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A Star(ion) Burns Bright

🌟✨The Upper City remembers Astarion as Cazador's pretty puppet. Lady Vensara remembers him as an evening's entertainment. All of Baldur's Gate knows him as the Midnight Magistrate. No one seems to have noticed his new strength, or the powerful friends standing behind him. Their mistake.✨🌟

Starts very dark but there's fluff, feels, and raunchy post-nookie cuddling to look forward to on your way to a triumphant ending.

This is a Bloodweave sequel to A Star(ion) is Born and likely won't make as much sense without reading it first.

Content Tags: During Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-Con, Astarion's Past Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Threatening Repeated Sexual Assault, Threatening Repeated Torture, Demeaning Language, Abuser returns to threaten survivor with more abuse, Speaking Truth to Power, Astarion's Truth is Really Hard to Hear, Confronting Abusers, Protective Partners, Supportive Partner Gale, Political Intrigue, Reclaiming Your Story, Taking Back Power, POV Astarion, Non-explicit Sexual Content, ~15K Words

Read here below the break or on AO3!

If you enjoy this mix of angst, cuddles, and found family shenanigans, please reblog/reply here or leave a comment/kudos on AO3. I can't help being hungry for feedback - feed the beast!

The Lower City's evening air carried the familiar mix of chimney smoke, street food, and too many people living too close together. The cobblestones near the Elfsong were marginally better maintained than elsewhere, likely due to the constant flow of visitors to the famous tavern. Not quite the rarefied atmosphere of the Upper City, but it had its own peculiar charm.

"Another productive day of finding absolutely nothing," Astarion drawled, falling into step beside Gale. "Though I suppose no news is good news when it comes to murder investigations."

"At least you're getting recognized for your talents." Gale's eyes crinkled with barely suppressed mirth. "That dock worker seemed quite impressed by meeting the Midnight Magistrate"

"Yes, well." Astarion smoothed his collar. "If I'd known that one night would lead to such notoriety and everyone finding me so recognizable, I might have reconsidered a hood."

"And ruin your hair?" The whole party chimed in, having heard this exchange multiple times over the past few days.

Astarion rolled his eyes but couldn't quite suppress his smile. The fame was irritating, yes, but also... oddly validating. And with the party's support—with Gale's support—even the prospect of confronting Cazador felt less daunting.

A figure detached from the shadows near the tavern's entrance. Astarion sighed, preparing his now-practiced "gracious performer" smile.

"Might I have a moment of your time?" The cloaked figure's voice was carefully neutral.

"Of course, darling." He waved the others ahead. "Though I'm afraid I left my quill at—"

The figure thrust a sealed envelope into his hands and melted back into the evening crowd without another word. The wax seal caught the light from the tavern's windows, and Astarion's smile froze on his face. The sight of the chain motif pressed into dark red wax made Astarion's fingers go numb. He knew that seal—had seen it pressed into documents on mahogany desks while he had been forced to—

No, deal with that later. Astarion slipped the letter into his jacket with the same casual grace he used to lift purses and schooled his expression.

"Everything alright?" Gale called from the tavern door.

"Just another adoring fan." The lie rolled off his tongue with ease as he followed the party into the tavern. Two centuries of performing for Cazador's amusement had taught him how to keep his voice light even when his insides felt like lead. "Go on up. I'll join you shortly—thought I might acquire some proper wine first. The selection in our rooms is frankly criminal."

"Oh? And you think you can choose better than the wizard of Waterdeep?"

Any other time, he would have delighted in their usual banter. Now the envelope seemed to burn against his chest. "Darling, a blind drunk could choose better than whatever swill you've been praising."

"We'll see about that." Gale's chuckle faded as he headed upstairs.

Astarion waited as the party's footsteps receded up the stairs as he moved toward the bar. Once certain they were out of sight, he diverted to a shadowed alcove, positioning himself with his back to the wall and a clear view of the tavern floor.

The din of the evening crowd provided cover as he pulled the envelop out from his pocket and broke the seal, the familiar scent of Lady Vensara's perfume rising from the paper. His stomach lurched. How many times had he caught that same scent—

Focus. Read first. Panic later.

Astarion unfolded the letter, the heavy cream paper crackling beneath his fingers.

Dearest Pet,

What a delightful surprise to discover that Cazador's prettiest possession has found such novel ways to occupy himself. Your little "performance" at the Laughing Lantern caused quite a stir among certain circles—though I confess myself disappointed by how unfavorably you painted your intimate encounters. Am I to assume you meant to include your times with me? Surely not. We were special, together.

Such a clever conceit, pretending to be what you actually are. The common folk eat up your "vampire act" with such charming naivety. But we both know there's nothing artificial about those fangs of yours, don't we? I remember how they felt grazing against my throat those nights Cazador so generously shared you.

I wonder how your adoring public might react if they learned the truth? Would they still find it all so entertaining? Or would they remember how many of their neighbors have gone missing over the years?

Perhaps we should discuss how to... adjust certain impressions. The Silver Chalice, tonight at midnight. I do so miss our time together, and I'm certain we can come to an arrangement that benefits us both.

Do try not to keep me waiting. If you do, I may have to seek more receptive audiences for my concerns.

Fondly remembering our times together,

Lady Vensara

P.S. That wizard you've been seen with—does he know what sort of creature shares his bed? Such a shame if something were to... sour between you.

The paper crumpled in his grip as memories crashed over him like waves of rank sewage. Her boudoir, all gilt and velvet, the scent of that same perfume—

No. He wouldn't—

"Such a pretty thing," she had crooned, running those blood-red nails down his chest. "Show me how well Cazador has trained you."

Astarion's back hit rough stone as he pressed against the wall, trying to ground himself in the present. The nerve of her, implying anything about Gale. As if she could understand what existed between them. As if her grotesque games could compare to—

"Lick the wine from the floor, pet. Every. Last. Drop." Her laugh as he had complied, unable to refuse, the vintage mixing with dirt ground into the expensive carpets. "Good boy. Now thank me for the privilege."

His fangs pierced his inner cheek. The sharp pain helped, but not enough. She had always delighted in making him thank her for each degradation, each humiliation. Making him beg for more—

"Crawl to me. Like the animal you are." The hem of her dress sweeping past as she circled him. "Cazador may have made you a monster, but I'll remind you what you really are—nothing but a toy for your betters."

The letter crumpled further in his fist. She thought herself so far above him, this petty creature who could only feel powerful by grinding others beneath her heel. As if she weren't the real monster—

Her perfectly manicured hand in his hair, yanking his head back as she—

No. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of falling apart. He was no longer that creature who could be commanded to grovel at her feet. He had his freedom, his dignity, his—

"Tell me how much you love this," she had whispered, forcing him to—

Bile rose in his throat.

Astarion forced himself to take slow, measured breaths, smoothing the letter against the wall. The past was the past. What mattered now was the threat Vensara posed—not just to him, but to their mission. To Gale.

The Dream Guardian's words echoed in his mind: "Build alliances. The city must stand united." And here he was, in danger of making an enemy of one of the most connected Patriars in Baldur's Gate. Vensara's reputation gleamed like her perfectly maintained façade—patron of the arts, supporter of orphanages, friend to the right causes. Her word could sway dozens of other influential families.

He tucked the mangled letter into his jacket. The wise choice was clear. Submit to one night of humiliation, secure her support, and help ensure Gale and the others survived what was coming. His dignity was a small price to pay for their survival.

But Gale would never allow it. It was touching, but also terrifying. They needed every advantage they could get against the Absolute. Gale would not be reasonable about this situation… if he knew.

The evening crowd swelled around him as he pushed off from the wall. No. This was his mess to clean up. He had to find a way to neutralize her threat without sacrificing their chances of victory. He had to.

He straightened his collar and headed for the bar to buy the wine he had promised Gale. Astarion tossed gold pieces on the bar and waved at the bartender. "Your finest Shadowvale Red. Three bottles."

His fingers brushed the letter in his pocket. The Silver Chalice—of course Ventara would choose that overpriced cesspit, where the wine cost more than most families earned in a month and the wealthy went to see and be seen. He would need his best outfit—the midnight blue ensemble with silver threading. The one Gale had called "devastatingly elegant" just last week when he had procured it.

Gale.

His chest ached at the thought of sneaking away, of lying to those clever eyes that saw through him so easily. Their relationship was still delicate, new—like spring flowers after winter's frost. And here he was, already preparing to risk it.

But what choice did he have? Vensara had noticed Gale. Had threatened him, however obliquely. The memory of her "hospitality" rose like bile in his throat. He wouldn't—couldn't—let her anywhere near Gale.

"Your purchase, sir." The bartender's voice snapped him back to the present.

Astarion gathered the bottles, letting his fingers trace the familiar shapes. Focus on the practical. He would need to time this perfectly—wait until Gale was deeply asleep, then slip away without disturbing him.

The thought of those arms around him, warm and safe, made his resolve waver. But no. Better to handle this himself than risk everything they'd built. Better to put on one more show, play one more part.

He had had centuries of practice, after all.

* * *

The sounds of shifting bodies and quiet conversations drifted through the alcove's thin curtains. Astarion pressed closer to Gale in their shared bed, savoring his warmth. Even with the cramped quarters and lack of privacy, these moments felt sacred—Gale's steady heartbeat against his chest, those clever hands buried in Astarion's sleep shirt and hair.

He had chosen their spot carefully, a corner bed that would shield them from most eyes. Not that their companions weren't already painfully aware of their relationship, but some pretense of privacy felt necessary.

His midnight blue jacket hung nearby, concealed under his usual cloak. He had managed to set it aside without drawing attention, along with the rest of what he would need later.

Gale shifted in his arms, mumbling something about illusions. Even in sleep, that brilliant mind kept working. Astarion stretched up and brushed a kiss against his temple, breathing in the familiar scent of parchment and magic that clung to him.

This was worth protecting. Worth any price.

The thought steadied him. Yes, tonight would likely be unpleasant. Yes, it would cost him something of himself just to speak to that creature again. But he had survived far worse to protect far less. And this—this warmth, these gentle touches, the way Gale looked at him like he was something precious—he would walk through fire to keep it safe.

He tightened his arms around Gale, just slightly. Just enough to remind himself that this was real, that he had found something true and kind in a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty for so long.

Whatever came next, he had this moment. This peace. This love.

Astarion waited until Gale's breathing deepened into true sleep before beginning the delicate process of extracting himself. One careful movement at a time, he lifted Gale's arm from his waist. Gale's fingers curled, seeking him even in sleep, and Astarion froze.

He waited, watching Gale's dear face while bitter thoughts swirled through his mind. He did not want to do this, but then, what else had he expected on returning to the city? That the effects of his sordid past in this city on the party would begin and end with his plans to end Cazador? That no one else in this city of ambition and agendas would have their own plans for him?

Gale settled, though his brow furrowed. Astarion slipped free and retrieved his clothes from their hiding spot. The midnight blue jacket felt heavy as he shrugged it on. He straightened his cuffs—old habits died hard—and checked his curls by touch.

The common room buzzed with late-night activity as he descended the stairs. A few patrons glanced his way, but no one paid him much mind. Just another traveler out for an evening stroll. Nothing to see here.

The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside. The street stretched empty before him, cobblestones gleaming in the moonlight. He turned toward the Upper City.

A familiar pop of displaced air made him freeze.

"Going somewhere?"

Astarion turned slowly, already knowing what he'd find. Gale stood there in his sleeping clothes, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating way of his. Somehow he managed to look commanding despite being barefoot and disheveled.

"Shit."

"Fess up, buttercup." Gale's voice carried that mix of amusement and exasperation that made Astarion's skin prickle. "Where are we sneaking off to?"

"We?" Astarion adjusted his cuffs, buying time. "I wasn't aware there was a we involved in my perfectly innocent evening constitutional."

"Ah yes, the traditional midnight stroll in your finest clothes." Gale gestured at Astarion's carefully chosen ensemble. "We're past this, aren't we?"

"You don't even know what this is."

"Obviously something you think you need to handle alone." Gale's tone softened. "And obviously something that had you fretting all afternoon and tossing and turning all night."

Astarion opened his mouth for another deflection, but Gale held up a hand.

"You look lovely, by the way. Whoever they are, they must be special to warrant such attention to detail." Gale's eyes traced over him with genuine appreciation. "If there's someone from your past you want to reconnect with—"

A harsh laugh escaped before Astarion could stop it. "Oh yes, reconnecting is precisely what she has in mind. Though I dare say her idea of connection involves significantly more chains than I'm comfortable with these days."

The words came out sharper than intended, dripping with acid, but Gale didn't flinch. Instead, he closed the distance between them, sleep-mussed and barefoot, and pulled Astarion into his arms.

Another pop of displaced air enveloped them both, and suddenly they were back in their room. Astarion's stomach lurched—he had never quite gotten used to that magical method of travel. The familiar sight of their temporary lodgings settled around them—the large central seating area with its couches and fireplace, the table with Gale's books spread across it, the many beds in alcoves along the perimeter of the room with their companions snugly tucked under covers.

They moved to the couch in the central area without speaking, Gale's hand steady on his lower back. The warmth of that touch made something in Astarion's gut settle. He had been so certain he needed to handle this alone, but now—

"I have to leave soon," he whispered, hating how his voice caught. "There's a deadline."

"Then you'd better explain quickly." Gale's voice was quiet, but his tone left no room for argument.

The letter felt heavy in Astarion's pocket. He pulled it out, the expensive paper crinkling beneath his fingers. The wax seal had cracked when he first opened it, but Lady Vensara's personal crest remained clear—a reminder of exactly who he was dealing with.

He couldn't make the words come out. Couldn't voice what she wanted, what she was threatening. Instead, he pressed the letter into Gale's hands and watched his face as he read.

Gale's expression shifted from concern to confusion to outrage. His fingers tightened on the paper, crinkling it further. "That absolute—" He cut himself off, jaw working. "She can't possibly think—"

"Oh, but she can." Astarion's low laugh felt hollow. "And she's right, isn't she? Whatever she asks, what does it weigh... compared to having the Vensaras on our side?"

"Stop." Gale's voice cracked like thunder. "Just... stop."

Astarion shot a panicked glance at their sleeping companions. "Keep your voice down."

Gale stood and stalked to his trunk, yanking out his finest robe with far more force than necessary. The silk whispered as he pulled his sleep clothes off and shrugged his finery on, movements sharp with contained fury.

"Darling, please." Astarion kept his voice low, measured. "This isn't your burden to bear."

"No?" Gale gathered his hair back, fingers working it into a hasty half-bun. "Then whose is it?"

"Mine. Just mine." Astarion crossed to him, catching his hands before he could finish the knot. "I've handled worse alone."

"That's rather the point, isn't it?" Gale's hands stilled in his. "You're not alone anymore."

"This isn't some grand adventure. It's ugly and shameful and—"

"And yours to handle however you see fit." Gale turned to face him fully. "But you don't get to pretend this doesn't affect me too. That watching you walk into danger alone wouldn't tear me apart."

