gnoll gurgled and crumpled to the ground, and Astarion turned to Gale, smirking even as blood splattered onto his boots.

“Do try to keep your pretty little head attached, darling. I can’t come to your rescue every time,” Astarion quipped, his voice light despite the chaos around them.

Gale barely had a chance to respond before he spotted a gnoll archer lining up a shot aimed straight at Astarion’s unguarded back. The words of a spell fell from his lips like an incantatory melody, and a trio of shimmering magic missiles streaked through the air, striking the archer squarely in the chest. The enemy collapsed, clutching at the smoking wounds.

Astarion spun around, eyes clicking to the fallen archer and then to Gale, whose hands still crackled faintly with arcane energy.

“Well done, wizard,” Astarion said, his smirk softening into something that nearly resembled gratitude.

“Now who’s getting rescued?” Gale shot back, grinning with amusement.

It continued like this throughout the skirmish. Astarion danced through the battlefield with deadly grace, his daggers flashing as he struck down enemies from the shadows. But his eyes were always moving, flicking toward Gale whenever the wizard seemed in danger. And Gale, for all his aloof composure, was just as watchful, his spells crackling to life with precision whenever Astarion found himself cornered.

At one point, a particularly large ogre surged toward Astarion, its spiked club raised high. Astarion dodged, but not quickly enough to avoid the heavy graze of the weapon. He staggered back, his lip curling in pain, and the ogre grinned, sensing its opportunity.

Before it could take another step, a massive sphere of flame erupted in its path, forcing the beast to reel backward with a roar. Gale stood several paces away, his hand outstretched, his face set with fierce determination.

Astarion recovered, his daggers flashing as he lunged forward, using the ogre's disorientation to slash across its hamstrings. It collapsed with a ground-shaking thud, and Gale’s fire finished it off, the beast’s body crumpling into smoldering ash.

When the last enemy fell, the two stood panting amid the carnage, their breaths mingling with the acrid scent of blood and fire. Astarion wiped his blade on the tunic of a fallen foe, his usual air of smug detachment returning, though it seemed more forced than usual.

"Not bad," he said, glancing at Gale.

"You’re welcome," Gale replied, brushing soot from his robes. His tone was dry, but his eyes lingered on Astarion a beat too long, as if searching for something unspoken.

They might have been reluctant allies before, their interactions peppered with sharp barbs and mutual skepticism. But after their chat at the tiefling party, they had seemingly become something else. There was an understanding. A promise, unspoken but real: I will protect you.

Astarion wasn’t sure when the shift had happened—when Gale, of all people, had started to intrigue him. Perhaps it was during their battles, when the wizard’s spells lit up the battlefield in dazzling arcs of arcane precision. Gale wasn’t just competent; he was commanding. Every gesture, every incantation carried unshakable confidence, the kind that made Astarion’s pulse quicken despite himself.

It wasn’t just the magic, though. It was the way Gale’s attention would flick to Astarion whenever danger loomed too close, how his spells seemed to land just in time, every time. A carefully aimed firebolt here, a devastatingly precise magic missile there—all tailored to keep Astarion out of harm’s way.

It sent a shiver down Astarion’s spine, though he would never admit it outright. Gale was protecting him. Him. Not out of obligation, not because anyone else had commanded it, but because he wanted to.

Astarion didn’t know what to make of that. It had been centuries since anyone had looked out for him with such deliberate care. He wasn’t sure he liked how it made him feel—exposed, vulnerable, seen. But gods, it was intoxicating.

Back at camp, he found himself watching Gale more closely. The wizard was tending to his spellbook, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scrawled notes in delicate, looping script. His robes were still singed from an earlier fight, a smear of dirt streaked across his cheek, but he wore it all with effortless dignity.

Astarion leaned casually against a tree, swirling a goblet of wine as he studied Gale from afar. The way his hands moved, deft and purposeful. The way his lips pursed slightly as he worked, as though murmuring spells under his breath. Astarion’s thoughts wandered, unbidden, to those hands—what they might feel like against his skin, how they might command him as easily as they commanded the weave of magic.

The idea sent a pleasant hum through his veins, and he smirked to himself, taking a sip of wine to hide the way his teeth grazed his bottom lip.

It wasn’t just Gale’s competence that riled him up, though that was a significant part of it. It was the layers beneath—the quiet intensity, the focus, the way his power seemed effortless yet deliberate, as though every action had purpose. And the knowledge that Gale had unleashed all of it in battle not for glory, not for himself, but for Astarion.

The revelation gnawed at him, as thrilling as it was disarming. Gale wasn’t like the others who had fawned over him before, seeking Astarion’s attention for their own gain. No, Gale’s care seemed genuine, selfless in a way that made Astarion’s chest tighten.

Of course, Astarion would never let that show. He was far too good at his games for that. Instead, he sauntered over to Gale, his usual smirk firmly in place, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper, something hungry.

"Hard at work, I see," he drawled, coming to stand just close enough to invade Gale’s space without outright crowding him. "I must say, your performance today was... impressive. Quite the spectacle."

Gale glanced up, his expression tired but amused. "I’ll take that as a compliment, though I suspect you’re laying it on a bit thick."

"Me? Never," Astarion said, feigning mock offense. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, silkier register. "You know, throughout our adventures, I’ve gotten to see such... precision on the battlefield from you. I must admit, I wasn’t so sure you had it in you at first. And to think, all that effort just to keep me safe. I’m flattered, truly."

Gale raised an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—in his gaze. "I protect all my companions, Astarion. It’s not exactly a unique arrangement."

"Ah, but it certainly felt unique," Astarion purred, his smile turning coy. "Or does your magic just so happen to favor the enemies closest to me?" He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing playfully. "If you’re trying to catch my eye, I’d say you’ve been more than successful. What will you do with my attention, then?”

Gale chuckled, shaking his head as he returned to his notes. "Don’t tease me, Astarion.”

"Tease?" Astarion said lightly, stepping back but letting his gaze linger. "I’m trying to bed you, foolish little mage."

Astarion’s smirk didn’t falter as he strode away from Gale, his steps light and deliberate, every movement carefully crafted to exude confidence. He knew Gale was still sitting there, quill forgotten, likely gaping after him like a stunned fawn. The thought brought a genuine flicker of satisfaction.

"Don’t keep me waiting," he’d said. Bold, yes. But wasn’t that the point? Gale wasn’t the type to respond to subtlety. The man practically lived in his own head, overanalyzing everything to death. Astarion needed to shake him loose, to see if that quiet, infuriating composure could crack.

And gods, how he wanted to crack it.

He slipped into the shadows at the edge of camp, the flickering firelight barely grazing his pallid skin. He could still feel the ghost of Gale’s eyes on him, that mix of confusion and intrigue that had lit up his face when Astarion had delivered his lines. It was intoxicating in its own way, watching the wizard flounder in the wake of his audacity.

But beneath the satisfaction, something else churned—a restless energy that coiled tight in his chest. He rolled his shoulders, willing the tension away, but his mind wouldn’t let it go.

Gale had been magnificent in battle. The way he commanded the weave with such precision, such purpose—it wasn’t just magic, it was artistry. And to know that Gale had done it all to keep him safe, to see that protective streak manifest in fire and fury...

Astarion shuddered, the memory sending a warm, electric thrill down his spine.

He couldn’t recall the last time someone had fought for him like that—not out of obligation, not because of orders, but because they wanted to. Because they cared. It was unnerving, but also undeniably exhilarating.

Astarion pressed his back against a tree, letting his head fall back against the rough bark as he stared up at the night sky. His smirk wavered, giving way to something quieter, more contemplative.

Flirting came as naturally as breathing—it was a game, a weapon, a shield. He wielded it with precision, knowing exactly when to press and when to retreat. But with Gale, the lines felt... blurry. The usual satisfaction of watching someone squirm under his charm was tinged with something sharper, something raw and unfamiliar.

