and you spoke to me of honor.

priv. sideblog for ttrpg focused canons! penned by jk.

[faerus]

📍 pinned in-progress.

rules & muses. magicked by jk.

[evilaffable]

@faerus: pleasing you is my only purpose. ( wyll x astarion / wyll lost in the sauce & muttering things more romantic than they've initially agreed upon )

astarion, simply put, may have bitten off more than he could chew. it's not as if he was expecting this to be some perfunctory quickie, like a handshake or anything given the kind of man that wyll is, but this amount of foreplay is overwhelming. when a man has sex with another man, there's a bare minimum amount of foreplay and preparation required but neck kisses and sweet murmurs against his pointy ears aren't one of them. wyll ravengard may be a man of the people, but tonight he belonged to astarion. what an outrageous, yet titillating thought. "wyll," he gasps, bearing down on the calloused fingers inside of him as he wraps his arms around the man's neck, astarion's cock drooling precome pitifully against his stomach. "it would please me most greatly," astarion grits out, overwhelmed by arousal, "if you would just fuck me." surely wyll doesn't know how foreign this tenderness is to him, how it makes astarion feel like a deer caught in the hairs of a crossbow. astarion kisses him because how can he not, and sucks at the swell of his bottom lip, coaxing as he gazes at wyll through sooty lashes. he won't be reduced to begging as long as he can get wyll worked up enough in turn. "if you don't, you'll force me to something most treacherous and dire." his gaze flits over the strong expanse of wyll's neck, blood thrumming.

[faerus]

wyll marvels, though he shouldn't. he drinks the sight before him, sips it long and hungering, all attention swimming from arousal to seated attraction. it runs the gamut, pulls wyll from the undone laces of his well-worn boots, and what is to be done when astarion lays unbearably handsome in the moonlight? who can he be, if not someone struck, someone unable to withhold blatant awe in-between sweet and tantalizing kisses? his fingers burn, each encroaching touch from where astarion blushes reddest — seared into good, delightful memory. it's in the swallowing, the heavy gulp tailing astarion's threatening commentary, where wyll revels, open and unbidden. " — i know, i want to — i will, i promise. soon, very soon. just — let me look at you a little longer. put your face, your blushing, your eyes to memory." both index and middle bend here, crooked pads now rubbing up against swollen attraction. he takes to it languidly, though the response that follows — all sound and jerky movement and bright-eyed staring — paint wyll from the inside out. he is hard, of course, but his heart triples in addition. with each bedding, astarion grows sharper in the fold of his ribs; his company trudging swiftly into a need. though wyll's complexion cloaks a flustering rather well, his free arm scoops around the dip of astarion's waist, and the nosing, a bridge upon sharp cheekbone, warms him for reasons outside sex. endearment stirs. butterflies. from fanged grin to steely eyes, selfish quips to sympathetic jokes. wyll shudders, crooked hand surging with stubborn rhythm. "is that — okay?"

[evilaffable]

it's reprehensible, really, what a good influence wyll is on him. at first he regarded wyll with smug condescension, doubting the bard tales about him alongside his true and honest nature. there is no one that can be that good without a hidden dark side. now with wyll's infernal ornaments, there's physical proof the man is not infallible or perfect, although it evidently comes with the caveat of being scorned by his former peers. initially, astarion thought wyll was soft-hearted as well as a bit soft in the head, but that seemed to be far from the truth because whenever astarion said something out of turn to him he was more than capable of holding his own in the sass department. astarion blinks, genuinely shocked before he bursts out laughing, tossing his head back with a beaming fanged grin. "why, that's a very pragmatic point of view. and not at all as sanctimonious as i was expecting. truth be told, maybe i got you mixed up in my head with gale - not that you share anything in common aside from getting on my nerves. although you are much more concise." unless wyll is sharing details or telling a tale of monsters past slain, then he does tend to ramble a little, but who is astarion to split hairs when he starts nervously rambling upon faced with a grain of sincerity? to his knowledge wyll has no desire to ascend to godhood aside from the kind of social status that can be acquired from being in a bard's song, which really isn't much. he raises a skeptical pale brow, a vain attempt at appearing like he isn't already convinced before rolling his eyes. "fine, since i do like the way you've framed it as merely a detour. we can pretend we're sightseeing on holiday, but i can't imagine the moonrise prisons have very good amenities." his face pales with horror, recognition dawning on his face. "you're right, we really should get them out of there." contrary to the way it seemed, astarion was in fact taking this seriously, but sometimes it took laughing in the face of what was probably certain death to cope with the fact that they were doing it at all.