"I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm offering." Gale's voice softened. "This is your show. Your choice. Your terms. But I won't let you face her alone just because you mistakenly think you have to."

Something tight in Astarion's chest loosened. He searched Gale's face for any hint of pity or disgust, finding only fierce determination. "I... don't know what to do with that."

"Do whatever you need to. I'll follow your lead." Gale squeezed his hands. "Just stop trying to protect me by hurting yourself. It won't work. And if you end up murdering her, you'll need help burying the body."

Astarion let out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Well, when you put it that way." He turned Gale around, fingers working deftly to fix the mess he had made of his hair. The silk strands slipped smoothly between his fingers as he wove them into a proper style. "There. Much better. Can't have you looking disheveled if we're heading to the Upper City."

He smoothed Gale's robes, adjusting the fall of fabric until it draped properly. "Though I must say, the 'just rolled out of bed in pursuit of my wayward lover' look rather suited you."

They made their way back down to the street, hand in hand. The cobblestones gleamed under the moonlight as they walked from the dim streets of the Lower City toward the well-lit paths leading upward.

"You realize," Gale said as they passed over the bridge separating the districts, "we're going to have some explaining to do tomorrow."

"Mm." Astarion kept his eyes forward, watching the streets for any sign of trouble. At this hour, even the Upper City held dangers.

"Karlach in particular is going to be furious she wasn't included. She's rather protective of you, you know."

"There's nothing to include anyone in," Astarion said. "This can be handled quietly, privately. No need to involve the others."

Gale's grip on his hand tightened slightly. "And how exactly do you plan to handle it?"

"I—" Astarion faltered. "Well, first we need to see what she actually wants."

"You mean beyond what was explicitly stated in that charming letter?"

"There's always more to it with Vensara. She wouldn't risk exposing me and annoying Cazador as a result without gaining something substantial in return." He tried to ignore how his voice wavered on her name.

Astarion caught the subtle shift in Gale's expression—that tightening around his eyes that meant he was puzzling something out. "What?"

"Does she really think you're that simple?" Gale's tone dripped with academic disdain. "That you wouldn't have already considered the wider context and how to use that to defuse her threats? Although the irony of Cazador's wrath somehow protecting you…"

A startled laugh escaped Astarion's lips. "Oh, darling. She remembers me as I was—a pretty thing to be used and discarded. Clever enough to entertain, but ultimately just another of Cazador's pets." He smoothed his jacket, buying time to steady his voice. "Freedom has changed more than just my ability to disobey direct commands, and she may not fully realize how, yet."

"Then she's a fool."

"No." Astarion's fingers tightened on Gale's arm. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that will get us gutted. Vensara is many things—most of them absolutely revolting—but she is not stupid. She has made an art of destroying people over dinner conversation. One wrong word, one missed cue, and she'll turn half the Upper City against us."

They passed beneath a streetlamp, its light catching the silver threading in Astarion's jacket. He kept his voice low, though the street remained empty. "She didn't survive this long by being careless. Whatever game she's playing, she's thought it through. And she won't hesitate to destroy us if we give her the chance."

Astarion couldn't help smiling as Gale's expression darkened. "We could just kill her," Gale said, voice pitched low and casual. "I know several very efficient spells. There need not even be a body."

Gale jumping straight to murder on his behalf warmed Astarion straight through. "Darling, as deeply attractive as that option is—and believe me, it's very attractive—we can't afford to make an enemy of her house right now."

"We're already at war," Gale pointed out. "What's one more enemy? And who says we will even be discovered?"

"We are in the middle of a war most of the city doesn't even realize is happening." Astarion guided them around a corner, checking the shadows before continuing. "The Absolute's agents are already inside the walls, inside the halls of power. We need allies, not more opposition. And Vensara..." He swallowed hard. "She's survived dealing with Cazador this long. She'll have contingencies in place. She cannot be quietly disposed of without discovery—I promise you."

Gale's jaw tightened. "So we just let her—"

"No." Astarion squeezed his arm. "But we need to be smarter than simple violence. And yes, I realize it's me saying that."

The silence stretched between them as they walked. Astarion could practically feel Gale vibrating with restrained magic and anger beside him, that brilliant mind no doubt conjuring increasingly creative ways to eliminate the threat. The protective fury radiating off him was... oddly comforting, even as it threatened to complicate matters.

Gale's steps slowed, and he let out a long breath. "I'm making this harder, aren't I? Charging in with solutions when you needed—" He gestured vaguely. "Space. To think. To process."

Astarion considered the question carefully, grateful for the moment to gather his thoughts. If he had managed to slip away undetected, what then? He would have faced Vensara alone, yes. Would have maintained that careful illusion of control. But afterward...

"No," he said finally. "I thought I needed to handle this alone. Old habits and all that." He smoothed his cuffs, a nervous tell he couldn't quite suppress. "But having you here—knowing you're with me—it helps. Even if murder isn't the answer. Tonight, at least."

The tension in Gale's shoulders eased slightly. "I just hate seeing you hurt."

"I know, darling." Astarion squeezed his arm. "But I'm not used to having someone actually care what happens to me. Someone who wants to protect me rather than..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. "It's new. Good new, but new nonetheless."

"Then I'll try to be less..." Gale waved his free hand. "Overwhelming."

"Mm, don't try too hard." Astarion managed a small smile. "I rather like when you get protective. Just perhaps save the murder plots for after we see what game she's really playing."

"I hate this." Gale's words came out clipped, precise. "I hate that we have to consider the politics when she—" He cut himself off, breathing sharply through his nose.

"Welcome to Baldur's Gate." Astarion kept his tone light, though his chest ached at Gale's obvious distress. "Where even murder requires considering the proprieties."

* * *

The Silver Chalice's entrance gleamed with polished brass and enchanted crystals, its fountain tinkling in the courtyard. Astarion approached the doorman with outward ease, though his stomach churned.

"Astarion Ancunín," he said smoothly. "I believe I'm expected."

The doorman consulted his list, then glanced at Gale with a raised eyebrow.

"My plus one," Astarion added, letting just enough edge creep into his tone to suggest questioning him would be terribly gauche.

After a brief consultation with someone inside, they were led through the main salon, past alcoves draped in heavy velvet. The scents of expensive perfume and wine filled the air, bringing back memories Astarion would rather forget. He kept his grip light on Gale's arm, refusing to let his tension show.

Their escort brought them to a private room where Lady Vensara reclined on a velvet settee, her black and gold gown arranged just so. Servants hurried to add another place setting to the intimate table for two. The room was clearly designed for private negotiations of all sorts—plush furnishings arranged to create the illusion of casual intimacy while maintaining careful distances. A low table sat between the settee and two elegantly upholstered chairs, its polished surface gleaming with crystal decanters and delicate glasses. Silver dishes held nuts and dried fruits—the sort of refreshments that encouraged lingering without the mess of a full meal.

She hadn't changed—still wearing that mask of preserved youth, her black hair threaded with gold and twisted into an elaborate updo. Her pointed nails, painted the color of old blood, tapped against her wine glass.

"Astarion," she said, not bothering to rise. Her gaze slid to Gale, sharp and assessing. "And Gale of Waterdeep. Do give your mother my regards—I so enjoyed reading all about Morena's latest charity efforts in the Wazoo. A woman after my own heart."

The casual name-drop hit like a bucket of ice water. She'd done her research since sending that letter, learned enough about Gale to make him a target too. Astarion's fingers twitched against Gale's arm, but he kept his expression neutral.

"How thoughtful of you to bring company," Vensara continued, patting the spot next to her while holding Astarion's gaze. "Though I had rather hoped for a more... intimate discussion."

"Amiki, darling." Astarion settled Gale into an armchair, flicked his eyes dismissively at the spot Vensara had indicated on the settee, and then shifted the second armchair closer to Gale's before seating himself in it instead. "You're looking... preserved. Though really, threatening my companion? That's rather beneath you, isn't it? Let's keep our little chat focused on your concerns about me. Otherwise, things might become terribly awkward."

He watched her eyes narrow at the use of her first name. Good. Let her remember he knew her secrets too, had seen her mask slip in private moments.

"Wine?" she offered, signaling the servants.

"How could I refuse?"

The crystal glasses filled with deep red liquid that, to Astarion's enhanced senses, smelled nothing like blood. Shame. He was getting thirsty.

Gale leaned over as the servants bustled around them. "No magic," he murmured, barely moving his lips. "Can't reach the Weave."

Ah. That explained the faint buzz at the edge of Astarion's awareness—some sort of anti-magic field. He'd felt something similar in other Patriar's private chambers. How... predictable of her.

"I must say," Vensara continued, "your recent performance career has been quite... illuminating. Such vivid stories about vampires. One might almost think you had firsthand experience."

"One might indeed." Astarion took a delicate sip of wine, studying her over the rim of his glass. Her perfectly manicured nails looked particularly sharp tonight, glinting like little daggers. He wondered if she'd had them enchanted to cut like daggers as well—he wouldn't put it past her. Still, his fangs were sharper. "Though I find it fascinating you'd take such a keen interest in my theatrical pursuits. Missing our old... appointments, are we?"

The door clicked shut behind the servants. Astarion's pleasant smile vanished.

"Enough games, Amiki. What do you want?"

She leaned forward, wine glass dangling from her fingers. "So direct. Have you forgotten all our lovely lessons in... social graces?"

"I've learned new ones. Like how to spot a snake before it strikes."

"Speaking of striking—" She gestured between him and Gale. "This is... sweet. Though I must say, you always did have a weakness for powerful men. At least this one's prettier than Cazador."

Astarion's fingers tightened on his glass. "Get to the point."

"There's a fundraiser being planned at the Silvershield Grand Hall tomorrow evening. All the finest families will be there, along with those dreadful merchants who think coin buys class." She traced the rim of her glass. "You'll escort me."

"And after, I suppose?"

"Well." Her smile curved like a blade. "For old time's sake. You remember how... specific my tastes can be and how well you suit them. And in return, I'll keep your little secret."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then perhaps I'll start sharing stories of my own. About how a certain Midnight Magistrate performed on stages far more scandalous than the Laughing Lantern." She sipped her wine. "Though I doubt your wizard would find those tales as entertaining as your stage performance."

"You'd expose yourself."

"Would I? A respected patroness of the arts, sharing her concern about a dangerous creature infiltrating society?" She clicked her tongue. "Who do you think they'd believe?"

Astarion leaned back, letting his lips curl into a predatory smile. "Oh darling, have you considered what Cazador might think of you spreading tales about his property? He's quite possessive about his belongings. And protective of his privacy."

"Cazador has more pressing concerns these days." Vensara waved her hand dismissively. "He's rarely seen—"

"Please." Astarion cut her off with a sharp laugh. "If you think he's too distracted to notice someone else playing with his favorite toy, you're even more foolish than I remember. He's looking for me. Has been since the day I slipped his leash."

Something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, perhaps? Good. But then her smile widened, showing too many teeth.

"Well then, if you're so concerned about your master's feelings..." She set down her wine. "Perhaps I should simply gift you back to him myself. Wouldn't that be delicious? A reversal of our old arrangement."

"I'd love to see you try." Gale's voice was soft, but carried an edge of winter.

Astarion placed a staying hand on Gale's arm. "Now, now, let's be civil." He turned back to Vensara. "If you want an escort to your little soirée, you'll need to offer more than just promising not to kidnap me—which, I should mention, you might find more challenging than you expect. There's quite the queue ahead of you."

"What more could you possibly want?"

"Your support against the Absolute. Gold, resources, political influence—all of it." He traced the rim of his glass. "After all, what's the point of attending a fundraiser if you're not going to... contribute? And if you want my company after, you had better ensure that Cazador does not make an appearance at your event, or we both know it isn't you I would be leaving with."

Vensara let out a musical laugh. "Oh darling, of course Cazador won't be there. His invitation seems to have been... misplaced." She traced the stem of her wine glass. "But really, all that support just for one evening's entertainment? The price seems rather steep."

She rose from her settee in a whisper of silk, prowling around the table to stand before their armchairs. Her gaze raked over them both, lingering on the way Gale's hand still rested near Astarion's arm.

"Though perhaps..." She reached toward Gale's face. "We could negotiate something more... equitable. The three of us? You both look so lovely together. I'd enjoy seeing you on your knees, side by—"

Astarion moved before the thought fully formed, standing to insert himself between them. A snarl built in his throat, all pretense of civility evaporating.

"You seem confused about how things work now, Amiki." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I don't just tease with these anymore." He tapped one fang with a manicured nail. "Care for a demonstration? First-hand experience of how much has changed since our last... appointment?"

Her eyes widened, that perfect mask finally cracking as she took an involuntary step back, the backs of her calves bumping the low table. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Wouldn't I?" He advanced, matching her retreat. "The rules have changed, darling. I'm not your plaything anymore. Not Cazador's either. So choose very carefully what happens next."

The flash of fear in Vensara's eyes sent a thrill through Astarion. How delicious—she truly believed he might attack her right here. And why shouldn't she? She had seen him at his most broken, witnessed what Cazador's torture had done to his mind. Perhaps that could be useful.

He let out a high, slightly unhinged laugh. "You know what he did to me, don't you? The year that coffin, starving, screaming..." He tilted his head, letting his smile grow wider. "Did you ever wonder what that does to someone's mind? How it might... change them?"

"Astarion." Gale's hand found his, pulled him down to his seat. "Remember what we discussed about controlling those impulses."

Perfect. Astarion shot Gale a quick, grateful look before turning back to Vensara with an exaggerated pout.

"But darling, she's being so rude. And she smells..." He inhaled deeply, watching her shoulders tense. "Divine."

"I know, love, but we agreed—no sampling the nobility without proper preparations." Gale's tone was gentle, as if speaking to a dangerous animal. "Think of the mess."

Vensara's perfectly painted lips pressed into a thin line. "You're not as amusing as you think you are." She took a step to the side to clear the table and then another step back, but her voice remained steady. "These theatrics don't change our arrangement. You'll escort me tomorrow, or—"

"Or what?" He bared his fangs in a savage grin. "You'll tell everyone what I am? Go ahead and gamble with Cazador's attention. But remember, darling—" He tapped his temple. "I'm not quite right in the head anymore. Who knows what I might do if pushed?"

"Shh, love." Gale squeezed his shoulder. "You're getting excited again."

Astarion noticed the slight tremor in Vensara's hand as she sat again and reached for her wine glass. Not quite defeated, but definitely rattled. Good.

Astarion let his shoulders relax under Gale's touch, allowing his manic grin to fade into something more controlled.

"My apologies." He smoothed his jacket. "Sometimes I get... carried away. You understand, don't you? After everything?"

Vensara's eyes darted between them before she settled back onto her settee, making a show of relaxation. "Quite. Well then, shall we discuss terms like civilized people?"

"Of course." Astarion leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankle. "You want your evening of entertainment. The party wants your support against the Absolute. I'm sure we can reach an arrangement beneficial to all."