It wasn’t just about the thrill of the chase. Not this time.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. He could still see Gale in his mind’s eye, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cast his spells, his voice steady and sure even in the chaos of battle. There was a quiet strength in him, a confidence that was different from Astarion’s own—less theatrical, more grounded.

And Astarion wanted it. Wanted him.

The realization hit him sharp and unyielding. He could pretend it was just another conquest, another notch in his belt, but deep down, he knew better. This wasn’t about control or survival. This was about connection.

The thought both terrified and thrilled him equally.

But he wouldn’t let it show. Not yet. He still had his pride, his defenses, his carefully cultivated mask.

The moon cast its pale glow over the clearing, Astarion at the center, his stance casual yet calculated. Astarion heard Gale approach long before the wizard stepped into the clearing, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot loud against the quiet hum of the night. He didn’t turn, not at first. No, it was far more satisfying to let Gale come to him, to feel the weight of those dark eyes lingering on him.

And why wouldn’t they? He was a vision, as always, the moonlight painting his skin in silver and his shirt hanging open just enough to hint at the sharp lines of his collarbone. He shifted, the movement deliberately slow, just enough to draw attention to his posture. Irresistible, he thought with a faint smirk.

When Gale finally stepped into view, Astarion turned, his expression a carefully curated mix of playful mischief and languid seduction. "Ah, there you are," he purred, his voice dripping with honey. "I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost, darling. Though I suppose it would be rude to fault you for keeping me waiting—you do so like to make an entrance."

Gale didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stopped a few paces away, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His expression wasn’t quite stern, but it lacked the usual warmth Astarion had grown used to.

"I’m here to talk, Astarion," Gale said evenly, his tone calm but firm.

For a moment, Astarion’s smirk faltered. Talk? Surely he’d misheard. "Talk?" he repeated, the word coming out sharper than intended. "That’s why you’re here? To... talk?"

"Yes," Gale said, unflinching. "I thought we might get to know each other better. Without all the posturing and... whatever this is."

The faint amusement in Gale’s voice stung more than Astarion cared to admit. He felt his jaw tighten, his carefully constructed confidence cracking just enough to let in a sliver of something ugly, something unwelcome.

He laughed, a light, airy sound that did little to mask the sudden heat rising to his cheeks. "Talk," he repeated again, his voice dripping with mockery. "How delightfully quaint. You’ve walked all this way to bore me with pleasantries when there are far more entertaining ways we could spend the night."

But Gale didn’t bite. He stood there, steady as ever, arms relaxed at his sides, and looked at Astarion with those infuriatingly kind eyes. It wasn’t pity—not quite—but it was dangerously close. And that was worse.

For a moment, Astarion’s smile faltered, a flicker of vulnerability darting across his face. He pushed it away quickly, lifting his chin in defiance. But the sting was there, sharp and undeniable.

For the first time in years, centuries even, Astarion felt... out of his depth.

He’d seen the way Gale looked at him before—curious, intrigued, even tempted. Astarion knew that look. He’d honed his charm for centuries, perfecting every glance, every word, every touch.

He was supposed to be good at this. He was good at this. Seduction wasn’t just a skill; it was survival. He’d perfected it over the decades, sharpening his charm into a weapon that never failed.

And yet...

First Tav, now Gale.

That rejection had stung in its own way, a sharp reminder that he wasn’t as infallible as he liked to believe. Tav’s disinterest had struck at his pride, a crack in the carefully crafted facade he wore like armor. It wasn’t personal, he told himself—it was a blow to his ego, nothing more.

But this?

Gale’s rejection wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a matter of skill or charm, of whether he’d played the game right or wrong. This time, the rejection sank deeper, twisting in a place Astarion hadn’t expected to feel vulnerable.

Because this time, he wanted Gale.

Not as a pawn, not as a conquest, not as someone he could manipulate for his own gain. He wanted Gale because of the way the mage’s voice softened when he spoke of the weave, because of the quiet strength in his eyes during battle, because of the maddening way he made Astarion feel something dangerously close to... safe.

He clenched his teeth, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Two in a row. How does that even happen? He told himself it was impossible, that he hadn’t lost his touch. He couldn’t have. Not after everything.

But there it was, that nagging voice whispering that maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe it was him.

He hated the way Gale’s refusal lingered, not because he craved the wizard’s attention—certainly not—but because it planted a seed of doubt he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t used to striking out. And the possibility that his allure wasn’t enough, that maybe there was something lacking in him...

He shoved the thought aside, his smile returning, forced and too bright. If Gale wanted to talk, then fine. He would let the little mage have his moment. But Astarion would find a way to turn the tables. He always did.

Didn’t he?

He glanced away, his lips twitching into something that was neither a smirk nor a smile. His usual arsenal of charm felt useless here, his sharp words dulled against the weight of his own thoughts.

"I must say," Astarion began, his tone arch, though it lacked its usual venom, "you’re a very difficult man to please, Gale. Most people would be falling over themselves by now."

Gale didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

"I’m not rejecting you, Astarion," he said softly, his voice steady. "But I think... you deserve more than what you’re asking for right now. I think you know that too."

Astarion’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "How generous of you," he said sharply, though the words felt hollow.

Gale sighed, shaking his head. "It’s not about generosity. It’s about honesty. I came here because I want to know you—not the mask you wear, not the performance. And I think you’ve spent so long playing the game that you don’t know how to let someone see you."

The words hit like a hammer, breaking through the layers Astarion had built so carefully. He wanted to scoff, to sneer, to dismiss Gale’s sincerity as naïve foolishness.

The clearing was quiet save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Gale’s words lingered in the air, heavy and unrelenting, leaving Astarion’s usual wit momentarily muted.

"You’re not the only one wearing a mask, you know," Gale said, his voice soft but steady, as though each word had been carefully weighed. He took another step closer, his eyes catching the moonlight as they locked onto Astarion’s. "It’s a skill we share, you and I—hiding behind what others expect of us. Playing the roles we’ve been assigned for so long that we forget they’re not who we really are."

Astarion’s smile froze, the edges brittle. His first instinct was to scoff, to cut through Gale’s quiet earnestness with something sharp and deflective. But there was something in the mage’s tone, something raw and unpolished, that caught him off guard.

"And what role, pray tell, have you been playing?" Astarion said at last, his voice carefully casual. "I thought you loved being the all-knowing Gale of Waterdeep.”

Gale laughed softly, the sound dry and tinged with bitterness. "That’s the funny thing about masks," he said, shaking his head. "They start to feel like part of your skin after a while. You forget you’re even wearing one until something—or someone—makes you stop and take a closer look."

Astarion’s eyes narrowed slightly, his arms folding across his chest as he leaned back against the tree. He hated how the words hit him, too close to truths he didn’t want to confront. "Go on, then," he said with a faint smirk, though his tone lacked its usual bite. "Enlighten me, Gale. Who are you, then?"

Gale hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment as if searching for the right words. When he looked up again, there was a vulnerability in his eyes that Astarion hadn’t seen before.

"For years, I’ve been many things," Gale said quietly. "The prodigy. The wonder. The Chosen. The man who would ascend to greatness—or die trying." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly before he continued. "And when I failed, when I fell, all that was Gale of Waterdeep, the broken, brilliant fool who burned too brightly and paid the price. I’ve worn many masks for so long that I’m not sure I know how to take them all off."

Astarion stared at him, his expression unreadable. He hated how familiar it sounded—the way Gale described himself, the weight of expectation that crushed even as it elevated. It wasn’t the same as his own chains, but it was close enough to stir something uncomfortable.

"And what makes you think you can see through mine?" Astarion asked, his voice quieter now, though it still carried a faint edge.