[faerus]

wyll is brimming with amusement, stone eye almost animated amidst a tilted grin. "and you share a dangerous but admittedly necessary level of consumption with gale, but yours is messier." a needless prod, but a bump of adrenaline for them both when the plan is settled and begun. the battle — as there must be one, avoidable as the thunderous escape is — is treacherous; not so in the fighting, but in the safety of the prisoners. they are quick on their feet but wildly unarmed, and as soon as the warden closes in, wyll steps forward wherever he can. unlike astarion, whose expertise is built upon stealth and the advantageous shadows, wyll fights with a flourish. eldritch blasts channelled from the base of his palm, a crackling force repelling one, then two more into the stone walls; a stroke of lightning now thundering from the flick of his fingertips, each point of contact now strung to buzzing arm. he steadies himself, wincing when battered, though the electricity persists.

[evilaffable]

@faerus: "there are scary people in the world. that’s why it’s important to be safe." ( wyllstarion / the pair of them speaking to mol about her impulsive trust in raphael and/or those of devilish make )

wyll has had more dealings with devils than astarion has, so he wants to let him take the reins here, but he's not sure appealing to mol's better nature is the right play when raphael has likely already sunk his claws into her. as far as pitiful orphans go, normally astarion can't be bothered but he does admire mol's business acumen, and she hardly has a chip on her shoulder about things. but gods, really, how often does the wretch need saving? from two mal-adjusted pseudo father-figures, at that. from what he recalls, mol isn't easily persuaded. "ah, ah. mol, if you'll excuse us for just a moment. we need a sidebar." he flashes a tight toothy grin at mol before wrapping a hand around wyll's elbow, escorting him away behind the bar for a moment of privacy. "wyll, darling, i know you probably think honesty is the best approach but let's think about who we're dealing with here. we might need to fight fire with fire, or ah, subterfuge with subterfuge. the child is deadset on selling her soul to the devil. and i think there's little we can do to do convince her otherwise." he raises a pale brow, a duplicitious little smile tugging at his lips. "unless, of course, we find out what she wants with the devil and make her a better offer." the little brat is vulnerable, defenseless -- she could only want two things, protection or power. with power comes responsibility and all that tired drivel, but also protection and whilst they can't offer her more power than raphael could as a potential patron, maybe if mol felt protected she wouldn't go to such lengths. but astarion thinks he'll leave the words of affirmation and reassurance to wyll, as it seems more within his wheelhouse. he scoffs, brows drawn in frustration. "scheming i can handle, but meddling for the greater good? ugh. i'll allow you to take the lead, if it's all the same to you."

[faerus]

though wyll frowns upon deceptive tactics in replacement of sincere honesty (specifically when attempting to re-orient mol's broaching of the world) — he trusts astarion enough to argue otherwise. if anything, there is a thread here, a line rather mirrored and familiar from mol's glinting pupil to astarion's red. visually, she may be closer to wyll, but the inquisitive looks and morally ambiguous placement of smarts have her reacting like the charming rogue. so he exhales, sighs quiet in-between tucked conversation, before turning to meet mol with a lowered glance. " — what i mean is, you would trust the strength of one devil as opposed to the group of us?" his arm extends, swerving outward in gesture. fingertips roaming in lae'zel's direction, in karlach, in halsin and beyond. and it's in the memory of a prior humbling that wyll adds, good eye shiny with a widening; a hopeful in, now extorted. "besides, you know of karlach, right? great warrior of avernus? slayer of demons? — she's not particularly fond of raphael. and if we're to place bets, her expertise, her time upon the field — my long hunting of monsters — astarion's skill with a blade," he stalls here to grin, half-dimpled in the vampire's direction, "perhaps there's a better offer upon the table. a side more suitable for your needs."