"And what exactly would this... support entail?"

"Gold, obviously. Enough to outfit an army." He examined his nails. "Access to your information network. And public support for our cause among the other houses."

She took a careful sip of wine. "That's quite the price for one evening."

"Oh, but think of the social capital, darling. The mysterious Midnight Magistrate himself, on your arm?" He gave her his most charming smile. "Everyone will be absolutely desperate to know how you managed it."

Perfect. He could see the calculations behind her eyes. She needed allies against the Absolute as much as they did, and this way she could gain both support for her cause and social advantage without risking Cazador's wrath or her own reputation. The threats and posturing had been necessary—she needed to understand he wasn't her plaything anymore—but in the end, this deal would benefit them both in the ways that mattered. And of course she thought she'd get her evening of entertainment after, a chance to put him back in his place and indulge her nastier impulses. She'd take the deal.

Her lips curved slightly. "And you'll play your part perfectly?"

"When have I ever given less than a stellar performance?"

"True enough." She set down her glass. "Very well. I'll have suitable attire sent to you by noon tomorrow. You will wear it. My carriage will collect you an hour before the event. You will be charm itself during the event and anything I demand of you after." Her eyes hardened. "Do not disappoint me."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Astarion rose smoothly. "Though do remember, darling—disappointment cuts both ways."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, you're very frightening. Now go. I have arrangements to make."

Astarion offered his arm to Gale, maintaining his pleasant mask until they reached the door. Just before stepping through, he paused.

"Oh, and Amiki?" He glanced back. "If you ever threaten him again, I won't bother with theatrics. I'll simply kill you."

He didn't wait for her response.

* * *

The night air bit at Astarion's skin as they left the Silver Chalice, though he barely noticed the chill. His mind raced with plans and contingencies, cataloging every detail of their encounter with Vensara. They walked in tense silence through the Upper City's pristine streets, past the well-maintained manors and carefully tended gardens.

Only when they reached the bridge to the Lower City did Astarion pause, listening carefully with his heightened senses. No footsteps echoed behind them, no heartbeats lurked in nearby shadows. He watched Gale perform a subtle gesture, whispering words that sent invisible tendrils of magic searching the area.

"Clear?" Astarion asked softly.

"Clear." Gale's controlled expression cracked. "That absolute fucking horror of a woman. That vile, despicable—" He launched into a string of curses that would have made a Zhentarim mercenary blush, mixing Waterdhavian street slang with what sounded like ancient Netherese profanity.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, oddly touched by Gale's outrage. "My, my. And here I thought you were the sophisticated one."

"Sophisticated?" Gale's voice dripped acid. "That creature deserves every crude word in every language ever spoken. The way she looked at you, like you were—" He cut himself off, hands clenching.

"She looked at you the same way." Astarion's fingers brushed Gale's arm. "Which, by the way, is what prompted my little performance. I couldn't let that stand."

"Ah yes, the feral vampire act." Gale's anger melted into appreciation. "Brilliant improvisation. The way you let your control slip just enough to make her question whether you might actually snap—" He chuckled. "I almost believed it myself."

"Please. I was in perfect control." Astarion preened. "But I noticed how quickly she backed away from you after that. Apparently even she has self-preservation instincts."

"You were magnificent." Gale's eyes sparkled. "Though I rather enjoyed playing my part too. The concerned lover trying to hold back the dangerous creature he's foolishly attached to—"

"You did sell that beautifully." Astarion grinned. "We make quite the team, don't we? The unhinged vampire and his worried wizard."

"Indeed we do." Gale pulled him close and wrapped him in a hug. Astarion allowed himself to savor the moment—the pride in Gale's voice, the satisfaction of outmaneuvering Vensara together, the sheer pleasure of having someone so clever and capable in his corner.

But reality crept back in like a cold wind. The fundraiser loomed ahead, and with it, all the dangers of Vensara's games. She would hold him to his end of the bargain, and they both knew it.

Astarion pulled back from Gale's embrace, steeling himself for the conversation he knew was coming. The worry lines around Gale's eyes had deepened.

"You're not actually considering going through with it?" Gale's voice remained carefully neutral. "We handled her rather neatly back there. The exposure threat—"

"Was just the opening gambit." Astarion traced his fingers along the bridge's stone railing. "Vensara doesn't need to provoke Cazador openly to destroy support for us." He shrugged.

"We don't need her political support that badly."

"No?" Astarion turned to face him. "Tell me, oh wise wizard—what happens when she turns the other houses against us? Never mind the vampirism—what happens when she whispers that we're Absolute sympathizers?" He kept his voice light, but his fingers dug into the stone. "The politics in this city are a game of dominoes. Knock one down..."

"There are other ways—"

"To what? Kill her? Frame her? Start a war with one of the most powerful families in the city?" Astarion laughed without humor. "Come now, Gale. You're supposed to be the logical one. The good of the many outweighs the good of the one, doesn't it?"

"Not like this." Gale's jaw clenched. "Not when 'the one' is—"

"A disposable asset?" Astarion's smile turned sharp. "I've played that role before. I'm quite good at it, actually. And it's nothing I haven't done before. A moment of disgust, to get myself through—"

"No!" Gale's shout echoed across the empty bridge, making Astarion flinch. A few heartbeats—human guards, probably—quickened in the distance.

Gale took a deep breath, visibly wrestling his anger under control. "My apologies. Of course, I'll support whatever choice you make. But you need to understand—no one in the party would want this. Not a single one would choose Vensara's help knowing what she is—what she's done—and certainly not in exchange for your wellbeing."

"Then they're fools." The words came automatically, but they felt hollow even as Astarion spoke them. "We can't afford to be precious about our allies. The Absolute's agents are everywhere, and—"

"And what? We fight monsters by becoming monsters ourselves?" Gale's voice softened. "Bedfellows like her have a way of costing more than they're worth. Today it's one evening. Tomorrow? A week? A month? What else will she demand once she knows we're willing to sacrifice you?"

"You're being naive." Astarion paced along the bridge's railing, unable to meet Gale's eyes. "The whole party is naive if they think we can be so... selective about our methods. About who we work with." But doubt crept in, undermining his certainty. "You can do what you want, or you can get what you want. That's how the world works."

The words rang false even to his own ears. Where had he heard that exact phrase before? Certainly not out of the mouth of anyone he admired.

Astarion's gaze drifted across the moonlit scene—the silvered waters beneath the bridge, the way the light caught on Gale's fine robes, the subtle shimmer of starlight. Despite everything, the night held a strange beauty. He remembered Gale in the street earlier, disheveled and irritated, barefoot as he had scolded Astarion. Even then, he'd been lovely. Now, polished and composed in his formal wear, he was breathtaking.

Cool hands cupped Astarion's face. Gale pressed their foreheads together, and Astarion caught the faint scent of ozone that always clung to him.

"I trust you," Gale said softly. "You know Vensara and her ilk far better than any of us ever could. If you truly believe this is the path we must take, I'll support your choice." His thumbs traced gentle circles on Astarion's cheeks. "But I ask that you extend us—extend me—the same trust. We've done the impossible before. Several times, in fact. Securing some coin and political favor without compromising yourself? That's hardly impossible by our standards. And even if it were, please, please consider that we would choose you anyway and that you would be worth it."

Astarion closed his eyes, letting Gale's words wash over him. The gesture felt intimate, almost unbearably so—foreheads pressed together, sharing breath though one of them didn't need it. His first instinct was to pull away, to deflect with some cutting remark about Gale's naivety again.

But Gale wasn't truly naive, was he? Idealistic perhaps, but the man had sacrificed everything for knowledge once. He understood power, understood cost. He'd faced down devils and aberrations. He'd fallen from the heights and risen again. If anyone could grasp the complexities of their situation, it was Gale.

And yet here he stood, insisting Astarion was worth more than whatever advantage Vensara might provide. The very notion felt absurd. One vampire spawn's dignity against the fate of Faerun? The math seemed obvious.

But Gale would say that was Cazador's math. That reducing everything to cold calculation, to use and worth, was exactly what their enemies did. The Absolute didn't see people, only resources. Neither had Cazador. Neither had Vensara.

Astarion's fingers curled against Gale's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath the expensive fabric. The wizard's hands remained gentle on his face, thumb still tracing those maddening circles. Patient. Present. As if Astarion's struggle to evaluate his own value was worth waiting for.

"You're thinking very loudly," Gale finally murmured.

"Wondering how someone so brilliant can be so..." Astarion searched for the word. "Impractical."

"Am I? The way I see it, compromising with creatures like Vensara is what's impractical. Give them an inch, they demand a mile. Better to face them head-on than let them sink their claws in." Gale's magic crackled faintly between them. "Besides, I rather think having you whole and uncompromised is the most practical choice of all."

The simple conviction in his voice made something twist in Astarion's chest. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to trust that the others would agree, that they'd choose him over expedience.

But two centuries of being nothing but a tool, a toy, a means to an end—it left marks deeper than any of Cazador's carvings. The idea that he might be worth protecting, worth choosing, worth sacrificing for... considering it felt like staring into the sun. Blinding. Dangerous to attempt for too long.

Astarion closed his eyes, letting himself lean into Gale's touch. "You think there's another way?"

"I think together we can find one." Gale's voice held absolute certainty. "At least consider it?"

Astarion tilted his head, pressing his lips to Gale's. The kiss started gentle, hesitant, but deepened as Gale pulled him closer. His heart might not beat, but something inside him sang at the contact. Every brush of Gale's fingers against his skin felt electric, alive in a way nothing had for centuries.

He'd forgotten what real desire felt like during those years with Cazador. Even the memories of pleasure from before his turning had faded to gray shadows. But this—this was vibrant, overwhelming. The way Gale's heartbeat quickened beneath his palm, the soft sound he made when Astarion nipped at his lower lip, the heat of his skin through fine fabric.

The thought of Vensara's cold hands on him made his stomach turn. Before, he could distance himself, knowing it was just another of Cazador's commands. But choosing it himself? Deliberately trading himself for political advantage?

He broke the kiss, though he kept his arms wrapped around Gale. "You trust me to make this choice."

"I do."

"Even knowing what I am? What I've done? That the way I see the world is different than the way you see it, and I might not choose the way you would."

"Especially knowing those things." Gale's fingers caressed the back of his neck. "You survived centuries of no choice. You deserve the chance to make this one freely, whatever you decide."

That trust deserved care in return. It demanded more than simple calculation of cost and benefit. It required him to truly consider every option, every possibility—not just assume self-sacrifice was the only path forward.

He pulled back just enough to meet Gale's eyes. "Then I should consider it properly. All of it. And… with the others, dammit."

Gale's smile bloomed, bright and warm as summer sunlight, and Astarion had barely a moment to appreciate it before those soft lips found his again. The kiss deepened, slower this time, thorough in a way that made Astarion's knees weak. His fingers tangled in Gale's robes, pulling him closer as heat pooled low in his belly.

Perhaps they could find somewhere more private. The Silver Chalice had rooms upstairs—no, absolutely not. The Elfsong was too far and had no private rooms available, but surely there was an inn nearby that wouldn't ask questions. Somewhere they could continue this proper—

Astarion broke the kiss with a groan. "We need to get back." The words felt like pulling teeth. "We need to start planning."

"Planning?" Gale's voice held a note of pleased curiosity.

"Mhm. I have a feeling there are shenanigans in my immediate future." Astarion smoothed the robes he had rumpled. "And if there's one thing our merry band excels at, it's creative problem-solving of the most chaotic variety."

"That we do." Gale caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Shall we?"

* * *

The carriage wheels clattered to a stop before Silvershield Grand Hall. Through the window, Astarion caught glimpses of pale marble and gilded accents between the shoulders of Vensara's hulking guards—living mountains of muscle who'd barely blinked during the entire ride.

"Remember, darling." Vensara's perfectly manicured nails dug into his arm. "You're to be charming, but not too charming. Witty, but not sharp. And above all—" She reached up to adjust his already immaculate cravat. "—completely under my control."

Astarion gave her his most vapid smile, the one he'd perfected over centuries of playing the beautiful fool. "Of course, my lady. I live to serve."

The door opened, and one of the guards extended a meaty hand to assist Vensara. Astarion followed, offering his arm with grace as they ascended the sweeping entrance stairs.

The grand hall lived up to its reputation. Crystal chandeliers floated overhead, their enchanted lights shifting from deep purple to midnight blue. A double staircase curved up toward the main ballroom and theater, where the actual fundraiser would take place. The rug beneath his feet probably cost more than most Lower City residents saw in a year.

Vensara's hands were everywhere—smoothing his lapels, tucking an errant curl behind his ear, adjusting the set of his shoulders. Each touch made his skin crawl, but he leaned into them like an attention-starved cat, letting his eyes half-close in apparent pleasure.

"There now." She patted his cheek. "Perfect. Though..." She tugged at his cravat again, completely destroying the precise fold he'd spent twenty minutes achieving. "Perhaps a touch more... disheveled? We want them to know exactly what sort of entertainment you provide."

Astarion caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that was just a fraction too long to be proper. "My lady, if you continue to adjust my clothing, we'll never make it inside. And wouldn't that be a terrible waste?"

She laughed, the sound as false as everything else about her. "Patience, pet. We have all evening."

The guards fell into step behind them as they approached the main doors. Astarion could feel their presence like a physical weight. No matter. He had survived far worse than an evening of playing Vensara's trained monkey.

Besides, the real performance wouldn't begin until later.

The grand ballroom opened before them, a sea of wealth and pretension. Musicians on the raised platform filled the air with elegant strains that carried perfectly thanks to the hall's famous acoustics. Waitstaff in pressed black and white weaved between round tables draped in purple silk, positioning crystal glasses and silver place settings with mathematical precision.

What truly caught Astarion's eye, though, was the subtle dance of security personnel claiming their positions. Some were obvious—patriar guards in polished armor stationed near their masters. Others tried for discretion in plain clothes, but their watchful postures and calculated positioning gave them away. He suppressed a smile. All that muscle, yet not one of them was prepared for what the evening would bring.

"My dear Lady Vensara!" A portly man in an over-embroidered doublet approached. "How clever of you to secure the Midnight Magistrate himself for tonight's festivities."

Vensara's fingers tightened on Astarion's arm. "Yes, he's been quite... accommodating."

The whispers were already spreading through the gathering crowd. Astarion caught fragments as they moved through the room—"that 'vampire' performer," "Lady Vensara's escort," "such a coup." Each murmur seemed to please Vensara more, her smile growing sharper with every impressed glance.

Most of the other event organizers had claimed private boxes in the galleries above, the better to observe without mixing with the common rabble. But Vensara insisted on parading him around the main floor, showing off her prize to anyone who would look. She'd positioned them at a prime table near the center of the room, where the lighting from the enchanted chandeliers was especially flattering.

"I must say," she purred, loud enough to be overheard, "it's so refreshing to have an escort who truly understands the art of entertainment."