"Because I’ve spent so long perfecting my own," Gale said simply. "I know what it looks like—the deflection, the charm, the armor you wear to keep people at a distance. I see it because I live it."

Astarion opened his mouth to retort, but the words didn’t come. He looked away, his gaze flickering to the shadows beyond the clearing as if searching for an escape.

"You make it sound so simple," he muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.

"It’s not," Gale said, stepping closer again, his tone gentler now. "But perhaps... we can learn."

Astarion’s head snapped back toward him, his eyes narrowing with skepticism.

Gale shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I think we’ve both spent enough time pretending to be something we’re not. Maybe it’s time to figure out who we are, without the masks. And maybe... we can help each other do that."

For a long moment, Astarion said nothing. His gaze lingered on Gale, searching his face for any hint of insincerity. He found none.

The thought should have terrified him. Perhaps it did. But somewhere beneath the fear, there was a flicker of something else—something dangerously close to hope.

Because there it was, lurking in the quiet corners of his mind, that maddening, traitorous little desire—the one he worked so hard to bury beneath his charm and wit. The desire to be seen. To be known. Not as a pawn, not as a predator, not as some fragile thing to be pitied or fixed, but as Astarion.

The thought left him raw and unsettled. He wasn’t sure what “Astarion” even meant anymore.

Astarion stared at him, a sharp retort dying on his tongue. He hated how much he wanted to believe him, how much the idea of being known—truly, fully known—stirred something deep and aching within him.

But the fear was there too, coiled tight and unyielding. What if there was nothing worth knowing? What if all that was left beneath the mask was the hollow shell Cazador had carved out of him?

"You can scoff all you like," Gale said softly, his voice steady but lacking any trace of judgment. "I know what it’s like to wear the mask so tightly it feels like it’s part of you. But I also know how exhausting it is. How much it takes to keep pretending."

"I don’t pretend," he said sharply, though even he could hear the defensive edge in his voice. "I am exactly what I appear to be: charming, devilishly handsome, and utterly unattainable. What more could anyone want?"

Gale raised an eyebrow and waited for Astarion to try again.

"Fine," Astarion said at last, his tone flippant but his eyes sharp. "But if this turns into one of those dreadful soul-baring exercises where you expect us to cry and hug, I’m leaving."

Gale laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine this time. "Noted," he said, his smile lingering.

They decided to meet at the same clearing the next evening. When Astarion wandered there after the others were beginning to wind down for the night, he found Gale already waiting atop a laid-out blanket. Next to him were wine glasses, a bottle of wine, and some parchment.

“Ever the scholar, aren’t you?” Astarion drawled as he approached, one brow quirked. “Perhaps an essay on the proper decanting of subpar vintages?”

Gale chuckled, unbothered by the jab. “Not quite,” he said, holding up the paper with a faint smile. “I’ve written a list of questions.”

Astarion stopped mid-step, his expression caught between amusement and incredulity. “Questions?”

“Questions,” Gale repeated firmly. “Twenty-one, to be exact. It’s a popular, albeit clichéd, way to get to know someone. The questions I chose are designed to spark conversation.”

Astarion snorted, jutting his hip out as he crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said with mock exasperation. “Let’s hear it, then. But if this turns into an interrogation, I reserve the right to leave.”

Gale smoothed out the parchment on his lap as he sat cross-legged on the ground. “Of course. You can skip any questions you don’t feel comfortable with,” he said, then gestured for Astarion to join him.

With a dramatic sigh, Astarion slid down to sit opposite Gale, legs stretched out and one arm draped lazily over his knee. “Very well. Impress me.”

Gale cleared his throat, glancing at the list. “We’ll take turns answering each question. And no deflecting with sarcasm or vague nonsense,” he said, raising a pointed finger.

“Alright, alright. Get on with it,” Astarion whined, though his lips curved into a faint grin.

“Question one,” Gale began, his tone almost formal. “What’s your favorite time of day?”

Astarion blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “That’s… unexpectedly mundane,” he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

“Answer it,” Gale prompted, his eyes glinting with amusement.

After a moment’s pause, Astarion shrugged. “Midday,” he said simply.

Gale raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

“The sun is at its highest. When I feel the sun against my skin, I can almost forget what I am; what was done to me.”

Gale nodded thoughtfully. “I’m partial to sunrise,” he said. “It feels like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something new.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment, motioning for Gale to continue.

“Question two,” Gale said, glancing back at the parchment. “If you could live anywhere in Faerûn, where would it be?”

“Anywhere far from Cazador and my wretched siblings,” Astarion said immediately, his tone light but with an edge beneath it. Then, after a beat, he added, “Perhaps a cozy little villa on the Sword Coast. I hear Neverwinter is quite lovely. Wine, books, a beautiful view… and no interruptions.”

Gale smiled faintly. “Sounds idyllic. It sounds a lot like my tower, actually.” Gale leaned back slightly, fingers absently tracing the rim of the wine glass in his hand. “Oh, you’d love it. A wizard’s tower, yes, but nothing imposing, nothing looming. It stood nestled at the edge of the Dock Ward, close enough to the water that the roar of the waves could lull you to sleep at night. It's right at the docks, in fact.”

He gestured in a slow, sweeping arc, painting the scene with his words. “The study faced west, where the setting sun would pour golden light through the windows. Stacks of books everywhere, scrolls spilling over desks, but I had an order to it—a chaos only I could understand. Wine racks lined one wall, enchanted, of course, to keep the vintages at their peak. And then, the balcony… oh, the balcony.”

He met Astarion’s eyes, his expression wistful yet warm. “Imagine it: a soft chaise draped in silks, a view that stretched out across the glistening sea, and the stars hanging so low they felt close enough to touch. No interruptions, save perhaps a visit from my lovely tressym, Tara.”

Gale chuckled softly, the sound rich and genuine. “It was a place meant for solitude and reflection, but also for indulgence. I suspect you’d approve. A retreat like that… it does wonders for the soul. Or, well, what remains of one.”

His gaze flicked back to the parchment for a moment, then returned to Astarion, a knowing glint in his eye. “And it strikes me, Astarion, that such a place might suit you quite well. Peace, books, wine...”

Astarion blinked, his eyes darting briefly to the wine sloshing around in Gale’s glass, his lips parting as though to speak, only for no words to come immediately. For the briefest moment, he seemed caught off guard, a flicker of something almost shy softening his usual sharpness. But then, true to form, he recovered with a flourish, a sly grin curving his lips as he leaned back.

“Well, Gale, I must say, you paint a tempting picture,” Astarion drawled, his tone dipping into mock contemplation. “It’s unwise to linger too long on such delightful hypotheticals. We might start thinking they’re possible, and that’s a dangerous line of thought, unless you quite like collecting strays.”

Gale opened his mouth to respond, but Astarion quickly changed the subject with a pointed glance at the parchment, his grin growing sharper as he leaned forward slightly. “Let’s move on, my dear wizard. Question three. I do so hope it’s equally as riveting.”

The questions continued, some light and whimsical, others more probing.

“What’s your favorite book?”

“What’s your worst habit?”

“What do you wish people understood about you?”

Each answer revealed slivers of truth, pieces of who they were beneath the masks they wore. Astarion found himself surprised by how much he enjoyed the game, despite himself.

When Gale reached question fourteen, Astarion hesitated.

The clearing was quiet save for the rustle of leaves overhead, the faint whisper of the wind weaving through the trees. Astarion sat across from Gale, one leg bent lazily, his fingers idly toying with a blade of grass as he mulled over the question.

“What do you fear most?” Gale had asked, his voice gentle but probing, the parchment in his lap forgotten.

Astarion’s first instinct was to deflect, to brush off the question with some charming quip about daylight or poorly aged wine. But something in Gale’s expression stopped him—the steady patience, the lack of judgment. It was maddeningly disarming.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the ground as he traced the edge of the blade of grass in his hand.