[wiidogasts]

"a long golden lance that, in a whole visage of a dude that is constantly projecting how little he cares, is the one thing he clearly cares about."

"i always look at it, right before i'm about to fight. it's like a little... i don't know that i would've called it this before today. but. it is like a prayer, every time i look at it. but not to... not to a god. it's a prayer to you. 'cause you're the only thing that's been looking over me for a long, long time."

feeling normal about this one. nikhil and malini........... <33

[evilaffable]

if astarion's heart was still capable of beating, he's certain it would be having an arrhythmia right about now. the blush on wyll's beautiful complexion, this look in his eyes is all something astarion has seen before, but never on wyll. his lips part in mild surprise, a garnet heavy lidded gaze flitting over the warlock's features, taking in every detail. the sending stone eye, the scar on his face from battling with monsters, those dashing infernal horns. "exactly my thoughts, wyll. tomorrow is never promised. and i have spent too long, wasted too much time skulking about in the shadows, carrying out my master's dreadful orders and much too little time going after what i want," he says, the look he's giving wyll imploring and without guile. astarion knows wyll has endured enough manipulation for a lifetime, so he's trying to be honest even if it's painful to give so much of himself away.

astarion's pointy ears pick up on the quickening of wyll's heartbeat, the blood rushing through his veins, and he wraps a hand around wyll's bicep before stepping closer, their breaths mingling as a sultry gaze studies his face for any signs of discomfort. "if that's what you want," he practically purrs, falling back into old habits. "and if you don't, if you want to wait for your perfect unicorn one true love, then i will understand," astarion teases, marvelling at the shape of wyll's mouth, trying to keep his impulsive thoughts at bay. his thumb rubs circles into wyll's bicep, determined to keep his attention even as he considers his options.

"i'm going to kiss you now, so don't act so scandalized," he warns, a mirroring blush rising to his fair cheeks as he leans in to seal their lips together, astarion's grip on his bicep tighting whilst he sweeps his tongue over the seam of wyll's pouty lips. it's all consuming, a kiss full of hunger and unfulfilled yearning, and astarion swears he could eat him right up. astarion pulls away, looking dazed and breathless, still hungry for more. "well, that was.. certainly something. i hope your father taught you to never start something that you can't finish," he coos, tone challenging and playful.

[faerus]

the intimacy as is, isn't foreign by any means. there are far more concerning things to battle than ones own stubborn tradition and classic ideals — he is only caught unaware when the kiss itself sparks like a live wire. they linger in the exchange, hold mouth to supple mouth (and tucked behind, pearly-white daggers of which bleed their enemies to passing), entranced. if not astarion, wyll, for certain. he blinks, swallows following a necessary inhale. and although he knows of what astarion speaks of, the implication bold and underlined in the slant of his eyes — wyll feels halfway drunk, as if biting back a swooning comment. too strong and astarion will shrink, too sincere and their affections may come to a halt. so in taking advantage of their privacy, he circles the tuck of astarion's waist, broad palms weighted like clamps, and kisses him through teasing motions. i'm not so rigid that i can't be persuaded; if karlach's livelihood and my entrusting of a pack of dangerous strangers, each more questionable than the last. this, he tries to communicate in the angling of his jaw, in the parting of his lips. a kiss made sweeter when his dominant thumb runs across the seam of astarion's shirt and dips under folding fabric. the pad of it touches skin, unsurprisingly warm and alive. where wyll is built newly on ridges and bumps in places strange and private, astarion is smooth, pale — strangely delicate, in-between old scarring.

[gautiersylvain]

BALDUR'S GATE 3 (2023) dev. Larian Studios

[evilaffable]

the flush on wyll's infernally warmed complexion doesn't escape astarion's discerning gaze, but he takes note of the apprehension as well. something shadowheart had said the other day comes to mind -- the confident ones always disappoint. astarion had anticipated that wyll ravengard would be a tough nut to crack. he can't really blame wyll for not jumping at the chance to bed him either, because astarion is so flirtatious by nature that it's difficult to tell when he's being sincere. he finds he himself doesn't really know either. there's barely anything left of the person he was, and maybe if circumstances were different, if astarion had more than the rake persona and a dagger to wield, he would feel secure enough to pursue something meaningful.

astarion envies wyll for a multitude of reasons. he is terrified to lose more than he has already, so quick flings to stave off the loneliness will have to suffice. none of this contemplation shows on astarion's face however, a kittenish grin on his lips. "exactly so. life is for the living, darling. we don't know what awaits us next. but if you're determined to have a boring and passionless evening, i won't stop you." astarion looks bewildered for a moment, then barks out a laugh. by the gods, wyll is too saccharine and sentimental for his own good.