Astarion gave her his most dazzling smile, the one that always made nobles forget he might have teeth behind it. "You're far too kind, my lady."

A man in a gold-trimmed coat swept onto the stage, his voice carrying effortlessly through the enchanted acoustics. "Lords, ladies, and those of you pretending to be either—welcome!"

Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd. Astarion recognized him from various Upper City functions—always the jovial host, always careful to mock just gently enough to amuse rather than offend.

"Tonight we gather for a most noble cause." The master of ceremonies gestured to a row of clerks in matching burgundy uniforms. "These fine representatives from the Bank of Baldur's Gate stand ready to process your generous donations. And speaking of generosity—" He winked. "Our organizers have shown theirs with the wine selections, so do try to match their spirit."

Vensara's fingers drummed against Astarion's arm as the host began listing the approved funds. City defense, refugee support, military supplies... Astarion kept his expression pleasantly vacant until—

"And of course, the Special Operations Fund."

There it was. Jaheira had managed it after all. He'd doubted she could slip their own channel for resources past the bureaucracy, but apparently the Harpers still had enough connections to make it happen.

"Now then," the host continued, "to begin our evening's entertainment, please welcome the incomparable Madam Rosewood..."

A statuesque woman in deep green swept onto the stage as the host disappeared behind the curtain. The bank clerks began their rounds, moving with efficiency between the tables.

Vensara leaned close, her breath ghosting his ear. "Quite the comprehensive list of causes. I don't recall approving that last one."

Astarion gave a delicate shrug, keeping his posture relaxed despite Vensara's sharp nails digging into his arm. "The tedious details are beneath someone of your station, my lady. We simply ensured everything would be in place for you to fulfill your generous promises of support."

"You presume much." Her fingers tightened.

"Do I?" He turned his most winning smile toward an approaching donation taker, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Ah, perfect timing! My dear Lady Vensara was just saying how eager she was to set an example for the other attendees."

The clerk bowed, presenting an ornate ledger. "My lady, how would you like to distribute your contribution?"

Vensara's face tightened almost imperceptibly, but decades of playing politics had trained her well. She couldn't refuse now, not with nearby tables already turning to watch.

"Such enthusiasm," she said through her teeth. As she leaned forward to make her selections, she pinched Astarion's thigh viciously under the table. "Remember," she whispered, "if you think to make a fool of me tonight, there are far worse fates than simple exposure."

Astarion placed his hand over his heart, the picture of wounded innocence. "My lady, I promise you a night that will be remembered for years to come."

The clerk finished recording her donation to the Special Operations Fund and moved on, leaving Vensara to seethe quietly beside him as the singer launched into her third aria of the evening.

Astarion tossed his head back with a high, musical laugh at another of Vensara's tepid jokes. "Oh, my lady, you're simply too much." He made sure the sound carried, drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby tables. Let them look. Let them remember who sat beside the great Lady Vensara tonight.

His attention caught on movement near the hall's edge. Vensara's mountain of muscle that had been hovering by the west entrance was gone, and his partner by the east door seemed distracted by something in the corridor. As Astarion watched, that guard too disappeared from view.

He covered his surveillance by leaning closer to Vensara, practically draping himself across her shoulder. "You know, I simply must tell everyone about that delightful story from your summer villa—"

"Must you?" Her smile remained fixed, but her tone could have frozen wine.

"Oh, but you tell it so much better than I do." He pressed a hand to his chest, letting his eyes go wide and adoring. A flash of familiar red skin caught his attention—Karlach, now wearing what appeared to be one of the missing guard's uniforms, had taken up position near the west entrance. Halsin, similarly attired, stood watch at the east.

A server approached their table, crystal decanter in hand. Shadowheart's dark hair was pulled back severely, and her usual armor had been replaced with pressed black and white.

"Your evening's selection, my lady." Her voice was pitched lower than usual as she poured the wine, her accent carefully modulated to match the other servers.

Astarion didn't look directly at her, instead focusing on how the crystal chandelier light caught the deep red of the wine. But as Shadowheart straightened, their eyes met for the briefest moment. She gave him the slightest nod before moving to the next table.

His lips curved against the rim of his glass.

The master of ceremonies reappeared on stage, and something in his stance made Astarion's grin grow even wider. To anyone else, the man's movements would have seemed identical to before, but Astarion caught the subtle shift in his gait, the way he held his shoulders just slightly differently.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The voice that rang out wasn't the host's jovial tenor, but Gale's rich baritone. "Your generosity tonight has earned you something truly extraordinary. You've been gossiping about his first performance for weeks. Bemoaning that you missed all the fun. But tonight, your woes are at an end!"

Vensara's fingers clenched on Astarion's arm. "What—"

"Thanks to our gracious Lady Vensara," Gale continued, gesturing toward their table with a flourish, "we have secured an exclusive encore from the legendary Midnight Magistrate himself!"

The crowd erupted. Glasses clinked, chairs scraped, and excited whispers filled the air as Astarion rose smoothly to his feet. He spread his arms wide and turned full circle to take in the entire room, drinking in the applause with a smile that showed just a hint of fang.

"My dear lady." He turned to Vensara, whose face had gone absolutely rigid. "I couldn't possibly leave you without escort." He gestured to Wyll, who appeared at their table in perfectly tailored formal wear. "My friend here has quite the reputation for providing... exquisite companionship."

Wyll bowed deeply before taking Astarion's seat next to Vensara. "My lady, you honor me."

Astarion didn't wait to see her reaction. He was already gliding toward the stage, each step carefully measured to draw every eye in the room. As he mounted the steps, Gale stepped aside with an elaborate bow, his illusion-altered eyes sparkling with barely contained mischief.

The lights from the enchanted chandeliers seemed to follow Astarion as he took center stage, casting him in a pool of shifting purple and midnight blue. He turned to face his audience, letting his smile grow wider, sharper.

"Good evening, Baldur's Gate."

The now-familiar thrill of having every eye in the room fixed on him coursed through Astarion's veins. It was intoxicating—different from the rush of a successful hunt or the satisfaction of a well-placed blade. This was pure power, freely given by an eager audience who thought they knew exactly what they were getting.

His gaze swept across the gathered crowd. Patriars draped in silks worth more than most Lower City families saw in a year. Merchant princes trying desperately to match their betters' finery. And moving between them all, the servants—just as he had once moved, invisible until needed, dismissed until useful.

The acoustics really were remarkable. He could hear his own quiet footfalls on the stage as he checked once more that his companions were in their positions. Karlach's steady presence by the west door. Halsin's watchful eyes from the east. Shadowheart ghosting between tables with easy grace, while Wyll kept Vensara in her seat, not that she had other appealing options. She'd been parading him around as the Midnight Magistrate and could hardly protest or flee this performance now.

He knew Lae'zel and Jaheira were keeping an eye on their various and sundry captives backstage. And then there was Gale, still standing at the rear of the stage. Always Gale, having his back.

Everything had fallen into place perfectly. The guard rotation, the staff uniforms, Gale's flawless performance as the MC—all the complicated pieces they'd spent days arranging. Now came the simple part.

All he had to do was tell the truth. As dramatically as possible.

His smile widened, and he heard several sharp intakes of breath from the crowd as he bared his fangs fully. They thought they were here for entertainment, for the thrill of his "vampire act." How delightful that for once, the actual truth would prove far more shocking than any performance.

Astarion spread his arms wide, letting the enchanted lights catch on his rings, his cufflinks, the silver threads in his perfectly tailored jacket. Let them see what they expected—the beautiful, amusing creature they'd all been gossiping about.

For now.

"For those who missed my first little... impromptu performance," Astarion paced the stage with deliberate grace, "allow me to catch you up on our discussion of vampires. Fascinating creatures, don't you think?"

He paused near the edge, letting his gaze drift over the crowd. "We talked about blood, of course. How could we not? The way it calls to us, sweet as the finest wine. Though I must say, your vintages tonight are... lacking in variety, in comparison. Everyone here would taste of money."

A ripple of nervous laughter. Perfect.

"But obtaining blood—ah, that's where things get interesting." He paused and adopted a thoughtful stance. "You see, a vampire has options. We can simply take what we want, ripping into warm flesh like animals." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "So uncivilized. Or..."

He caught the eye of a young noblewoman in the front, giving her his most charming smile. "We can make it a game. A dance. Seduce our prey into offering themselves willingly." Her cheeks flushed as he winked. "After all, who wouldn't want to experience such exquisite pleasure?"

More laughter now, easier. They were settling in, enjoying the show.

"I asked my last audience to consider—what would you do, if you had such power? If you could take whatever you wanted, from whoever you wanted?" He gestured expansively. "Would you be selective? Careful? Or would you gorge yourself on life itself, drunk on your own supremacy?"

He prowled along the edge of the stage. "Some of you are already imagining it, aren't you? The thrill of having anyone you desire completely at your mercy." His voice dropped to a seductive purr. "The rush of power as they beg for your attention, your touch, your bite."

Astarion caught movement in one of the private boxes—ah, there was Councilor Dawnfall, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The man had enjoyed watching Cazador's "pets" squirm. In the box beside him sat Lady Rookhaven, who'd always insisted on having her "entertainments" brought to her private solar. Her pristine reputation would shatter if anyone knew what happened behind those gilt-edged doors.

His gaze swept over the gathered elite, picking out faces he remembered all too well from his years of servitude. "Some of you don't need to imagine it at all, do you?" He let his smile sharpen. "You already have anyone and everything you desire. And you already know how to bite."

A few nervous coughs echoed through the perfect acoustics. The young noblewoman who'd blushed at his attention earlier now looked distinctly uncomfortable. Good. Let them squirm.

"Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself." He waved a hand dismissively. "Though—" He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I really should mention that this next part needs trigger warnings. All of them, in fact."

The laughter had died completely now. Even the clink of glasses had fallen silent. He could practically taste the tension in the air.

"I was rather careless last time, you see. Got swept away in the moment and forgot to warn about the content of the entertainment I provide." His fingers traced down his chest along the edge of his lapel. "Though I must say, the dirty details did seem to be the part they all liked best."

Several people near the front were already edging toward the exits. But Karlach and Halsin stood ready, and he knew Shadowheart had locked the servant passages. No one would leave until he finished.

"Especially the part about enduring grabby hands just to turn your delightful blood bag over to your boss." His snarl carried to every corner of the suddenly still room.

Astarion held himself poised at the center of the stage, relishing the absolute silence that had fallen over the crowd. "But you've all heard those stories before, haven't you? Second-hand gossip passed around at tea parties, whispered behind fans." He gave them his most dazzling smile. "You deserve something fresh. Something you can tell your friends you heard first."

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "After all, what's the point of an exclusive performance if you don't get any exclusive material?"

A few nervous titters answered him. He straightened, spreading his arms wide again.

"You see, being a vampire spawn isn't just about hunting blood for your master while living off rats and bugs yourself." His lip curled at the memory. "No, no. Sometimes you get to be a delightful gift to all his very best... friends."

He caught Lord Dawnfall's eye, holding it just long enough to see the man's face drain of color.

"Now, now—we're in refined company tonight." He pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of propriety. "So I'll spare you the names. Though—" His gaze drifted deliberately to Lady Rookhaven's box. "I'm sure some of you could fill in those blanks yourselves."

She gripped her wine glass so tightly he thought it might shatter.

"But you want at least a few salacious details, don't you?" He prowled closer to the edge of the stage. "After all, the scandal is half the fun."

His smile sharpened as he caught Vensara's eye. "Until it's not."

Astarion let his carefully constructed mask slip, just a fraction. "You see, when you're property, especially very pretty property, you learn to recognize certain... types. The ones who like to watch you squirm. The ones who want you to pretend you're enjoying it. The ones who—" He caught movement as someone tried to leave through a servant's entrance. "No, please stay. This next part is particularly illuminating."

His voice dropped lower, intimate. "Did you know some of Baldur's Gate's finest would discuss business over wine while treating me like delightfully responsive furniture? They'd debate trade agreements while testing how long I could hold a pose, or negotiate contracts while seeing how many little cuts it would take before I flinched."

The silence in the hall grew heavier.

"But my favorite—" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "My absolute favorite was the one who collected chains. Gold ones, silver ones, delicate little things that looked so lovely against pale skin. Not for restraint, no. For ownership. She'd wrap me in gold and call them jewelry, make me thank her for each one while explaining exactly how worthless I was without them. How lucky I was that someone so important would take the time to teach me my place." His fingers brushed his throat. "She'd wrap them tight around my neck while telling me how lucky I was to serve such important people."

He could see Vensara's white-knuckled grip on her chair, her face absolutely rigid and Wyll's expression blandly pleasant.

Astarion's smile turned predatory. "There was this one evening—shall I tell you about it? The lady had earned a special reward from my master. She got quite creative with those chains of hers. Did you know you can leave someone hanging for hours without actually damaging them? Well—" He shrugged elegantly. "Not permanently, anyway. Not if you're a vampire who doesn't need to breathe and heals so handily afterward. At least, physically."

The crowd had drawn back from Vensara's table, leaving her isolated with only Wyll's looming presence beside her.

Astarion let his smile fade, replacing it with something rawer, more genuine. The silence in the hall pressed against his skin like a physical thing. He could hear individual heartbeats, smell the fear-sweat beginning to bead on noble brows.

"The cuts healed, of course. The bruises faded. Even the marks from those lovely chains disappeared without a trace." He touched his throat again, remembering. "But the other marks—those lasted rather longer. The way they made me feel small. Worthless. How they taught me that my body wasn't my own, that my pain was just a pleasant evening's entertainment."

He caught Gale's eye at the edge of the stage, drawing strength from that steady presence.

"For two centuries, I carried that shame. Wrapped it around myself like those gilded chains, believing in the deepest darkest corners of my heart that I somehow deserved what was done to me." His voice carried to every corner of the silent hall. "But here's the truly fascinating part—the part I hope you'll all take home tonight, especially if anything like this has ever happened to you."

Astarion's lips curved into a dangerous smile as he looked directly at Vensara.

"It's not my shame at all." Each word fell like a blade. "It's theirs. And they know it. Which is why they're all going to donate so very, very generously tonight—to keep their own shame private." He cocked his head and scanned the crowd once more. "At least for a little while longer."

Astarion let the silence stretch, savoring the tension like a fine vintage. "Well." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I do hope I've given you all something to ponder as you continue living in these... interesting times."

A few nervous coughs echoed through the hall. Perfect.

"Though I fear I may have rather spoiled some of the more... traditional vampire fantasies for you." He gave an elegant shrug. "The blood, the desire, the hunt—it all loses its romance when you know the sordid details, doesn't it?"

His gaze swept across the crowd, lingering on familiar faces that refused to meet his eyes.

"But perhaps I can offer you a different sort of vampiric indulgence." He tapped his ear with one perfectly manicured finger. "We have such keen eyes, you see. Such keen ears." His smile sharpened. "And you're all welcome to enjoy those abilities to your heart's content."