“That I’m truly only what I was made to be,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he’d intended. “What Cazador made me to be.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than he expected, and he hated the way they sounded aloud. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Gale didn’t react immediately. He didn’t offer pity, didn’t rush to fill the silence with meaningless platitudes. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees as he regarded Astarion with a quiet intensity.

“Astarion,” he said at last, his voice calm but resolute. “You are much more than that.”

Astarion laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Am I, though? Everything I’ve done, every skill I have—it all comes back to him. To what he molded me into. The charm, the seduction, the blade in the dark—it’s all his legacy, isn’t it?”

Gale’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Perhaps those things were shaped by him,” he acknowledged, his tone thoughtful. “But they don’t define you. You’re not a painting, Astarion. You’re not something he finished and hung on a wall. You’re a living being. You change, you grow, you choose.”

Astarion looked up sharply at that, his crimson eyes narrowing. “Choose?” he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. “Do you have any idea how little choice I’ve had in my existence?”

“I can’t claim to know what you’ve endured,” Gale said evenly. “But I know that the very fact you’re here, questioning, fighting, living—it’s a choice. It’s defiance.”

Astarion scoffed, looking away, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—a crack in the carefully constructed facade.

“And as for what you fear,” Gale continued, his tone softening, “I won’t pretend to have all the answers. But I do know this: fear is the mind’s way of pointing to what matters. You fear being only what Cazador made you because, deep down, you know there’s more to you than that. And you’re terrified to lose it.”

The words struck a chord Astarion hadn’t expected, and he hated how close they hit to the truth.

“I’m not some tragic figure in need of saving, you know,” he said after a long moment, his voice sharp but lacking its usual venom.

“I don’t think you are,” Gale replied simply. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry this alone.”

Astarion looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment, the mask slipped. There was something raw and unguarded in his expression, something fragile and aching that he couldn’t quite hide.

“You’re annoyingly earnest,” he muttered, leaning back with a dramatic sigh.

“You know,” Gale began, his voice quieter than usual, “my fear… lands in similar territory to yours, I suppose.”

Astarion waited for Gale to elaborate, listening intently.

“I spent so long living in Mystra’s shadow,” Gale continued, his tone thoughtful, almost distant. “Everything I did, every choice I made, was tied to her. To her approval, her expectations. Even my greatest mistake was born out of my obsession with being what I thought she wanted me to be.” He paused, glancing up at Astarion with a wry smile. “And now that I’ve been cast aside, I find myself wondering… who am I, really? Sometimes I wonder if I’m… anything.”

 Astarion watched him, his expression unreadable. He could see the vulnerability in Gale’s posture, the way his shoulders had tensed, as though bracing for judgment. It was a feeling Astarion knew all too well—the fear of exposing too much, of being dismissed or ridiculed for it.

"And so," Gale said, gesturing to the list with a small, self-deprecating laugh, "this little game of questions—it’s as much about rediscovering myself as it is about understanding you."

Astarion leaned back, his arms draped loosely over his knees as he regarded Gale with a curious tilt of his head. "So, let me get this straight," he said slowly, his voice laced with amusement but lacking its usual edge. "You’re using me as some sort of... existential mirror? How terribly self-indulgent of you."

Gale chuckled softly. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But if I’m going to piece myself back together, I’d like to think it’s not the worst thing to do it alongside someone who understands what it’s like to feel... fractured."

The words hit harder than Astarion wanted to admit. He looked away, his gaze drifting to the darkened treetops as he tried to mask the sudden unease bubbling within him.

"And here I thought I was the dramatic one," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.

As Astarion sipped his wine, he couldn’t shake the thought that, perhaps, they were both searching for the same thing: a sense of self beyond the shadows that had shaped them.

By the time they reached the end of the list, the wine was gone, and the clearing was filled with a comfortable silence.

"Well," Astarion said, stretching as he stood. "That was less dreadful than I expected."

"I’ll take that as a compliment," Gale said, folding the parchment and tucking it away.

As Astarion turned to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Next time, bring better wine.”

The clearing was becoming something of a habitual meeting spot now, though neither of them openly acknowledged it. When Astarion strolled in the following evening, he found Gale already there, sitting on a rock and fiddling with a  wrinkled parchment of what was likely more questions.

Astarion scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "No, no, darling. We’re not doing that again—not tonight, at least."

Gale raised an eyebrow, folding the parchment and tucking it into his robes. "Oh? And what do you propose, then?"

With a devilish grin, Astarion perched himself on a fallen log, one leg crossed over the other. "Since you were so insistent on picking the activity last time, it’s only fair that I choose tonight’s diversion."

"Fair enough," Gale said, leaning back with a curious expression. "What did you have in mind?"

Astarion’s grin widened, his fangs catching the moonlight. "A game. Simple, thought-provoking, and far less tedious than your little question and answer session. The premise is simple: I give you two options—both equally dreadful or delightful—and you must choose which one you’d prefer. No dodging the question, and no clever loopholes.”

Gale chuckled, his interest clearly piqued. “Alright, I’ll play. But only if you’re willing to answer honestly as well.”

“Naturally,” Astarion said. “I’m nothing if not fair.”

Gale gave him a skeptical look but nodded. "Very well. Let’s hear the first one, then."

Astarion’s grin widened, and he tapped his fingers together in mock villainy. “Would you rather bed a hag... or a mindflayer?”

Gale blinked, clearly caught off-guard. “That escalated quickly,” he said, but the laugh that escaped him was genuine. “Let’s see... I’d have to choose the mindflayer. A tad dangerous, I’d imagine, but some things are more fun that way.”

“Fun?” Astarion repeated, laughing. “Oh, darling, you’d better hope it doesn’t bite your pretty little skull open midway through. Your turn to think of a question.”

Gale chuckled, shaking his head as he thought. “Hmm… Would you rather be unable to drink wine for the rest of your existence or be forced to drink only Esmeltar Red forevermore?”

Astarion clutched his chest as if wounded. “You cruel, cruel man,” he gasped. “But if I must choose, I’ll endure eternal sobriety. Even undeath has its limits.”

“Noted,” Gale said with a wry smile. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Astarion leaned back, stretching languidly. “Let’s see if you can top this: would you rather have to serenade every enemy in battle before striking them down, or fight every encounter stark naked?”

Gale laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained. “The serenade, of course! I can’t even undress with Tara in the room.”

“And you’d give the goblins quite the show, no doubt,” Astarion quipped, smirking.

“There’s plenty of reasons why I’m a wizard and not a bard, and my tone-deaf singing voice is one of them,” Gale said while chuckling.

The questions continued, growing more ridiculous as the night went on.

“Would you rather have a beholder as a roommate or share a tent with Lae’zel indefinitely?”

“Would you rather wield a cursed weapon that insults you constantly or armor that’s always too tight?”

“Would you rather fight one-hundred goose-sized horses or one horse-sized goose?”

By the time the wine bottle was nearly empty, both of them were leaning back, laughing with the kind of ease that only came from surrendering to the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You know,” Gale began cautiously. “you’re falling into this quite easily for someone who claims to be above all this... ‘touchy-feely stuff.’”

Astarion smirked, his eyes glinting in the moonlit night. “Darling, I never claimed I was above fun.”

“No,” Gale mused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose you didn’t.”

“All right,” Gale said after a pause, his voice quieter now. “Would you rather...” He hesitated, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face before he finished, “...stay here in this moment, or return to the camp and let the night end?”

Astarion blinked, the shift in tone catching him off guard. He tilted his head, a smile playing at his lips, though it wasn’t quite as sharp as usual. “You’re not supposed to ask the obvious.”

“Is it? Obvious, I mean.” Gale asked, his voice soft, his words barely more than a breath between them.