"don't you dare talk to me about old souls, wyll ravengard. but i suppose i am rather juvenile in nature, more impulsive. tell me, do your bones creak and ache at the decrepit age of twenty-four? your tradtional values are atypical for someone of your age, but i suppose i can't disregard your background." the banter is sharp and lighthearted, blows that land without much force behind them. although bitterness gnaws at astarion, and he's repressing the urge to say something catty in response to wyll's subtle rebuff. astarion doesn't want to make assumptions. still, a hit dog will holler. "you say you won't judge, but you should know not all of us are privileged enough to wait for our one true love." immediately, astarion has said more than he means to, and he quickly downs another sip of the vinegary wine with a wide-eyed and startled expression.

[faerus]

they swing effortlessly between wordless recognition and sharpened bite, neither similar and yet both capable of unexpected chemistry. there is something here pressed flat, something weighted being nuzzled into their open hands — vulnerable flashes exposing a shared regret. that, or wyll is simply foolish. too young to engage in conversation without catching a whiff of endearment, of attraction. too dreamy-eyed, too distracted by the red of astarion's gaze, the tease of his verbal tongue. he smiles reflexively, though the hinges of it stiffen when remarks of their distant paths echo in the muffled quiet. they share very little, in fighting styles and background and pallor, in hopes and daydreams and beliefs — the latter of which pry them further and further apart. wyll's lips wrinkle in this quiet revelation. "...as is, you're right. who's to say there is a tomorrow, considering the — nesting worm inside our collective heads." he laughs, breathless. even, terrified. "perhaps there isn't but one of us capable of such fortune. perhaps we're all skidding to this point. living day by day, holding our breath." and when wyll's eyes flit over to meet astarion's, the once cavernous distance between them seems to shrink into a fist. he blushes high upon his cheeks, uncertain. (then, thrilled.) "is that... should we act with that in mind? at least — for now?" the proposition lies unspoken, though the hint of it, the interest in this temporary balm, glows amidst wyll's persistent gaze. he doesn't turn from bashfulness, he is brave in battle as he is up close. he only frets because the impulsivity is unfamiliar, the — presumably — shallow intimacy, unlike him.

[evilaffable]

@faerus: "all for one and one for all." ( wyllstarion / maybe cheesy wyll with his brave speeches when deciding they should charge the towers and save the prisoners as well? )

astarion regards wyll as calmly as he can, given the theatrical heroics. he's been earnestly trying to figure wyll's mindset out and just as he thinks he's begun to make some headway, it's not even the tip of the iceberg and wyll has surprised him again. didn't they just save the bloody tieflings at the grove?! in for a penny, in for a fucking pound. wyll seems to have infinite patience, a well of empathy for the plight of others but astarion doesn't have that same capacity within himself. astarion glowers, a palpable sulk on his features as he heaves a sigh, hands on his hips. "well, i suppose we wouldn't be going out of our way or anything," he drawls, reluctantly fond. "by the gods, there's not an ounce of self-preservation within you, is there? those tieflings are just going to get captured again or fall to the shadow curse, you know. but, your noxious optimism is infectious." if they were lucky, and everything went according to plan they may meet them again in baldur's gate. wyll was a natural born leader, a hero, and astarion is .. a liability in comparison. he was simply not a details person. astarion tries to compose himself, a quick checklist of all the things they needed to do within his head -- kill ketheric thorm, free the prisoners, take the fight to cazador, defeat the absolute. no problem. was he allowed to feel a bit overwhelmed? "if you think it's possible, i'll trust your judgement, but i don't like it. tell me, do you intend to carry on with your orphan kissing, kitten rescuing antics once we get to the city?"