He caught Vensara's gaze one final time. "After all, you never know what you might see. What you might hear. What you might witness and remember."

With a flourishing bow that would have made any courtier proud, Astarion stepped back from the edge of the stage. He turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs, leaving the weight of two centuries of secrets and shame to slide off his shoulders and press down on the silent crowd behind him.

The great doors swung open with perfect dramatic timing, and Astarion caught glimpses of his companions melting away from their posts. Shadowheart vanished into shadow while Karlach's broad grin flashed in the lamplight before she ducked out a side entrance.

Wyll's voice carried clearly through the growing murmur. "My lady." He stood and gave Vensara an elaborate bow, dripping with mockery. "I'm afraid I must away. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."

The outraged whispers grew louder as Astarion descended the stage steps. Gale fell into step beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed as he let his illusory disguise fade. Together they crossed the marble floor, past clusters of nobles whose conversations died as they passed.

Cool night air hit his face as they emerged onto the street. Jaheira and Lae'zel were already waiting, having apparently dealt with their charges backstage. The others materialized from various directions until they formed a loose circle under the stars.

Karlach swept him into a crushing hug that would have knocked the breath from him if he'd had any. "That was amazing!"

"You should have seen their faces from where I was standing," Shadowheart added with a rare, genuine smile.

"Let us get out of here before they remember how to speak," Halsin suggested, though his eyes crinkled with pride.

They moved as one toward the bridge to the Lower City, the weight of two centuries lifting with each step away from the hall. Astarion found himself surrounded by his companions' warmth, their quiet congratulations and fierce protectiveness wrapping around him like the finest cloak.

Gale's hand found his as they walked, and Astarion squeezed it tight, savoring the simple comfort of the gesture. For the first time in recent memory, he felt truly free—not despite the bonds he shared with these people, but because of them. These weren't Vensara's gilded chains or Cazador's crushing compulsion, but connections freely given and received, strong enough to protect without the need to possess. For the first time in recent memory, he felt truly unbound—not because he walked alone, but because the hands that reached for his now were ones he chose to hold.

* * *

Astarion lay on his side against Gale's warmth, head pillowed on his lover's chest, one leg thrown over Gale's thigh. The sheets pooled around their hips, cool silk against heated skin. Moonlight spilled through gauzy curtains, painting silver patterns across their tangled limbs. The sounds of revelry from the Elfsong drifted up faintly through the window—their companions still celebrating their victory next door, no doubt. Alan had helped them find a nearby private room for the evening, and they had been enjoying it thoroughly.

Astarion smoothed an open hand across Gale's skin, savoring the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The wizard's fingers carded through his hair, occasionally catching on a tangle from their earlier activities.

"Better?" Gale's voice rumbled beneath his ear.

"Mm." Astarion stretched like a contented cat. "Much. Though I may need another hour or two to properly cleanse my palate of that dreadful woman."

The memory of Vensara's cloying scent and possessive touches made his skin crawl, but Gale helped ground him in the present. This was real—the softness of the bed, the lingering pleasure in his limbs, the gentle rise and fall of Gale's chest beneath his cheek.

"I still say we should have let Karlach punch her," Gale mused. "Just once."

Astarion snorted. "Tempting, but I rather prefer the slow poison of social death. Besides—" He pressed a kiss to Gale's collarbone. "—this is a far better way to remove the taste of the evening, don't you think?"

Gale hummed in agreement, his hand sliding down to stroke lightly along Astarion's spine. The touch was possessive but gentle, claiming without constraining. Everything Vensara's grasping hands had not been.

The warmth of Gale's touch drew his mind back to earlier that evening, when they'd returned to the Elfsong in triumph. Wyll had ordered a round for the entire tavern, while Karlach demonstrated her impression of Vensara's face when Astarion had described her distinctive fingernails. Even Lae'zel had cracked a rare smile, commenting that such psychological warfare was worthy of a githyanki warrior.

Shadowheart had been pleased with how smoothly their infiltration had gone—the whole thing had run like clockwork, each of the companions playing their roles to perfection.

And Halsin—calm, principled Halsin—had actually winked at him while describing how he'd used his bulk to intimidate the guards at the door. The druid who usually preached restraint had thrown himself into the scheme with surprising enthusiasm.

Their victory tasted sweeter than any wine. Not just because they'd secured the nobles' gold without compromising their principles, but because his friends had chosen this path—had chosen him—without hesitation. When he'd suggested using Vensara's own weapon against her, turning his notoriety into power, they hadn't merely agreed. They'd elevated his plan into something magnificent.

The first time he'd taken the stage at the Laughing Lantern, his vulnerability had been accidental, his pain laid bare without his intent. This time, he'd wielded his truth like a blade, and his companions had stood as his honor guard while he'd gutted his enemies.

Gale shifted beside him, and Astarion pressed closer, breathing in his familiar scent. His wizard had been right, as usual. They didn't need allies like Vensara, who built their power on others' suffering. They had something far more valuable—good people who would stand beside them, who would choose them come what may.

Oh, and the gold. The gold would come in handy.

Astarion smiled against Gale's chest. The Upper City's elite could seethe and plot all they liked—their own reputations now hung by the thread of public opinion. Even Vensara wouldn't dare move against them openly, not with so many witnesses to her shame. And they had secured more gold for their cause than they'd initially hoped for. The desperate scramble of nobles trying to keep their names from the Midnight Magistrate's mouth through generous donations had been very satisfying.

Let the "good and great" of Baldur's Gate nurse their wounded pride. He and his companions had work to do, a city to save, an infection to cure. Real problems, not the manufactured dramas of powdered aristocrats.

Gale shifted again, a slight grimace crossing his features as he attempted to find a comfortable position. Astarion recognized the source of that expression—he had, after all, enjoyed his wizard's very vigorous efforts earlier in their celebrations.

"Roll over, darling." Astarion pressed a quick kiss to Gale's jaw before pushing up onto his knees. "Let me help with that."

"Mm?" Gale blinked at him, adorably confused.

"Your back is bothering you. Come now, turn over."

Understanding dawned, and Gale complied with a grateful sigh settling onto his stomach while Astarion straddled his hips. Astarion slid his hands up the warm expanse of Gale's back. He pressed his thumbs into the tight muscles along Gale's spine, working out the knots with practiced skill.

"Gods, that's good," Gale mumbled into the pillow.

Astarion smiled, a wicked gleam in his eye as he watched Gale's back relax under his ministrations. Astarion's hands never stopped their gentle work on Gale's back as he spoke, each word punctuated by the press of fingers into muscle. "You know," he purred, "I'm just getting you put back together enough to make it through round two." He lightly scraped his nails down Gale's spine, and the wizard shivered, goosebumps rising on his skin.

Astarion leaned back to admire the view. Gale's plush backside framed perfectly between his thighs—lovely. His wizard did hide the most extraordinary form under those shapeless robes of his.

"Round one might have been a bit...vigorous, for a man of your age." Astarion leaned forward, nipping at the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder.

Gale made a noncommittal noise, halfway between a moan and a disagreement. "Don't tempt me if you aren't being serious," he mumbled into the pillow. "I can give more, old man or not."

"Oh, I know you can." Astarion's smile widened, his fangs just barely catching the moonlight. "But I'm not sure this bed could withstand another round of your enthusiasm."

Gale turned his head to smirk up at Astarion while he shifted his hips suggestively, a challenge in the shake of his backside. "Gosh, if only we knew someone who could cast Mending, should the bed disappoint..."

Gale's laugh was warm and genuine, sending a pleasant shiver down Astarion's spine. Astarion's eyes flicked downward, taking in the play of muscle between their bodies. His insides squeezed pleasantly at the memory of how good it had felt to be filled and stretched, taken with a thoroughness that left him pliant and replete. It had been... very nice. More than nice. Astarion wondered briefly if he was still open enough to skip the preliminaries for another go, but the thought was fleeting. Just being here with Gale like this, teasing and playful, was more appealing for now.

Astarion sat back on his heels with a dramatic sigh. "I suppose we should let you recover properly. Wouldn't do to have our wizard unable to cast because his back gave out at an inopportune moment."

"Are you sure?" Gale's hands found Astarion's hips as he turned beneath him, bringing them face to face. His eyes were soft in the moonlight, filled with something that made Astarion's chest tight. "Because I meant what I said about round two."

"Quite sure." Astarion traced a finger along Gale's jawline. "For now."

"Mm." Gale caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "You know, watching you tonight—gods, I didn't think I could love you more than I already did. But seeing you tear those disgusting people apart..." He shook his head, wonder in his expression. "You were magnificent."

The warmth in Astarion's chest spread, threatening to overflow. He tried to deflect with a quip, but Gale wasn't finished.

"If it wouldn't inconvenience us afterward, I'd burn this whole world to ashes for what they did to you." Gale's voice was fierce, protective. "Since we'd have to live in those ashes though, I suppose I'll have to settle for making the world worthy of you instead." His lips quirked up as he noticed Astarion's eyes growing suspiciously wet. "Even if it means throwing my back out completely. You know, for the cause."

Astarion let out a watery laugh, ducking his head to hide the tears that threatened to spill. Gale's thumb caught one anyway as it fell, gentle as always.

Astarion blinked away his tears, composing himself. "Your back won't need to give out for my sake, darling. You were right all along." He leaned down and lay fully on Gale, tangling their legs and working an arm under Gale's neck as Gale wrapped his arms around his back and hips. "We found a better way. One that puts the shame exactly where it belongs—with them."

His fingers traced idle patterns on Gale's chest as he considered the evening's victory. "And we didn't have to get into bed—metaphorically or literally—with monsters like Vensara. In fact—" A smirk played across his lips. "—I rather think we've set things up beautifully for when this crisis is over. The city might just clean house on its own, now that everyone knows what lurks in their parlors."

"Though I must say," Astarion added, his tone turning playful, "I'm grateful you came chasing after me last night." He cocked his head, studying Gale with interest. "Speaking of which—would you consider recreating that delightful appearance you made in the streets? The whole rumpled, barefoot-in-pajamas look was surprisingly..." He wet his lips. "...appealing."

Gale's startled laugh warmed him to his toes. "Really? That's what did it for you?"

"Mm. The disheveled academic look has its charms." Astarion grinned, showing fang. "Especially when said academic appears like an unusual angel to protect my virtue."

Gale's chuckle vibrated through Astarion's chest where they pressed together. "I'll happily put on another performance for you, though I doubt my stumbling through the streets compares to your masterpiece tonight."

Astarion preened at the praise, but Gale's expression had turned serious, his hand coming up to cup Astarion's cheek.

"But you never needed my protection, you know. You just needed to know that you had options, and you didn't need to handle the situation on your own, even though you could." His thumb traced the curve of Astarion's cheekbone. "You saved yourself quite neatly in the end. The rest of us were just supporting cast—you were the star."

Something caught in Astarion's throat at those words. He had felt powerful on that stage, yes, but hearing Gale frame it that way... He remembered the terror that had gripped him when Vensara's letter arrived, the old instinct to submit. How far he had come from that moment to standing before Baldur's Gate's elite and making them squirm.

His companions hadn't saved him—they had simply shown him he was worth saving. Worth fighting for. Worth choosing over political convenience.

The rest... well, the rest had been pure theater. And wasn't that perfect? Using the very skills Cazador had forced him to develop against those who had once used him?

The realization struck him. The familiar knot of dread that had lived in his chest for centuries whenever he thought of Cazador... it wasn't there. In its place was something entirely different—anticipation.

They had faced down devils, necromancers, and the servants of dead gods. They had out-maneuvered the politics of Baldur's Gate's elite. Every challenge, every enemy, every seemingly insurmountable obstacle—they had overcome them all. Together.

And Cazador? He was just another monster. A powerful one, yes, but no more fearsome than the others they had faced. No more untouchable than Vensara had been, really. Just another tyrant who had built his power on others' pain.

Astarion pressed his face into Gale's chest, enjoying the tickle of his chest hair against his cheeks and remembering how easily they had dismantled Vensara's threats. How his companions had moved like a well-oiled machine, each playing their part in clearing the way for Astarion's killing blow. They would do the same to Cazador.

His lips curved into a predatory smile. Oh, but wouldn't that be delicious? To see Cazador's face when he realized his least favorite 'son' had teeth—and friends with an arsenal of spells, weapons, and distinctly creative and vicious solutions to problems.

The vampire who had tormented him for centuries was just another target now. One they would eliminate with the same ruthless efficiency they had shown tonight. And unlike Vensara, they wouldn't even need to leave him alive afterward.

"What are you thinking about?" Gale's voice was soft, curious.

"Cazador." Astarion's smile widened. "And how very dead he's going to be."

Gale's laughter rumbled beneath Astarion's cheek. "Well, I suppose if I had to forgo turning Vensara into a smoking crater, watching Cazador burn will make up for it nicely."

"How generous of me." Astarion traced a finger down Gale's chest. "Such sacrifice deserves a reward, don't you think?"

The playful tone dropped from Gale's voice. "Name it." His hand tightened on Astarion's hip. "The world at your feet, if you want it. Anything."

The intensity in those words made Astarion's breath catch. Such devotion should have terrified him, but instead, it filled him with joy. Still, he kept his tone light as he disentangled himself and sat back to straddle Gale properly, nestling his bottom against Gale's cock and feeling it twitch against him.

"The world? Darling, have you seen the state of it lately? No, thank you." He rolled his hips deliberately. "For now, I think I'd rather have you put that back of yours to good use one more time."

Gale's hands slid up his sides as Astarion leaned down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss. Their bodies pressed together, familiar and perfect, and Astarion smiled against Gale's lips. This was all the world he needed.

#bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #bloodweave #bg3 fanfic #myfic

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pixel7777 · 5 days ago

Text

Hey folks - reblogging because a SEQUEL, A Star(ion) Burns Bright is coming TOMORROW! If you liked this one, keep an eye out here or sub to the Midnight Magistrate series on AO3 to be notified when it goes live.

Edit: it’s live!

A Star(ion) is Born

🎤🦇Open mic night takes an unexpected turn when Astarion's "vampire schtick" hits a little too close to home, leaving the crowd spellbound and a certain wizard surprisingly tender. Truth, trust, and some smoldering vampire performance art lead to revelations—and a connection Astarion never saw coming. 🎭✨

Not an AU/modern fic - I made the open mic thing work in-canon, I think. Probably.

Starts dark but there's fluff, feels, and medium spice smut to look forward to on your way to a happy ending.

Content Tags: During Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Past-Non-Consensual Sexual Encounters Spoken of In Public, Angst and Fluff and Smut

Read here below the break or on AO3!

If you enjoyed this mix of angst, smut, and vampire theatrics, please reblog, reply, or leave a comment and kudos on AO3! Your feedback keeps the stories flowing.

The lamps of the Laughing Lantern cast dancing shadows across weathered tables, their wrought-iron faces mocking Astarion with their permanent grins. The common room buzzed with the sounds of plates clattering and patrons laughing—a jarring contrast to the quiet roads they'd traveled. Their ragtag group had claimed a collection of mismatched chairs near the small stage.