The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving. Their faces were mere inches apart, close enough for Astarion to catch the faint scent of the wine on Gale’s breath, mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest.

“Well,” Astarion murmured, his voice low, “I suppose I’d choose to stay. After all, you’re tolerable company—when you’re not babbling about the Weave.”

Gale chuckled, but the sound was softer than before, his gaze fixed on Astarion’s. “Tolerable, am I? I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all evening. Or, well, ever.”

For a moment, the world seemed to still. Neither of them spoke, and neither pulled away. Astarion’s breath caught, the lightness of the evening giving way to something heavier, something real. It wasn’t the proximity alone that sent his pulse racing—it was the way Gale looked at him, as if he wasn’t trying to charm or flatter, but simply see him.

Astarion wasn’t sure whether to close the gap or pull back entirely. He only knew that something between them had shifted.

"Would you rather kiss me right now… or endure another endless round of Would You Rather where I concoct increasingly ridiculous questions until sunrise?"

Gale paused, his expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Don’t dodge the question, Gale,” Astarion teased, his eyes glinting mischievously.

With a long-suffering sigh that barely concealed his smile, Gale leaned in and brushed his lips against Astarion’s, soft but deliberate.

As Gale’s lips brushed against his, Astarion felt a jolt—not the kind of fleeting amusement he was used to, but something deeper, sharper. The brief contact sent a spark racing through him, leaving him momentarily stunned.

For centuries, he’d played the game of seduction, mastering the art of control, of staying detached even as others fell over themselves for him. But this? This feeling wasn’t part of the game. This wasn’t something he’d prepared for.

He pulled back, his smirk faltering as his gaze lingered on Gale. The wizard’s expression was a mix of amusement and quiet warmth, as if he knew exactly the effect he’d just had.

“Happy now?”

Astarion rolled his eyes, but the smirk he mustered didn’t quite reach his eyes. The spark lingered, unsettling and exhilarating all at once. “Oh, immensely. But don’t think that actually got you out of the next round.”

The questions came and went, each sillier than the last. But Astarion found himself watching Gale’s every move more closely—the curve of his lips when he laughed, the way his eyes lit up when a particularly absurd question made them both dissolve into laughter.

Being around Gale made him not care that the carefully-constructed walls he built up were quickly crumbling down.

Their meetups had definitely become a routine for both of them. They would go back and forth between choosing their activity for the night. Gale seemed to favor nights where they would share a book, balancing it between their laps and taking turns reading pages aloud. Astarion, meanwhile, had begun to show a clear preference for drinking games that got the stuffy wizard loose and giggly.

It was Astarion’s turn to choose. The clearing was alive with the soft hum of insects and the faint rustle of wind blowing through leaves, but the focus of the night was Astarion’s newest game. Gale sat cross-legged, his hands resting loosely in his lap as he waited for Astarion to explain the game. Astarion was sprawled opposite him, his posture relaxed but his eyes glinting with mischief. Beside him was a bottle of Chultan Fireswill that Gale was eyeing cautiously.

“The game is simple, as most drinking games are,” Astarion began, his tone smooth, “Never Have I Ever. Name something you’ve never done, and if the other person has done it, they drink.”

Gale chuckled softly, shaking his head. “This should be enlightening.”

“I’ll start,” Astarion said, swirling his wine. “Never have I ever… read an entire book about magical theory.”

Gale snorted, reaching for his glass. “Starting with the easy ones, I see.” He took a small sip, his eyes already glinting with amusement. “My turn. Never have I ever… stolen something from a noble’s estate.”

Astarion scoffed, raising his glass to his lips before hesitating. “Wait, do you mean before the tadpoles or after?”

“If you have to clarify, I think you should just go ahead and drink,” Gale teased.

The questions volleyed back and forth, playful and harmless at first.

“Never have I ever fallen into a pit trap.”

“Never have I ever been hit with Acid Splash.”

“Never have I ever accidentally put an article of clothing on backwards.”

Astarion’s grin eventually turned sharper, a hint of wickedness creeping in. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a sultry lilt. “Never have I ever… masturbated somewhere I shouldn’t have.”

Gale rolled his eyes, a faint pink creeping up his cheeks. “Must you always make these games so provocative?” he muttered, but he took a sip anyway.

Astarion’s grin widened into something downright feral as he leaned closer, practically vibrating with delight. “Ooh, we are not skipping past that,” he squealed. “You’ve opened the door, and I simply must step through. When, where, and why? Come now, spare me no details!”

Gale groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I knew letting you steer this game was a mistake.”

“Oh, you adore my steering,” Astarion quipped, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Now spill.”

The flush on Gale’s cheeks deepened, but despite his embarrassment, he seemed resigned to his fate. “Fine,” he said, sighing as if he were confessing some terrible crime. “It was in one of Mystra’s temples.”

Astarion’s eyes widened, and then he threw his head back with laughter. “In a temple? Oh, you wicked, naughty mage! Please tell me it wasn’t on some sacred altar or next to a shrine.”

“Not on an altar, no,” Gale said sharply, glaring at Astarion, though the effect was ruined by his ever-deepening blush. “It was… during an experiment that required, shall we say, intense focus and energy. Things… escalated. And that’s all you’re getting!”

Astarion’s laughter reached a crescendo before he wiped at his eyes, practically doubling over. “I don’t know what’s more scandalous: the fact that you did it in a temple, or the fact that you somehow made it sound so... academic. Good gods, Gale, you’re a treasure.”

Gale gave a playful kick to Astarion’s leg, though he was smiling despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you continue playing,” Astarion teased, his voice dropping a notch as he leaned even closer. “Your turn.”

Gale’s lips quirked into a small, challenging smile. “Never have I ever… deliberately flustered someone just to see them blush.”

Astarion paused, his grin faltering for the briefest of moments before he raised his glass and took another sip, the gesture slow and deliberate. “Caught me. But you wear it so well, darling. How could I resist?”

The tension in the air had shifted, the teasing edge still present but mingling with something more charged, more intimate. Astarion’s next question was on the tip of his tongue, his gaze locked on Gale’s as he weighed how far to push.

The mage’s cheeks were a deep shade of pink, his glass nearly empty from all the sips he’d been forced to take.

“Never have I ever…” Astarion began, his voice a silky drawl, “…thought about the other person playing this game in a distinctly unwholesome way.”

Gale hesitated, his hand hovering over his glass. His jaw worked as though he were debating whether honesty or decorum was the better path.

“Oh, don’t lie,” Astarion teased, leaning forward, his grin equal parts wicked and seductive. “You’ve been squirming in your seat all night, Gale. I see the way you keep glancing at my lips. Just admit it.”

Gale sighed and, with a slight roll of his eyes, took the faintest sip of his wine.

Astarion’s grin turned triumphant. “I knew it,” he purred, setting his glass aside and shifting closer, their knees almost touching now. “Do tell, darling. What exactly were you imagining?”

“You don’t make these things easy,” Gale muttered, his voice low but tinged with warmth. “And you’re sure you never have?”

“Oh, of course I have, darling. I was lying, of course, to get things moving. I wanted to see you admit it,” Astarion replied smoothly. “Now, was it my hands?” He reached out, running his fingers lightly over Gale’s wrist, making the mage’s breath hitch. “My voice?” His tone dipped into a sultry whisper, the words brushing against Gale’s ear. “Or was it something much more… explicit?”

“Astarion,” Gale said softly, but there was no reprimand in his tone. If anything, it was an invitation.

“Yes, my dear?” Astarion replied, a playful lilt to his voice, though his eyes searched Gale’s face for any hesitation.

Before Gale could answer, Astarion closed the gap, pressing their lips together in a kiss that was both teasing and commanding. Gale’s surprise melted quickly, his hands finding their way to Astarion’s waist, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss.