[faerus]

he regards astarion with a tilted smile — a bruise upon his heart echoing the exhaustive sentiment. his impatience and building reluctance doesn't come without memory, nor experience; happy endings aren't guaranteed and are often filled with continued conflict. but where astarion sees an eternity of problem-solving, of dread and disappointment, wyll sees opportunity. a well of it, boiling over, wafting sweetness and hope into the open air. with one good deed, perhaps they can trigger another. and so forth. "if kissing an orphan amounts to a beneficial future, then i'm open to it," he says it teasing, gleaming teeth primed in response. "otherwise, we can leave these deeds to a less infested warrior — illithid intruders considering. the tieflings of the grove however, deserve a chance at normalcy. and they've yet to be allowed it. not through the sinking of elturel, not through kagha's manipulated hand, and not here — as prisoners in the underdark." wyll sets a weighty palm to the flat of astarion's shoulder, then with more sincerity than perhaps necessary, he speaks, "but we can give them this opportunity. we're to take down the whole of moonrise as is —" both brows lift in anticipation, "what's a valiant detour going to cost us, but a few bloodied soles?"

[evilaffable]

a reluctant smile tugs at his lips when wyll makes a slight jab at rolan's attempts at magic, always pleased when the blade proves his sharpness. he may have at first considered him a foolish self-sacrificing do-gooder, but astarion has gotten to know better. one look at wyll's scarred face and sending stone eye should be testament enough to his strength, although that's never really been the thing astarion has questioned. it's how after he's been exiled, pacted with a wretch of a cambion, dealt consecutive bad hand after hand and remain kind. trusting and optimistic, despite it all. such unfaltering altruism is dangerous to travel with, but more so because it makes astarion want to sink his teeth into wyll's neck rather than them attracting more unwanted attention. astarion wants to taste him, wants to confirm that he is true and good. he's salivating, but the shine from his last sip of wine coats his lips enough to appear inconspicuous.

truly, nothing is lost on wyll, because he points at astarion's fangs and an unseemly blush colors his face, feeling caught out. he clears his throat, languishly shrugging his shoulders. "it is tempting, if only because while i've bedded many, i've never tumbled with a githyanki. i do hear their prowess is ... quite something," astarion alludes, a silver brow raising along with a seductive smile. he's sure not even wyll is immune to her forthright seduction, given one of the conversations he overheard a few days ago. his pointy ears hear far. astarion chuckles, pointed canines now protruding with a full-force grin. "oh, come off it, wyll -- if you're attempting to dissuade me, you're doing a poor job of it. my back is so stiff from trancing at camp that perhaps having it snapped would do me some good." shadowheart was beginning to get quite tired of his complaints, and her attentions were normally split between the frailer members of the party. gale in particular, when he wasn't inhaling valuable artifacts. "besides, i'm quite nimble, you know. being folded in half is hardly something i'd be opposed to." he gives wyll a knowing look sidled along with a bat of his lashes that's intended to fluster and disarm. oh, how he longs to see the blade of frontiers without his composure. even if nothing were to come of it, he does enjoy riling the other man up. they always seem provoke each other just enough to get the proverbial blood flowing.

[faerus]

though his complexion is of the hells, wyll blushes to the shell of his ears, eyes rounded with stunning recognition. the descriptive imagery and flirtatious quip are as effective as the existing tension. lips hovering in a part. that astarion meets wyll's interest at all, the renowned distrusting vampire spawn and his devil pacted friend — well. they skim the surface, a lighthearted teasing made mutually known. "so it isn't the lae'zel of it all that draws your attention, but the potential of the experience?" he doesn't dare offer something of equal value — wyll is brave in many ways and open where he can be — and yet he draws himself a tentative line. admiring as he is, and fond as he's grown of astarion's company, he's courtly in his bones, traditional in his wanting. and to promise something without follow-through — astarion's had enough of such exchanges. instead, he clarifies, both arms leaning back with his heels to the dirt as a smile breaks through the embarrassment. "...i wouldn't judge either way. if there is any night to imbibe in ones desires — this night is as good as any." wyll pauses then, slinking forward then to peel a drink from astarion's palm. he sips it down, eyes flitting over with twinkling affection. "i'm too much of an old soul, in comparison," voice tinged with the slightest of regret.