Karlach's booming laugh drew his attention to where she chatted with Wyll, while Shadowheart rolled her eyes and sipped her wine. Lae'zel stood guard by the hearth, clearly uncomfortable with the press of bodies around her. Halsin and Jaheira had retreated to a corner table, heads bent in discussion over some dreary druidic matter.

But Astarion's gaze kept drifting to Gale, who'd positioned himself deliberately between Tav and an empty chair—the last remaining seat at their table. Perfect.

"Mind if I join you?" Astarion slid into the chair, letting his knee brush against Gale's thigh.

Gale shifted away, eyes fixed on the spellbook spread across the table. "By all means. Though I doubt you'll find much entertainment in advanced theoretical transmutation."

"On the contrary." Astarion leaned closer, speaking just loud enough for Gale to hear. "I find your particular brand of magic quite fascinating."

"Do you?" Gale turned a page, still not meeting his gaze. "Strange, considering how quickly your eyes glaze over whenever I discuss magical theory."

Astarion masked his irritation with a practiced smile. "Perhaps I simply prefer watching your hands when you cast. The way they move, so precise, so... controlled." He traced a finger along the edge of Gale's spellbook.

Gale closed the tome with a sharp snap. "What do you want, Astarion?"

"Want? Can't I simply enjoy your company?"

"You never 'simply' anything." Gale's eyes finally met his, sharp with intelligence. "Two weeks ago, you made your intentions quite clear—or rather, your lack of them."

"Ancient history." Astarion waved a dismissive hand. "And here I thought wizards were supposed to be forward-thinking."

"We are. Which is precisely why I'm focusing on my studies rather than whatever game you're playing tonight."

The rejection stung more than it should have. Astarion glanced toward the bar, where the bartender was arranging bottles with far too much enthusiasm—clearly eavesdropping. He lowered his voice. "No game, darling. Just thought we might... reconnect."

"Reconnect?" Gale's laugh held no warmth. "Like we 'connected' in that abandoned farmhouse? Or perhaps you mean like our 'connections' in the Underdark?"

"Those were lovely connections, as I recall."

"Until you vanished before dawn. Every time." Gale reopened his book, effectively dismissing him. "I'm not interested in being another midnight treat, Astarion."

The words hit closer to truth than Astarion cared to admit. He needed Gale—needed his power, his knowledge, his... whatever this feeling was that made his chest tight whenever Gale looked at him like that. But more pressingly, he needed allies. His messy feelings were secondary to survival Baldur's Gate loomed ahead, and with it, Cazador's shadow.

"What if—" Astarion started, then caught himself. He couldn't afford to sound desperate. "What if I told you there was more to those nights than mere... sustenance?"

"Then I'd say prove it." Gale didn't look up from his book. "With something other than silver words and stolen kisses."

Astarion drummed his fingers against the table, studying Gale's profile. Damn the man's perceptiveness. Most marks were content with the surface—the charm, the mystery, the promise of pleasure without complications. But Gale wanted more. Expected more.

Gale had seen through his performance from the start, recognized the calculation behind every touch, every whispered word. And still he'd responded, until he hadn't.

Time was running out. They'd reach Baldur's Gate within days, and Astarion needed someone powerful in his corner before then. Someone who could match Cazador's magic. Someone like Gale.

But Gale had clearly been hoping to evolve the game into something more, and Astarion didn't know if he could go there. Two centuries of survival instincts screamed against it. Even if he wanted to—and he didn't, absolutely didn't—what would Gale do with the truth? With the full scope of what Cazador had made him do, had made him become? Whatever paltry "more" Astarion had to offer, it was nothing in balance to all the ways he was so much less than what Gale believed him to be.

No, better to maintain the dance, find another way to—

"Good evening, loves!" A cheerful halfling woman in an apron appeared at their table, breaking his spiral of thoughts. "I'm Penny, proprietor of this fine establishment. We've got a bit of a situation—our regular entertainment, Marigold, is down with a nasty cold, and I haven't spotted a single bard in the crowd tonight." She glanced hopefully around their group. "Any of you fine folk interested in taking the stage? I'm offering a significant discount on rooms for anyone willing to provide a bit of entertainment."

Astarion relaxed back in his chair as the party murmured their apologies to Penny. No bards here—thank whatever dark gods might be listening. He'd endured enough mortal entertainment for one evening.

"Actually," Gale's voice cut through the disappointed silence, "my friend here does the most fascinating performance."

Astarion's head snapped toward him. "I what?"

"Oh yes." Gale's eyes sparkled with mischief. "He has this brilliant routine where he plays at being a vampire. Tells the most thrilling tales."

The halfling's face lit up. "A vampire act? How delightful!"

"I assure you, there's been some misunderstanding—" Astarion started.

"He's just modest," Gale continued, ignoring Astarion's sharp look. "But I've seen him hold entire taverns spellbound with his stories."

"I don't recall ever—"

A familiar tingle brushed against his mind, and Gale's voice whispered in his thoughts through the tadpole connection: Play along. Do this, and you can drink from me tonight.

Astarion's words died in his throat. He stared at Gale, who met his gaze with calm certainty. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing—knew precisely what to offer.

"Well?" Penny asked, practically bouncing on her toes. "What do you say, dear? We'd love to hear your stories."

The room seemed to shrink, all eyes turning toward their table. Shadowheart's eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline. Karlach wasn't even trying to hide her grin.

And Gale... Gale watched him with that infuriating mix of challenge and promise in his eyes.

Well played, Gale. The wizard's little trap was admittedly clever. Still, if Gale thought this would force some grand revelation, he was sorely mistaken. After two centuries of servitude, Astarion could spin pretty lies from ugly truths in his sleep.

"Very well." Astarion flashed his most charming smile at Penny. "How could I possibly disappoint such an eager audience? Though I should warn you—my tales tend toward the... darker side of entertainment."

"Perfect!" Penny clapped her hands. "What name shall I announce you by?"

"The Midnight Magistrate." He ignored Shadowheart's poorly disguised snort. It was theatrical enough to suit the occasion. "Give me a few minutes to prepare?"

Through their shared connection, he sent his counteroffer to Gale: Your blood, and you spend the night in my room. I'll be a perfect gentleman... unless you'd prefer otherwise.

Gale's mental voice carried an edge of amusement. Agreed, with one condition: no lies tonight. Embellish for entertainment if you must, but speak from truth.

Astarion's fingers tightened on the edge of the table. That wasn't part of the original deal.

Neither was sharing a bed. Take it or leave it.

Damn him. But fine—Astarion had centuries of material to work with. He could craft a performance that would satisfy Gale's conditions without revealing anything truly damaging. After all, the best deceptions were built on kernels of truth.

Deal, he projected back, already mentally sorting through which stories could be shaped into suitable entertainment.

Penny mounted the small stage, tapping a spoon against her tankard until the tavern quieted. Her enthusiasm practically radiated across the room. "Friends, travelers, distinguished guests! Tonight we have a special treat—a 'vampire' who walks in shadow and speaks of secrets best whispered after dark. Please welcome... the Midnight Magistrate!"

Astarion rose from his chair, letting his cloak swirl as he crossed to the stage. The lantern light caught his silver hair, casting dramatic shadows across his face. Perfect. He took position center stage, surveying the crowd with practiced disdain.

"Good evening, my delectable friends." He paced the stage's edge, making eye contact with select members of the audience. "Oh, don't look so shocked. I can see it in your eyes—that delicious mix of fear and fascination. You may claim to despise creatures like me, may arm yourself with stakes at the mere mention of vampires—" He flashed his fangs in a predatory smile. "But we both know the truth that lurks in those dark little hearts of yours."

A woman in the front row clutched her companion's arm, but her eyes never left Astarion's face.

"After all," he continued, voice dropping to a seductive purr, "what could be more alluring than a creature of the night? Immortal. Powerful." His gaze found Gale's in the crowd. "Insatiable."

Several audience members shifted in their seats. Even the usually stoic Lae'zel looked intrigued.

"Tonight, I'll lead you into that darkness you secretly crave. Share the naughty little secrets you pretend not to want to hear." He leaned forward, conspiratorial. "And trust me, darlings—I have centuries worth of secrets to tell."

The crowd hung on his every word, their attention a heady rush better than blood. How long had he hidden in shadows, when commanding the light felt this magnificent? Even Shadowheart had set aside her wine to listen.

He straightened, spreading his arms. "So what do you say? Shall we dance with darkness together?"

A murmur of anticipation and agreement rippled through the room. But it was Gale's steady gaze that caught and held him—those keen eyes that saw past the performance to the truth beneath. Well, if Gale wanted truth, Astarion would give him truth wrapped in such dark spectacle that even he might struggle to separate one from the other.

Astarion clasped his hands behind his back, pacing the stage with measured steps. "Let's start with the fundamentals, shall we? Blood." He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "Come now, don't shy away. We've all tasted it, haven't we? That little paper cut, that nicked finger while cooking—" He demonstrated with a delicate mime of bringing a finger to his lips. "The instinct to soothe the sting with a quick taste. Am I wrong?"

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the crowd. He had them.

"But how many of you have tasted someone else's blood?" He scanned the room, catching guilty shifts and averted gazes. "No? Just me then? Well, allow me to enlighten you—everyone tastes different."

He pointed to a burly merchant in expensive clothes. "You, my friend, would taste of black pepper and old money." The man's companions elbowed him, laughing. "And you—" He indicated a young barmaid. "Sweet honey and summer rain, I'd wager."

His gaze landed on Lae'zel, who met it with her usual scowl. "Now there's an interesting question—what does a gith taste like? Something exotic and dangerous, no doubt. Metal and starlight, perhaps? Or maybe just extremely spicy. I've never dared find out."

The crowd's laughter grew more comfortable, even as Lae'zel's hand twitched toward her sword.

"But this one—" He turned to Gale, who tensed visibly. "This one I know. Bitter as wormwood when he was... shall we say, under the weather?" He caught Gale's warning look and smiled wider. "But now? Like the finest aged brandy. Complex. Intoxicating." He winked at the wizard, whose ears had gone slightly pink.

"So tell me, my delectable audience—" He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "If you had to choose, right now, who would you drink from? The person you hate? The one you desire? That interesting stranger across the room?" He straightened, spreading his hands. "Don't worry, I won't ask you to share. Some secrets are best kept in the dark."

The crowd's energy buoyed him, their rapt attention better than any standing ovation. Astarion prowled the edge of the stage, reveling in how they tracked his every movement.

"Now you're all sitting there, imagining the taste of blood, aren't you? Wondering what your neighbors might taste like?" He tsked, wagging a finger. "But there's just one tiny detail you're forgetting—you'll need permission first. No, not your target's permission—that is optional, and we will get to that later. You, my thirsty darlings, will need the permission of your owner."

He affected an exaggerated bow. "You see, your master owns your will entirely—must permit you every drop you drink. And most masters? They're not exactly generous with their allowance." His lip curled. "Mine certainly wasn't. No thinking creatures for his precious spawn. Just rats." He mimed catching one. "And bugs." He pretended to pop something in his mouth, then grimaced. "Absolutely dreadful texture, by the way. The legs get stuck in your teeth."

A few people laughed nervously. Perfect.

"So all those delicious thoughts you're having about that irritating merchant who cheated you last week? Or that fetching barmaid who keeps catching your eye?" He shrugged elegantly. "Better forget them. Unless—" He paused for effect. "Unless you find some miraculous way to break free. Like I did."

His gaze found Gale again, and a wicked smile spread across his face. "Speaking of which—you see that handsome wizard over there? My first taste of freedom." He pressed a hand to his chest, batting his eyelashes. "Oh, I was so nervous. Had no idea what I was doing. Two hundred years of fantasizing about proper meals, and when I finally got my chance to lose my vampiric virginity—" He fanned himself dramatically. "Completely fell to pieces. Hands shaking, fangs catching on everything but the vein."

The audience chuckled, and he let his voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. "Thank the gods he was patient. And skilled. And rather experienced with... first times."

Gale's ears had gone properly red now, but Astarion caught the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. Even Shadowheart was trying not to smile.

"Of course, now I'm quite accomplished at it." He straightened his cuffs with exaggerated precision. "But that first time? Absolute disaster. Though still better than rats."

Astarion paced the stage, letting his steps fall into a predatory rhythm. "So there you are—you've picked your prey, gained your freedom or permission. But now comes the real question." He spread his hands. "How will you feed?"

"You hunt!" Lae'zel's voice cut through the tavern.

"Ah, our gith friend gets right to the heart of it." Astarion turned her interruption to his advantage. "But what kind of hunter will you be? There are options, you know."

He slipped into the shadows at the edge of the stage, voice dropping low. "You could embrace the monster they expect—strike from darkness, leave cooling corpses in alleyways. Use that delicious strength and speed to run them down like the predator you are."

His eyes swept the crowd, noting the farmers and merchants who tensed at his words. "But then they'll hunt you, won't they? Just like they hunt wolves that raid their sheep." Several heads nodded. "And trust me, darlings, there's nothing quite like being the quarry in a hunt. Hearing those torches and pitchforks getting closer, closer..."

He emerged from the shadows, straightening his cuffs. "Or you could be clever about it. Why chase when you can charm? Why fight—" His gaze locked with Gale's. "When you can seduce?"

Understanding dawned in those clever eyes, and Astarion's lips curled into a sharp smile. "Make them want to give you what you need. Make them beg to give it to you." He traced a finger along his own neck. "Until they're practically falling over themselves to offer their throats."

The smile slipped from his face as memories surfaced unbidden. His shoulders tensed, the practiced swagger faltering. "But seduction—it's a peculiar form of hunting, isn't it? You're the powerful creature of darkness, feared in legend, immortal..." His voice turned bitter. "And yet there you are, batting your eyes at some merchant who reeks of cheap ale, laughing at his terrible jokes, letting him paw at you with his sweaty hands."

The tavern had grown uncomfortably quiet. He could feel Gale's gaze burning into him, but he couldn't stop now.

"There was this one—reminded me of someone here, actually. A wizard, thought himself quite clever." Astarion's fingers traced the edge of his collar. "Met him in a tavern much like this. He bought me drinks I couldn't even taste, told me how beautiful I was, how exotic." His lip curled. "As if I hadn't heard it all before. But I smiled, didn't I? Leaned in close when he grabbed my thigh under the table. Followed him upstairs like a good little pet."

Someone in the audience coughed nervously. A chair scraped as someone left. His heart thudded, but he couldn’t stop the words coming. Maybe the spotlight was making him reckless. Maybe he wanted them to hear. Maybe he wanted Gale to know.

"He wasn't gentle." Astarion's voice had gone flat. "Didn't ask if I was comfortable, didn't care if I enjoyed it. Why should he? He'd paid for his pleasure with those drinks, hadn't he?" He laughed, sharp and hollow. "But afterward, when he was spent and stupid with satisfaction, that's when I fed. Drank deep while he lay there, helpless as a babe."