The glass Gale had been holding tipped over, forgotten, as Astarion crawled into his lap. Their mouths moved together hungrily, carefully reinforced walls fully crumbling under the weight of something raw and undeniable.

Gale pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against Astarion’s. “I like you so much. So much that I’m not sure what to do with it all.”

Astarion froze for a heartbeat, his eyes widening just slightly before he schooled his expression into something softer, though no less intense. Gale’s words hung in the air between them, raw and unvarnished, and they struck a chord Astarion hadn’t realized was still capable of vibrating.

“Is that so?” he said, his voice a touch quieter than usual. “You’re not the first to like me, you know. It’s a rather long list.”

Gale let out a soft laugh, his breath warm against Astarion’s lips. “And were the others allowed to see all of you? The way you’ve let me see you?”

Astarion tilted his head, his grin faltering for just a moment before returning, albeit less sharp. “And what exactly do you think you see, dear wizard?”

Gale’s hands, steady yet gentle, slid down to rest at Astarion’s hips, holding him in place as if afraid he might vanish. “I see someone who hides behind charm and sharp words because it’s easier than being vulnerable. Someone who has lived through hell but still manages to laugh. Someone who’s learning to want more for himself.”

Astarion blinked, caught off guard. He leaned back slightly, his gaze searching Gale’s face, looking for any trace of insincerity and finding none. “You make it sound so noble,” he said with a quiet chuckle, though it lacked his usual bite. “But I’m afraid you might be overestimating me.”

“I’m not,” Gale said simply, his eyes locked on Astarion’s. “I like you, truly like you. Every messy, complicated part of you. So much, in fact, that I don’t mind sitting here feeling like a lovesick fool while you pretend you haven’t fallen for me just as much as I’ve fallen for you.”

Astarion laughed, though the sound was softer than usual, more genuine. “Alright, alright,” he said, though his hands came to rest on Gale’s shoulders, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his sleep shirt. “Fine. You’ve become… immensely important to me.”

Gale’s lips curved into a large, eager grin.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Astarion said, though his voice lacked any real venom. He leaned in again, his lips brushing against Gale’s, a deliberate and tender touch. “But perhaps I’m willing to admit that I like you too. A little. Maybe more than a little.”

The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that Astarion hadn’t expected to feel. Gale smiled against his lips, his hands tightening slightly on Astarion’s hips as he kissed him again, slow and unhurried.

Astarion’s sharp grin softened into something more sultry as he shifted in Gale’s lap, the fabric of his tights brushing against the wizard’s pajama pants in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. Gale’s hands instinctively tightened on Astarion’s slim hips, as if grounding himself, but the elf had no intention of slowing down.

“Hmm,” Astarion murmured, pulling back just enough to smirk down at him. “Enjoying yourself?” He punctuated his words with another slow roll of his hips, and Gale’s low moan only confirmed his suspicion.

“Gods, yes. You are a vision,” Gale managed, his voice thick and strained with want. His hands slid up Astarion’s back, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his shirt before settling at his waist.

“Me? Look at you,” Astarion purred, leaning in to nip lightly at Gale’s lower lip before kissing him again, their tongues brushing in small strokes that left them both breathless. “Moaning and whining for me so prettily. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you under me like this,”

Gale’s laugh was a rasp, his head tilting back slightly as Astarion’s lips trailed kisses along the prickly hair of his beard at his jaw and down the side of his neck. “Ah, truly? Please, I only want honesty from you. I can’t handle anything else, Astarion,” he admitted, his words breaking into a sharp inhale as Astarion’s pointed teeth grazed his shoulder—not enough to draw blood, but enough to send a spark of heat coursing through him.

“Truly, Gale. Without any of those walls I’ve built up, without a mask I’ve been forced to wear. You are magnificent,” Astarion said, voice thick with adoration and desire. He shifted again, grinding down harder this time, and the friction drew a mutual groan from both of them.

The clearing felt charged, the cool night air doing little to quell the heat building between them. Every movement, every sound, seemed to draw them deeper into this magnetic pull, their bodies pressing closer as the kiss grew even more heated. Astarion’s nails lightly raked along Gale’s shoulders, and Gale responded by pulling him tighter, his grip firm as if holding on might keep the moment from slipping away.

Astarion’s sharp eyes glimmered with something softer beneath the heat as he pulled back slightly to meet Gale’s gaze, their faces inches apart. “Magnificent,” he repeated, the word a reverent whisper now, as though tasting its truth for the first time. “Every clever word you speak, every spark of magic that dances at your fingertips, every maddening way you make me—” He paused, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before he tilted his lips into a sharp smile. “—forget I’m supposed to have the upper hand here.”

Gale’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath mingling with Astarion’s. His hands tightened at Astarion’s waist, steady yet trembling slightly, betraying the storm beneath his carefully measured tone. “You give me far too much credit,” he said, though his voice wavered, laced with the same hunger and honesty that burned in Astarion’s gaze. “I’m just a foolish man who’s trying to keep up with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Astarion repeated, his brow arching. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the curve of Gale’s ear as he spoke, his voice low and intoxicating. “What, pray tell, do you think I am, my dear wizard? Some untouchable thing, meant to stand above the likes of you?”

Gale shivered at the sensation, his hands trailing up to stroke at the base of Astarion’s spine. “I think you’re beautiful and infuriating,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a murmur. “I think you’re someone who deserves more than he’s ever been allowed to take for himself. And I think you’re someone worth knowing, truly knowing.”

Astarion let out a soft, breathless laugh. He cupped Gale’s face with both hands, his thumbs tracing gentle circles along his jawline. “Stealing all the best words for yourself. Such a show-off,” he teased, though his voice trembled just enough to betray the truth beneath his playful facade.

He allowed himself to surrender—not to a master, nor to manipulation, but to something frighteningly real. Something he realized he might have been yearning for all along.

Astarion’s eyes roved over Gale with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation as the wizard writhed beneath him in his camp attire: a loose, wrinkled purple pajama shirt with matching pants. “Darling,” Astarion drawled, folding his arms and tilting his head in mock disapproval, “as delicious as you are, you look like a particularly underwhelming bedtime story.”

Gale huffed, though the corners of his lips quirked up. “I happen to value comfort, thank you. Not all of us lounge around in form-fitting finery at all hours.”

Astarion let his fingers idly toy with the hem of Gale’s shirt. “Let’s see if we can improve this... ensemble, shall we?”

Gale chuckled, but his breath hitched slightly as Astarion’s cool fingers brushed against his skin while slowly lifting the shirt. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something a tad more revealing,” Astarion teased, leaning in to press a kiss to Gale’s jaw as he worked the shirt up and over his head, letting it fall to the ground. He trailed his fingertips over the newly bared skin, his grin sharpening at the way Gale shivered under his touch. “It’s a shame that you’re so intent on draping yourself in what is practically a bedroll. Though, there is a certain allure to being the only one allowed to see such a mouthwatering sight.”

Gale shook his head, a low laugh escaping him as he deftly loosened the laces of Astarion’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders with a deliberate slowness that made the vampire smirk. “I am not for eating,” Gale giggled, his hands lingering on Astarion’s chest as he leaned in for a kiss, the warmth of his lips a stark contrast to the cool night air.

Their laughter faded into soft sighs as they continued undressing each other, the task punctuated by teasing remarks and stolen kisses. Astarion made an exaggerated show of Gale’s drawstring pants, untying them with a flourish and holding them up like a trophy before tossing them aside. “Truly, wizard, you’re lucky I’m here to rescue you from such tragic articles of clothing.”

“Rescue?” Gale asked while kicking his boxer-briefs down and off of himself. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Of course,” Astarion replied, his eyes raking over Gale with a mixture of hunger and appreciation. “And I’m very thorough in my efforts.”

When they finally laid bare before each other, Astarion’s teasing melted into something softer, his hands resting lightly at Gale’s waist. He leaned in, his voice low and sincere. “Though I suppose, even in those dreadful pajamas, you still look utterly divine.”

Gale’s breath caught, his hands coming to rest on Astarion’s arms. “And here I thought you’d tease me endlessly,” he said, his voice quiet but warm.

“Oh, I will,” Astarion assured him with a smirk, pulling him into a slow, lingering kiss. “But only because I like to watch you squirm.”

The heat between them built quickly, their kisses growing more fervent, each touch and sound fanning the flame of desire that had been simmering for weeks. Astarion’s lips trailed down Gale’s neck, his sharp teeth grazing the sensitive skin, leaving the wizard shivering in anticipation. He continued his descent, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along Gale’s furry chest and stomach, reveling in every soft sigh and sharp intake of breath.

Every touch was calculated, designed to keep Gale on edge, to keep him guessing.

When he reached Gale’s hips, Astarion paused, looking up with a wicked grin that promised both mischief and delight. Gale opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat as Astarion bypassed his obvious arousal entirely, spreading his legs wider with an almost casual authority.

Gale was undoubtedly gorgeous like this, his swollen cockhead escaping his foreskin and drooling pre-come obscenely. But Astarion had other, more interesting ideas for his wizard.

“You didn’t think I’d settle for anything so… predictable, did you?,” Astarion purred, his voice dripping with amusement and hunger. “Besides, with the noises you’re making, I have a feeling you wouldn’t last very long if I went right for your cock,” Without waiting for a response, he bent lower, his hands firmly gripping Gale’s thighs to keep him steady.

The first flick of Astarion’s tongue against him was exploratory, teasing, but it quickly gave way to something messier, more eager. He licked around Gale’s rim with shameless enthusiasm, his lips and tongue moving in ways that made Gale’s thighs tremble where they rested on the ground. Astarion groaned into him, the vibrations of the sound sending a jolt through Gale’s entire body.

“Astarion!” Gale gasped, his hands flying to clutch at the vampire’s shoulders, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “By the gods—”

Astarion chuckled against him, the vibrations deliberate now as he worked his tongue deeper, alternating between long, broad strokes and sharp, focused flicks. The slick, obscene sounds filled the clearing, matched only by Gale’s helpless moans and the rustle of their bodies shifting against the bedroll.

“You sound so pretty when you’re falling apart like this,” Astarion murmured between licks, his voice thick with satisfaction. He glanced up briefly, his face glowing with delight at the sight of Gale’s flushed face and trembling form.

Gale could only groan in response, his head falling back as his hands fumbled to grip the blanket beneath him. Astarion’s tongue moved with expert precision, coaxing noises from the wizard that he hadn’t realized he was capable of making.

“Astarion, I—!” Gale choked out, his words dissolving into a drawn-out moan as Astarion pressed his tongue in deeper, his grip tightening on Gale’s thighs to keep him in place.

Astarion pulled back with a giggle, his lips still glistening as he settled back on his knees, his hands resting on Gale’s thighs. He tilted his head with a playful pout, tapping a finger against his chin. “As delightful as you look all wrecked and wanting, my dear, we seem to have hit a rather inconvenient snag.”

Gale blinked at him, still catching his breath, his flushed face painted with a mix of confusion and anticipation. “Hnngh?”

Astarion raised an elegant hand, wiggling his fingers with a dramatic sigh. “No oil. No balm. Nothing to lubricate.” He pouted dramatically, his voice teasing. “Any suggestions?”

Gale’s expression shifted quickly from surprise to determination, his lips quirking into a sly smile as he lifted a hand. With a whispered incantation and a flick of his wrist, a faint shimmer of magic surrounded Astarion’s fingers before settling into a slick, glistening sheen.

“There,” Gale said confidently, his voice carrying just a hint of smugness. “One of the many perks of bedding a wizard.”

Astarion blinked, his eyes widening slightly before a slow, impressed grin spread across his face. He flexed his fingers experimentally, the magical slickness gliding smoothly against his skin. “Well, well, color me impressed,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Pretty and practical.”

Gale leaned back on his elbows, the confidence in his posture offset only slightly by the flush creeping up his neck. “I aim to please,” he quipped, his gaze steady despite the teasing lilt in his voice.

Astarion’s grin turned sharper, his newly slick fingers tracing light patterns against Gale’s thigh. “Oh, I can assure you, darling,” he purred, leaning in close enough for his breath to ghost against Gale’s ear. “You’re about to excel at it.”

Before Gale could respond, Astarion’s lips were on his again, hungry and commanding, as his hands moved with deliberate purpose.

A toothy grin played on his lips as he trailed kisses down the wizard’s chest and stomach, lingering just enough to keep Gale squirming. "Patience, darling," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, even as his fingers ghosted over Gale’s inner thigh. “I intend to savor every moment.”

With that, he dipped his head, his tongue darting out to trace a teasing circle over one of Gale’s nipples while his slick fingers found their target. The first press was light, exploratory, and Astarion watched Gale’s face intently as he worked the tip of one finger inside. The gasp that left the wizard’s lips was music to his ears.

“There we go,” Astarion cooed, his voice low and soothing as he eased the finger in deeper, curling it slightly to draw another shuddering breath from Gale. “Feels good?”

Gale’s only response was a quiet, breathless “yes,” his hands clutching at the bedroll beneath him as his body writhed under Astarion’s touch.

Pleased, Astarion began a slow rhythm, his movements deliberate and unhurried, letting Gale adjust to the sensation. When he added a second finger, the stretch drew a low, throaty moan from Gale that sent a thrill of satisfaction coursing through Astarion. “You sound divine,” he purred, leaning up to kiss the corner of Gale’s mouth.

Gale’s lips parted, and he tilted his head, seeking more of the kiss, but Astarion pulled back with a smirk. “Ah, ah. Focus on the sensations, darling. Let me take care of you.”

He worked his fingers with practiced precision, scissoring them slightly to open Gale further while curling them just enough to brush against the sensitive spot inside. Gale’s reaction was immediate—a strangled gasp as his hips bucked involuntarily, his head falling back against the makeshift pillow.

“Stars above, Astarion,” Gale breathed, his voice shaking as his hands fumbled to find purchase on Astarion’s shoulders. “That—”

“Liked that, did you?” Astarion interrupted, his grin sharp as he repeated the motion, drawing another broken moan from Gale. “I could do this all night. Watching you fall apart under me is… intoxicating.”

Gale groaned, his body arching into Astarion’s touch as he struggled to form words. “Please… Please, Astarion, I—”

Astarion took his time, despite Gale’s begging, savoring every twitch and sigh, every whispered curse and pleading gasp. He wanted Gale to feel cherished, desired, and entirely undone—and from the look on the wizard’s flushed, blissful face, he was succeeding beautifully.

Astarion's fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing every gasp and moan from Gale that he could. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against Gale’s ear as he murmured, “How are you feeling, darling? Do you think you could take more?”

Gale’s breath hitched, his body trembling beneath Astarion’s touch. “I… I think so,” he managed, his voice breaking slightly, a mix of nerves and excitement threading through it.

Astarion chuckled, low and indulgent, pressing a kiss to the corner of Gale’s jaw. “Good. You’re so good for me, darling.” With great care, he began to work in a third finger, taking his time as Gale adjusted to the stretch. Every inch further drew soft, ragged moans from Gale’s lips, and Astarion savored them like fine wine.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, his voice dripping with affection and heat. “But you know, one day, I’ll want to test you.”

Gale opened his eyes, glassy with pleasure, to meet Astarion’s pointed gaze. “Hnn?” he whimpered, his breathing uneven.

Astarion’s grin turned wicked, a spark of playful cruelty glinting in his eyes. “I’ll see how much you can take. How many of my fingers you can handle. Maybe even all of them.” He flexed his fingers inside Gale to emphasize his point, earning a shudder and a broken moan in response. “I’d wager you’d look absolutely exquisite with my hand buried in you.”