His eyes found Gale's in the crowd. The wizard's face had gone pale, his expression a mixture of horror and heartache that sent a thrill through Astarion's chest.

"So tell me, my delectable friends—" He spread his arms wide. "Who was truly the predator that night? The powerful wizard who used me for his pleasure? Or the vampire whore who drained him until he could barely walk straight?" His smile showed too many teeth. "Who do you think got the better end of that bargain?"

The bitter words spilled from Astarion's lips like poison. "But here's the punchline, darlings—I didn't even get to keep the blood. That last bit was a lie. A tease, really." His laugh had the edge of hysteria, but his fingers curled into fists behind his back. "No, every drop went to my master. Night after night, spreading my legs for whatever mark caught his fancy. Nobles, merchants, sailors—" He barked out a laugh. "I stopped counting how many. Had to make it convincing, you see. Had to make them believe they were special. Different. The one who'd finally captured the beautiful creature's heart."

The tavern had gone deathly silent. Even the usual clink of tankards had ceased. But Astarion couldn't stop, couldn't stem the flood of acid truth pouring from his mouth.

"And then I'd lure them to my master's lair like lambs to slaughter, still tasting their sweat on my skin, still feeling their—"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Penny's voice cut through his words like a knife. She bustled onto the stage, practically radiating forced cheer. "What a thrilling performance from our Midnight Magistrate! Such... intensity! Such commitment to character!"

The halfling's small hand gripped his arm with surprising strength as scattered, uncertain applause filled the room. Astarion barely noticed. His gaze remained locked with Gale's, seeing the horror and understanding warring in those clever eyes. The wizard hadn't moved, hadn't flinched away. He just... saw. Saw everything Astarion had tried so carefully to hide behind wit and seduction.

Penny was still talking, still trying to salvage the evening, but Astarion couldn't hear her over the roaring in his ears. She tugged him toward the stage steps, and he followed mechanically, unable to break that connection with Gale even as his feet carried him away from the stage.

The room felt distant, muffled, as though he watched it all through clouded glass. Had he really just—? No. Surely he hadn't exposed quite that much of himself. But the silence in the room told a different story.

His hands trembled. He clenched them into fists, focusing on the bite of his nails against his palms. Movement caught his eye—Gale rising from his seat. Of course. Anyone with sense would flee after that display of depravity. Astarion's chest constricted, an old, familiar ache.

But Gale didn't run. Instead, he cut through the crowd with purposeful strides, reaching Astarion's side in moments. A warm hand settled at the small of Astarion's back, steady and grounding.

"Let's get some space," Gale murmured, already steering him toward the stairs.

Astarion let himself be guided, mind whirling. What had possessed him to share those particular stories? He'd meant to be clever, to dance along the edge of truth without falling in. Instead, he'd vomited his shame all over the tavern floor like a drunk after too much cheap wine.

They reached the upper landing, and still Gale hadn't pulled away in disgust. Hadn't even loosened his grip. The warmth of his hand burned through Astarion's shirt like an accusation. Or perhaps absolution? No—he didn't deserve that. Not after everything he'd done. Everything he'd been.

Gods, what must Gale think of him now? The wizard had wanted honesty, but surely not like this. Not this raw, ugly truth spilled out for strangers to gawk at. He'd ruined everything, hadn't he? Destroyed any chance of—

"Breathe," Gale said softly.

Astarion realized he'd been holding unnecessary breath in his chest, an old habit from life. He released it in a shaky exhale, feeling the tremors start to work their way up from his hands to his shoulders.

Gale's room swam into focus as Gale guided him inside, closing the door with a soft click. Astarion found himself perched on the edge of the bed, though he couldn't quite remember sitting down. The mattress dipped beside him as Gale settled close—not touching, but near enough that his warmth radiated between them.

"I'm so sorry." Gale's voice cut through the fog in Astarion's mind. "I never meant—gods, I had no idea. If I'd known what memories this would stir up—"

Astarion stared at his hands, still trembling slightly in his lap. Why was Gale apologizing? Why was he even still here? The wizard should be running for the hills after that disaster downstairs, not hovering beside him with such genuine concern.

"—completely thoughtless of me," Gale continued, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted you to open up a little, not force you to relive—"

"You're still here." The words slipped out before Astarion could stop them.

Gale fell silent mid-apology. After a moment, his hand settled cautiously on Astarion's shoulder. The touch felt impossibly warm, impossibly gentle.

"Of course I'm still here."

Astarion's throat tightened. He couldn't look at Gale, couldn't bear to see pity in those clever eyes. But he couldn't seem to pull away from that steady touch either.

"I shouldn't have pushed," Gale said softly. "It was meant to be fun, mostly, not... this. I'm sorry."

The words washed over Astarion like warm rain, too kind, too sincere. He waited for the other shoe to drop, for Gale to remember exactly what kind of creature he was comforting. But Gale just stayed, his thumb moving in small circles against Astarion's shoulder, anchoring him to the present.

"Back in the beginning…. When we… I didn't mean to make you—" Gale's words tumbled out. "Gods, I was so caught up in my own fears about being fed upon, I never considered... You shouldn't have had to seduce me just to—"

"Stop." Astarion's voice came out sharper than intended. He softened it, turning to face Gale at last. "You think I didn't want you? That I was just playing the whore again?"

"After what you just told everyone downstairs—"

"What I told them was about having no choice." Astarion caught Gale's hand as it slipped from his shoulder. "Do you know what you were for me? My first choice. The first time I decided for myself who to take to bed since—" He frowned. "Well, my memory before turning is rather spotty, but I'm quite certain it was the first in a very long time."

"But you were manipulating me. The flirting, the seduction—"

"Of course I was." Astarion's lips quirked. "I wanted something from you. But I chose how to get it. I chose you." He squeezed Gale's hand. "And I rather enjoyed making that choice."

"I don't understand." Gale's brow furrowed. "Why aren't you angrier about having to manipulate me at all? Why am I the one feeling guilty when you're the one who—"

"Because I'm not some helpless victim in this, darling." Astarion released his hand to gesture expansively. "Yes, I used my old tricks. Yes, I played on your desires. But I did it because I wanted to. Because I saw you, wanted you, and decided to have you." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Do you have any idea how intoxicating that was? Making my own choices? Even if they weren't particularly noble ones?"

Gale's hands moved restlessly as he spoke, his usual eloquence fractured into stuttering explanations about trust and manipulation and feelings. The wizard's distress radiated off him in waves, and Astarion found himself caught between amusement and an unfamiliar urge to comfort.

"I pushed you away because I wanted—but then you wouldn't—and now I understand why, but still—" Gale ran both hands through his hair, leaving it standing at odd angles. "Gods, I'm making a mess of this."

"Darling." Astarion caught one of those fluttering hands, stilling it. "We're both making rather a spectacular mess of things, wouldn't you say? I just aired two centuries of dirty laundry to half the countryside, and you're having what appears to be an existential crisis over whether you should feel guilty about accepting or rejecting my advances."

Gale's mouth opened, likely for another round of stammering explanations, but Astarion pressed a finger to his lips.

"Since I've already humiliated myself thoroughly tonight, perhaps we might salvage something from this disaster?" He let his hand drop, fighting the urge to fidget. "You wanted me to be honest with you. Well, now you know more about me than my own vampire siblings ever did. Hardly the way I'd have chosen to tell you, but..." He spread his hands. "There it is. My sordid history, laid bare for your judgment."

"I don't want to judge you," Gale said softly. "I just wanted to know you. The real you."

Astarion's chest tightened. "Well, now you do. Lucky you."

Gale's expression softened. "I am lucky."

Astarion's carefully crafted smirk faltered. He searched Gale's face for any hint of mockery, but found only earnest warmth.

"The things you survived," Gale continued, "the wit and intelligence you maintained through it all—" He shook his head. "You're extraordinary."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, darling." The words came automatically, but his voice lacked its usual polish.

"It's not flattery if it's true." Gale's hand found his again, thumb tracing absent patterns across his knuckles. "Though I confess, I'm not entirely sure where this leaves us."

Astarion tensed. "Ah. Having second thoughts about getting involved with damaged goods?"

"No," Gale said sharply. "That's not—" He sighed. "I'm worried about doing this right. About not..." His free hand gestured vaguely. "About ensuring whatever happens between us is truly your choice. That I'm not inadvertently—"

Astarion stared at their joined hands, at Gale's thumb still tracing those maddening patterns across his skin. The wizard was trying so hard to be careful with him, as though he might shatter at the wrong touch. As though he hadn't already been broken and remade a thousand times over.

"You're nothing like him," Astarion said softly. "The wizard from my story. Or any of them, really."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because you're here, fretting about my choices instead of taking what you want." Astarion shifted closer, letting his knee brush against Gale's. "Because you pulled away when you thought I was just using you, even though you wanted me. Because—" He huffed a laugh. "Because you're making this infinitely more complicated than it needs to be."

What was the point in holding back now? He'd already spilled his darkest secrets to a room full of strangers. Gale had seen the worst of him, heard the ugliest parts of his past, and still hadn't run. Still sat here, warm and solid beside him, worrying about Astarion's agency of all things.

"I chose you," Astarion said again, more firmly this time. "Not because I had to. Not because someone commanded it. I saw you—brilliant, powerful, frustratingly noble you—and I wanted." He lifted their joined hands, pressing his lips to Gale's knuckles. "I still want."

The gesture seemed to catch Gale off guard. His breath hitched, and Astarion felt a small thrill of satisfaction at finally silencing that clever tongue.

"So stop trying to protect me from myself," Astarion murmured against Gale's skin. "I've had quite enough of other people deciding what's best for me, haven't you?"

Tired of words, Astarion grabbed Gale's collar and pulled him into a fierce kiss. When he broke away, Gale looked pleasantly dazed and his own lips burned. "There. Was that clear enough for you? Or shall I write out a formal declaration of consent?"

"I just want to be certain—"

"That this is what I want?" Astarion's lips curved. "Darling, doing the right thing with the complicated mess that I am is as simple as trusting me to choose for myself, for good or ill."

Gale fell silent, his expression thoughtful. The quiet stretched between them, and Astarion fought the urge to fill it with chatter, with deflection, with anything to dispel the raw vulnerability still clinging to his skin. His performance downstairs played through his mind on endless loop—every sordid detail he'd spilled, every secret exposed.

His carefully laid plans lay in shambles around him. He'd meant to keep Gale at arm's length, to seduce and manipulate until he had the wizard's loyalty without risking his own heart. But he'd gone and vomited truth all over the tavern floor instead, and now—now what?

The warmth of Gale's hand felt like an anchor, keeping him from drowning in his own thoughts. It would be so easy to lean into that warmth, to let himself believe in this acceptance. To trust that someone could know his darkest parts and still want him.

Dangerous. Foolish. And yet...

"Are you trying to think your way out of our bargain, darling?" Astarion's voice came out playful, though slightly strained. "After all that, I'd say I've more than earned a taste, wouldn't you?"

Gale winced at Astarion's words. "You haven't 'earned' anything. That's not—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I want to stay. With you. Tonight. And yes, I still want you to feed from me, but not because you've earned it or because we made a deal."

A smirk tugged at Astarion's lips as he cocked his head. "Do tell me precisely why you want that, darling."

"Because I want you." Gale's voice was soft but firm. "All of you. The sharp edges and the hidden parts. Even the ones you showed everyone downstairs."

The simplicity of it struck Astarion like a physical thing. His throat tightened. "Well. That's... terribly inconvenient of you."

"Is it?" Gale's hand found his cheek. "What do you want, Astarion?"

The touch burned. After everything he'd revealed tonight, Astarion's skin felt raw, oversensitive. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to press closer. He wanted—

"You," he admitted, the word barely a whisper. "Here. Now."

Gale nodded, rising to dim the lantern. The room fell into comfortable shadow, and Astarion heard the rustle of clothing being removed. His own fingers moved to his laces, oddly clumsy.

"Let me," Gale murmured, stepping close again.

Astarion let his hands fall, allowing Gale to undress him with careful movements. They slipped beneath the covers together, and Astarion found himself drawn to Gale's warmth like a moth to flame. This wasn't how he'd planned their night to go at all, but as Gale's arms encircled him, he couldn't quite remember why that mattered.

Astarion fell into the kiss, Gale's lips urgent against his own. The wizard's beard scraped his skin, a pleasant contrast to the softness of his mouth. As Gale pulled him closer, Astarion luxuriated in the sensation of their bodies slotting together. He tangled one hand in Gale's hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, relishing the feel of that scruffy jaw against his palm. His other hand roamed, mapping the contours of Gale's back and shoulders, the muscles moving smoothly beneath sun-kissed skin. He had missed this.

Their bare skin touched everywhere, and Astarion bit back a groan at the relief of having Gale close again, at the simple comfort of Gale's skin against his own. Gale's body heat seemed to radiate straight through him, a fiery brand against his ever-cool flesh. He felt the shift and press of muscles as Gale moved above him, the coarse hair of his chest teasing against Astarion's smooth skin.

Hands roamed, exploring, until Gale's fingers found his length. Astarion arched into the touch, his breath catching. Gale's hand tightened around him, and Astarion's breath hitched. He was used to using his lovers' desire against them, but now, he found himself at the mercy of his own want, the rush of blood surging past his control. Still, it was a heady sensation, feeling Gale's own erection pressing against his body, their mutual desire a silent rhythm between them.

Astarion shifted, thrusting gently into Gale's grip, his eyes sliding closed at the pleasure of it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such hunger. Cazador had denied him this—the choice to take or give pleasure, the freedom to simply want. Even his meals had been orchestrated to keep him in a constant state of half-starvation.

But now, with Gale's body pressed against his own, he could finally feel something other than the ever-present gnaw of hunger. He rolled his hips again, chasing the spark of pleasure that flared along his spine.

A ragged groan escaped Gale, spurring Astarion on. Astarion thrust again, harder this time, his fangs aching as his body responded. He pressed closer, his body aching for more contact, his fangs sharp against his tongue. Gale's scent filled his nostrils, rich and tantalizing. And then, with a soft sigh, Gale rolled onto his back, inviting Astarion to take control.

Astarion's breath caught. The power in that simple act—the implicit trust and surrender—hit him like a slap. He met Gale's eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation, but found only desire and certainty. The offer hung between them, unspoken but undeniable: You can have me. All of me. If you want it.

Desire flared, sharp and hot. Astarion forced himself to move slowly, tracing a lazy path of kisses along Gale's jaw and throat, tasting the salt of his skin. He took his time, savoring the moment, the scent of desire thick in the dark. He tasted like the sea, like sunshine and mysterious spice.

Astarion shifted, slotting himself between Gale's thighs. The wizard spread his legs willingly, a soft noise escaping his throat as Astarion pressed closer, grinding their erections together and against each other's groins. They both moaned at the sensation, and Gale wrapped them both in his hand. Gale's free hand came up to tangle in Astarion's hair, holding him close as he continued to stroke them both in time with their movements.