Gale’s face flushed a deep red, his lips parting as he struggled to find words. “That’s… an ambitious thought,” he managed, his voice trembling with both arousal and disbelief.

Astarion chuckled darkly, leaning down to nip at Gale’s ear. “Ambitious, perhaps. But don’t you think it would be worth it? Imagine how warm you’d keep me.” His tongue flicked against the shell of Gale’s ear before he pulled back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not tonight, though.”

Gale whined high and nasally, only to groan when Astarion’s fingers found that sensitive spot inside him once more, making his hips jerk involuntarily.

“No,” Astarion continued, his voice a decadent drawl as he slowly withdrew his fingers, leaving Gale quivering from the absence. “Tonight, I want to feel you clench around me. To milk your release with nothing but my cock buried deep in that lovely ass of yours.”

The crude promise sent a bolt of heat through Gale, his body arching toward Astarion as he let out a strangled moan. “Then stop teasing,” he rasped, his voice thick with desperation. “Do it, Astarion. Please.”

Astarion’s grin softened for a moment, a flicker of fondness passing over his features before his hunger returned. “As you wish,” he purred, reaching to align himself with Gale’s entrance. “But I’m not going to stop until you’re utterly spent. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

“You already have, Astarion, please, please—”

Astarion’s smug grin widened at Gale’s desperate admission, his face alight with satisfaction. “Oh, darling,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth and laced with mischief, “you do know how to flatter a man.”

Astarion quickly lathered the magically procured lubricant over himself. With deliberate slowness, he pressed forward, the head of his cock breaching Gale’s entrance. The tight heat that greeted him pulled a shuddering gasp from his lips, and he paused, letting the sensation wash over him. Beneath him, Gale let out a low, broken moan, his head tipping back, showing off the curve of his neck.

“Relax for me, love,” Astarion coaxed, his voice a soothing hum. He slid a hand over Gale’s thigh, his touch firm but reassuring as he sank in further, inch by inch. “That’s it. Let me in. Let me make you feel good.”

Gale’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body straining against the stretch, but he nodded, his voice trembling. “You already do,” he managed, the words breaking on a soft cry as Astarion pushed deeper.

The vampire spawn gritted his teeth, his composure slipping for a moment as Gale’s heat enveloped him. “Gods,” he hissed, his voice thick with need. “You feel divine. I could stay like this forever.”

Gale’s laugh was breathless, laced with arousal. “I’d rather you fuck me already” he quipped, though the words ended in a sharp inhale as Astarion bottomed out, their bodies finally flush together.

Astarion groaned, his hands gripping Gale’s hips as he steadied himself, savoring the way Gale clung to him. “Patience, naughty wizard,” he drawled, his tone teasing despite the strain in his voice. “I want to enjoy every second of this.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to feel the drag, before thrusting forward again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His balls slapped at Gale’s ass lewdly with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the clearing. Each movement was calculated, designed to drive Gale to the edge and keep him there.

Gale’s hands found Astarion’s shoulders, his nails digging into pale skin as his hips moved instinctively to meet Astarion’s thrusts. “Please. Astarion, I wanna cum, please,” he breathed, his voice a mix of frustration and pleasure.

“Shh, shh,” Astarion tutted, leaning down to capture Gale’s lips in a searing kiss. “Keep being good for me, sweetie.”

Their bodies moved together, the tension building between them like a storm about to break. Astarion’s pace quickened, each thrust drawing soft cries from Gale that only fueled his hunger.

Astarion groaned against Gale’s lips, savoring every broken sound that escaped the wizard. His pale hands slid down to grip Gale’s thighs, holding him in place as he drove into him with increasing fervor. “Such a desperate little thing,” he purred, his voice a sultry whisper as he sucked marks into Gale’s neck. “I adore it. Keep begging, darling—I might just indulge you.”

Gale’s nails dragged down Astarion’s back, his body arching as pleasure coursed through him in waves. “I can’t—please, Astarion, I’m so close,” he gasped, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

Astarion groaned at the sound, his restraint threatening to snap as Gale clenched around him. He pressed his forehead against Gale’s, their breaths mingling as he slowed his pace just enough to keep Gale teetering on the edge. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you, love?” Astarion murmured, his voice thick with affection and desire. “We’ll finish together.”

Gale whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut as he tried to focus through the haze of pleasure. “Yes, yes—anything, just—don’t stop,” he pleaded, his voice raw with need.

“Good boy,” Astarion praised, his tone dripping with sweetness as he shifted his angle slightly, his thrusts hitting deeper, harder. The change pulled a loud, unrestrained moan from Gale that sent a jolt of satisfaction through Astarion. He grinned wickedly, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses to Gale’s throat.

The tension between them built like a crescendo, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm as the air around them seemed to hum with electricity. Astarion’s hands tightened on Gale’s hips, his own movements becoming more erratic as he neared his own peak. “Come on, brilliant little thing,” he urged, his voice a rasp. “Let go for me. Let me see you fall apart.”

Gale cried out Astarion’s name, his body arching as he came undone, pleasure tearing through him in a white-hot wave. The sight and sensation of it—Gale’s trembling form, the way he clenched around him—was enough to send Astarion over the edge. He followed moments later, his own release leaving him breathless and shaking as he spilled into Gale, his head falling against the wizard’s shoulder.

For a moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing, their bodies still entwined as they rode out the aftershocks together. Astarion pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Gale’s temple, a tenderness in his gaze.

Gale let out a weak chuckle, his hands sliding up to rest against Astarion’s back.

Astarion nestled against Gale, his usually perfect posture giving way to a vulnerability as he let himself relax into the wizard’s embrace. The cool night air wrapped around them, but the warmth of Gale’s body against his own kept any chill at bay. He shifted slightly, propping himself on one elbow to better look at Gale’s face, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the moonlight.

Gale gazed back at him, his dark eyes soft with affection and exhaustion. One hand rested lightly on Astarion’s waist, the other loosely tangled in the vampire’s pale hair. There was no need for words, not in this moment. The silence between them was filled with an understanding that needed no explanation.

Astarion lifted a hand, brushing back a stray lock of Gale’s dark hair before letting his fingers thread through it, stroking gently. The motion was uncharacteristically tender, and he found himself surprised by how natural it felt. For so long, touch had been a weapon or a tool, something to manipulate and control. Now, for the first time in centuries, it felt… safe.

Astarion’s gaze flickered over Gale’s face, taking in every detail: the faint lines of weariness near his eyes, the softness in his features that spoke of a man unburdening himself, even if just for tonight. “You know,” Astarion began, his voice softer than usual, “I think I like this version of you.”

Gale tilted his head slightly, his brow arching in quiet amusement. “This version?”

“The real you,” Astarion clarified, his eyes meeting Gale’s. “Not Gale of Waterdeep. Mystra’s prodigy. Just… you.” His fingers continued their slow movement through Gale’s hair, as though grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

For a moment, Gale seemed at a loss for words, his lips parting as if to speak but no sound coming out. Eventually, he settled for leaning into Astarion’s touch, his eyes closing briefly. “I think I’m still figuring out who that is,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

Astarion smiled, a genuine curve of his lips that lacked his usual smugness. “Then we’ll figure it out together, won’t we?” he said, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness to soften the weight of his words.

Gale opened his eyes, meeting Astarion’s gaze with a look that was equal parts gratitude and wonder. “I’d like that. Very much so,” he confessed.

Astarion continued to pet Gale’s hair, his own heart feeling lighter than it had in centuries. For once, he didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to manipulate or charm. Someone cared enough to truly see him, and he was grateful for the chance to see the man behind the titles.

In Gale, he’d found something unexpected, something precious. And for the first time in a long time, Astarion allowed himself to hope.