Astarion nipped at Gale's throat, feeling the pulse flutter beneath his lips. Blood sang in his veins, his fangs aching as he traced the path of the wizard's lifeblood beneath the skin. As he kissed along the throbbing pulse, Astarion felt Gale's body respond, the rhythm of their movements growing faster, more urgent.

With a soft groan, Astarion pressed his fangs into Gale's neck, drinking in the sensation as much as the taste. Gale gasped as his body jerked, hips stuttering briefly before resuming their rhythm. Astarion drank slowly, reveling in the warmth spreading through him, sparks of pleasure dancing along his veins. He savored Gale's unique flavor, feeling the wizard's pleasure in the heady richness of his blood, a drug he could happily drown in.

He drank his fill, leaving Gale's neck marked with twin punctures. Carefully, he sealed the wounds with his tongue, kissing the marks he'd made. Below, their hands and hips still moved in time, thrusting into Gale's fist, slick with precum.

As he drew back, Astarion pressed his thumb lightly against the punctures, his eyes never leaving Gale's. The wizard's breath hitched, but he met Astarion's gaze directly, his eyes dark with desire.

Astarion kissed him then, slow and deep, as they moved against each other in a steady, relentless beat. The sensation of Gale's body beneath his, of their cocks sliding together in his wet, tight grip, was almost too much.

Gale's fingers tightened in his hair, tugging him closer as their mouths fused. Astarion moaned into the kiss, his body on fire. He wanted to brand this moment into his memory, Gale's eyes dark with lust, the scent of their passion filling his nostrils, their bodies moving as one. It was too much, and not enough.

Astarion thrust his tongue into the wizard's mouth in time with his hips, chasing the spark of pleasure that built along his spine. He could feel Gale's heart racing against his thumb, taste the tang of his need on his tongue. Their rhythm stuttered, growing faster, more frantic, pleasure sparking through him with each thrust.

With a final groan, they tumbled over the edge together. Astarion bit back a shout as pleasure flooded him, his body pulsing with release. Still, his mouth never left Gale's, swallowing the wizard's cries as his body arched.

Panting, Astarion pressed his forehead to Gale's, their lips still fused in a breathless kiss. His skin, usually cool, flushed with stolen heat, and he felt feverish with the rush of blood. He felt like he'd just woken from a long sleep, like the last two hundred years had been a dream. Or perhaps he was dreaming now. But no, Gale's heartbeat still pulsed beneath his palm, his skin still burned deliciously under Astarion's mouth, their spend mixed on their bellies as they pressed together.

He pulled back slightly, searching Gale's face. The wizard's eyes were dark with pleasure, his lips swollen from kisses.

"Hello," Gale murmured, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hello," Astarion echoed.

They kissed again, slower this time, the heat between them smoldering in the wake of their release. Astarion's lips curved against Gale's. Gods, he could get used to this—to being seen and yet cherished.

He settled closer, enjoying the warmth of Gale's body against his own. The wizard's arms encircled him, fingers tracing idle patterns on his back. Astarion closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation.

"This is unacceptable," he declared.

"Mmm?" Gale hummed, his breath ghosting over Astarion's skin.

"Clearly, we are far better suited to one another than we realized." Astarion nudged Gale's nose with his own. "We should never have stopped doing this."

"Well, I tried," Gale said, his voice muffled by Astarion's neck. "You kept pushing me away."

"Yes, well." Astarion paused, considering his next words. "I suppose I was... occupied with other concerns at the time."

"Playing puppet master to the entire party, you mean?" Gale's tone held an edge of reproach, but his fingers continued their idle dance on Astarion's spine.

Astarion stiffened. "It was necessary."

Gale sighed. "I know, love. Does it really need saying?"

Astarion fell silent. They both knew the score. Hadn't they both done whatever was needed to protect themselves and the party? But something had shifted tonight, some invisible line crossed. And now... Now they lay here, spent and satisfied, with Astarion's darkest secrets hanging between them.

"We're a mess, aren't we?" Gale murmured, as if reading his mind.

"Speak for yourself." Astarion nuzzled Gale's neck. "I am absolutely flawless, as always."

"Hmm, yes, a perfect picture of emotional stability." Gale pulled him closer. "I, on the other hand, could definitely use some work."

Astarion chuckled, the sound rumbling through both their bodies. "Well, I'm certain it was worth the wait."

"Mmhmm." Gale's lips found his again. "Much better than before."

Astarion considered this as their mouths moved together in a slow, languid dance. "I suppose it was a bit of a mess."

"A bit?" Gale's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I thought that first time we got together was going to be our last."

Astarion sobered. "As did I."

"But this," Gale slid his hand down to rest on Astarion's hip, his thumb stroking gently, "this is..."

"Yes?" Astarion held his gaze, searching for words to fill the sudden silence.

"This is real," Gale finished, his expression almost shy.

Astarion's heart thumped once, heavily, in his chest. He swallowed, his throat clicking. "If you like, I could make it a little less real."

Gale smiled, running his thumb over Astarion's hip bone. "No, I think I like it just the way it is."

They lay together, silent save for the soft susurrus of their breath. Astarion traced slow patterns on Gale's skin, savoring the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. It would be so easy to simply fall into this quiet moment, to forget everything but the two of them, entwined in the dark. He'd tell himself it was just for tonight, that come morning, he'd be back in control. But for now... just for now, he could pretend that this was real. That he was allowed this affection, this tenderness.

The moment stretched, and Astarion found himself reluctant to shatter it. But duty called, and he couldn't afford to be distracted. Not now, with Cazador's forces no doubt searching for them even as they lay here, sated and lazy in each other's arms.

Astarion's fingers stilled on Gale's skin as his thoughts drifted to strategy, to the inevitable confrontation looming ahead. He needed to consider their resources, their tactical advantages—

"I can hear you plotting from here." Gale's voice cut through his thoughts. "The moment's barely passed and you're already tensing up and drifting off."

"Someone has to think about these things," Astarion said, trying to keep the edge from his voice. Surely Gale understood the gravity of what lay ahead. The wizard was brilliant—he had to see that they couldn't afford to be unprepared. And speaking of preparation, having Gale's power on his side would be crucial. The pleasure of his company was... unexpected, but ultimately secondary to—

"Stop." Gale propped himself up on one elbow. "Whatever schemes you're crafting, whatever angles you're calculating—just stop. For one night."

"Cazador won't simply vanish because we've had a pleasant evening," Astarion snapped.

"No, but we're ready for him." Gale's casual tone brought Astarion up short. "Well, nearly ready. Still need to track down a Sunbeam scroll, but otherwise—"

"What?"

"The holy water's sorted. Tav's been stockpiling it for weeks. Between that and my repertoire of daylight spells and Shadowheart's radiant damage..." Gale shrugged. "We'll keep him burning while you get your pound of flesh."

Astarion stared at him. "You've been planning this? Even after—"

"After you pushed me away?" Gale's expression hardened. "Did you really think we'd abandon you to face him alone because we weren't fucking anymore? That I would?"

"I..." The words stuck in Astarion's throat. He'd been so focused on manipulating, on ensuring their cooperation, that he'd never considered they might help him willingly.

"You impossible man." Gale's voice softened. "We're with you in this. I'm with you. No schemes required."

Astarion's chest tightened, an unfamiliar pressure building behind his eyes. He turned his face away, but Gale's hand caught his chin, drawing him back.

"The whole time?" His voice came out rough. "You've all been—" He broke off, cursing the tremor in his words.

"Of course we have." Gale's thumb stroked his cheek. "Did you think Shadowheart was practicing those radiant spells for fun? Or that Halsin's been brewing healing potions by the dozen because he's bored?"

A hot tear escaped, rolling down Astarion's cheek. He tried to pull away again, mortified, but Gale's arms tightened around him.

"Shh," Gale murmured, drawing him closer. "It's alright."

But it wasn't alright. Everything Astarion had carefully constructed—every manipulation, every calculated move to ensure their loyalty—crumbled like sand. They'd already chosen to stand with him. Had probably known what he was doing, watching his desperate maneuvering with patient understanding while they prepared for the battle ahead. Mortifying. Mortifying and marvelous.

More tears fell, and Astarion pressed his face into Gale's shoulder, unable to stop them. Gale's hand moved to the back of his neck, holding him steady as the sobs wracked his frame.

"I've got you," Gale whispered, his other hand rubbing circles on Astarion's back. "We've got you."

And those simple words broke something loose in Astarion's chest. Two centuries of careful control shattered as he wept, clinging to Gale like an anchor in a storm. All the while, Gale held him, murmuring quiet reassurances into his hair.

***

Astarion blinked awake, disoriented. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. He lay curled against Gale's chest, the wizard's arm draped over his waist.

Strange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually slept rather than tranced. The familiar meditative state had eluded him entirely, replaced by true unconsciousness. Even stranger—he felt rested, peaceful.

Gale stirred beside him, pressing a sleepy kiss to his temple. "Good morning."

"Is it?" Astarion stretched, catlike, against him. "I actually slept."

"I noticed." Gale's fingers traced idle patterns on his hip. "You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you."

Astarion turned to face him, drinking in the sight of tousled hair and warm eyes. Their lips met, soft and unhurried. No manipulation, no calculation—just the simple pleasure of being close.

They spent the next hour trading lazy kisses and gentle touches, rediscovering each other in the morning light. When passion overtook them again, it was different from the night before—slower, deeper, more tender than Astarion had known possible.

After, they dressed slowly, stealing glances and touches. Astarion borrowed Gale's comb, working it through his curls while the wizard straightened his robes.

"Ready?" Gale asked, offering his hand.

Astarion laced their fingers together. "Lead on, darling."

Astarion descended the stairs with Gale close behind, noting how the common room buzzed with late morning activity. The rest of their companions lounged around their table, and Shadowheart's raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

"Quite the extended breakfast," Wyll said with a knowing grin.

Astarion smoothed his collar, refusing to look sheepish. "Some meals are worth savoring."

Penny bustled over, her face bright with excitement. "There you are! I've been holding onto this since last night." She produced a hefty coin purse that clinked promisingly. "Best performance we've had in months! The way you had everyone believing the act—pure genius!"

"The act?" Astarion accepted the purse, pleasantly surprised by its weight. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, you know." She winked. "All that business about the cruel vampire master and the torments. So dramatic! The bit with the wizard had half the room in tears."

"Quite the interesting clientele you have," he said smoothly, though his fingers tightened on the purse.

A debate had broken out at a nearby table. "It had to be real," insisted a merchant. "You can't fake that kind of pain."

"Course you can," his companion argued. "That's what makes it art. The way he played with our expectations—brilliant!"

"You simply must consider making it a regular performance when you're passing through," Penny said. "The crowds would love it."

Astarion caught Gale's eye, finding both humor and understanding there. "I'm afraid it was a one-night engagement. Though I'm flattered by the reception."

He settled at the table with his companions, determinedly ignoring how the room still buzzed with discussion of his 'performance.' Karlach slid a glass of breakfast wine his way, and he accepted it gratefully.

"So," Shadowheart drawled, "a performance artist now, are we?"

"What can I say?" Astarion took a long sip. "I contain multitudes. And, honestly, this face was made for the stage."

The conversation around them continued to drift between reality and performance, but Astarion found he didn't mind. Let them debate. The truth had served its purpose, whether they believed it or not.

Under the table, Gale's hand found his, and Astarion allowed himself to hold on as the party ate and gossiped.

Under the guise of fetching more wine, Astarion slipped away from the table, Gale following close behind. They found a quiet alcove near the cellar steps, away from prying eyes and curious ears.

"'Pure genius,' she called it." Astarion leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I should take my act on the road. Perhaps start a theater troupe: 'Astarion's Authentic Vampire Experience.' We could sell merchandise."

"Oh?" Gale's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Little toy coffins, perhaps? Wooden stakes with your signature?"

"Don't forget the commemorative rats." Astarion's lips twitched. "For that authentic spawn dining experience."

"Naturally." Gale stepped closer, voice dropping. "Though I must say, your method acting was remarkable."

"Yes, well." Astarion's smile turned sharp. "I had excellent source material to work with."

"And here I thought you were just naturally dramatic."

"Darling, I'm wounded." Astarion pressed a hand to his chest. "Everything I do is completely authentic. Even my artifice is genuine."

Gale chuckled, reaching out to straighten Astarion's collar. "Of course. How could I doubt?"

Their eyes met, and something shifted in the air between them. Astarion caught Gale's hand, holding it against his chest.

Astarion traced his thumb over Gale's knuckles. "I think I'm done with performances for a while." He met Gale's eyes. "Both for tavern crowds and... well." He gestured between them with his free hand. "Though I can't promise perfection. Two centuries of habits and all that."

"Perfection would be boring." Gale's smile reached his eyes. "I'd rather have you, schemes and all, than some sanitized version."

"How fortunate, since that's likely all you'll get." Astarion's lips quirked. "Though I suppose I could try being marginally less manipulative. As a treat."

"How generous of you."

"I know, I'm practically a saint."

Gale laughed, the sound warming something in Astarion's chest. "The patron saint of reformed schemers?"

"Reformed is such a strong word. Let's say... temporarily retired."

Their bodies drew closer, as if pulled by some invisible thread. Gale's free hand came up to cup Astarion's cheek, and Astarion leaned into the touch.

Gale kissed him. It was soft and sweet and achingly real, and Astarion found himself melting into it. No calculations, no ulterior motives—just this, just them.

"You know," Astarion murmured, "if reality can be this pleasant, perhaps I won't miss the artifice quite so much."

"Hah! I live in hope."

"Hope looks good on you, darling." Astarion stole another kiss.

"Better on you, my love. Much better."

"Well, everything looks better on me, but thank you." Astarion trailed his fingers down Gale's jawline, savoring the rough stubble beneath his touch. "You're staring again."

"You're beautiful." Gale caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Especially when you stop trying so hard to be."

The words caught in Astarion's chest, and he covered his reaction with an exaggerated eye roll. "I never try, darling. Natural perfection requires no effort."

"Of course not." Gale's thumb traced circles on his wrist. "Though we should probably get moving. Cazador isn't going to vanquish himself, and I, for one, have plans that require a distinct lack of ancient vampires lurking about."

"Oh?" Astarion arched an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Later." Gale stepped back, though his fingers lingered on Astarion's arm. "After we've dealt with your maker. Then we can focus on more important matters."

"More important than destroying the monster who tortured me for two centuries? Do enlighten me."

"Living." Gale's expression softened. "Actually living, rather than just surviving."

Something warm bloomed in Astarion's chest, dangerous and bright as sunrise. He swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to deflect with humor or spite.

"Well then," he managed, proud of how steady his voice remained. "We'd better get on with it, hadn't we?"

#bg3 #astarion #bloodweave #gale of waterdeep #bg3 fanfic #myfic

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