[lookingforroleplayers]

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[evilaffable]

a mischievious grin tugs at astarion's lips when it appears his threat is well-received, in the manner it was intended. good natured ribbing. astarion is no sommelier, but after having tasted the finest on offer in baldur's gate he can't delude himself into thinking the tiefling's vinegary wine is top shelf stuff. but astarion's lavish tastes will have to be sated later, once they've sorted out all this illithid nonsense. in a world as wicked as theirs where you have to bathe off goblin viscera along with gnoll guts, you learn to settle. "my doing, perhaps? well, don't give me too much credit, wyll. it'll only make me want to prattle on further," he muses with a huff of laughter, the uncertainty of wyll's words grating on his nerves just a little. being guileless and sincere simply wasn't in his wheelhouse, but he was giving it his best effort. astarion blinks, momentarily looking like a deer caught in the headlights as he considers.

"not really, if i'm being honest. i never pictured myself as a hero, and we merely delayed the inevitable by slaying all those goblins," astarion murmurs, taking another sip of the sharp vinegary wine. his face crumples up with disgust. "gods. terrible. all i want is a little fun. is that so much to ask?" alfira's unskilled lute strumming and rolan's pitiful little magic show was hardly enough to entertain him. the saccharine little headpats and toasts in their honor should be enough to warm his unbeating heart, but he feels hollow. "i do believe our githyanki friend sought out companionship for the night and was rejected, but i overheard her say something about me looking particularly tempting tonight." astarion doesn't really like playing second fiddle to anyone, but building connections was pertinent to his survival. a ruby-rimmed gaze flits to wyll's face, patiently assessing how he reacts to this information.

[faerus]

"to live another day is to be fortunate. delaying the arguable inevitability of one's death is all we can do — our efforts are being celebrated after all," and wyll smiles wider here, the recollection and reminder of their tiresome work a balm to a busy mind. "do otherwise and we'd be without ales tonight. nor — rather plain works of magic. nor partially tuned strings." astarion's picky judgment is an endearing to wyll as are the grove's amateur performances. both arriving unexpected but highly welcome. he's made further surprised when audacious rumours are raised — the base of it silly and objectively unimportant. he should laugh really, tilt his cheek to the side and splay himself relaxed, passively bemused. still, they are relatively similar. lae'zel and astarion both — a pair often matching in opinion, often disinterested in the details, often certain of a stranger's demise. her blunt and brash nature deems astarion's comment believable, and yet — wyll idles, briefly wide-eyed. he makes a joke of it because he must, a swallow to whet the dryness in his throat. "and are you tempted in turn? — lae'zel has proven herself to be physically capable of much, though i half suspect her to snap you into threes." a crooked half-grin, an unavoidable and syrupy drip of jealousy near the dip of his reddened stomach. there is nothing to bar them all from engaging in intimacy; in fact, wyll would normally encourage the seeking of comfort. he does still — thinks them all deserving of companionship, however temporary, however permanent, however surfacing or in-depth. yet he teases, picks at it with forceful humour. "or if you're to drink from her at any point, fours. i would tread carefully, impulsive as your fangs are." and his good eye dips to the sharp canines in question.

[evilaffable]

@clearwinged: "whatever it is, there’s nothing we can’t fix." ( wyllstarion / perhaps after astarion has that uncomfortable conversation with the vampire-wannabe / creep at moonrise towers, and wyll notices astarion is uncomfortable and upset? )

ah, yes. the drow blood merchant had quite a fanatical look in her eye when she was going on about how she'd been daydreaming about being bitten by a vampire ever since she was a girl. what an illustrious experience for her! astarion would like to think he has more free will, autonomy over what he does with his body but the outcome was sealed as soon as tav made it seem like he had a choice but biting the drow would benefit the team. all this time, and he's still so goddamned easy to manipulate. maybe he still was a thrall afterall. his fists are clenched, an expression of contempt lit up by the flame of the campfire. astarion was safe, they were out of the tower and back at camp, even if the taste of her putrid blood still lingered in his mouth. animosity is simmering beneath the surface of his fair countenance, none of it directed at wyll. he had some choice words for their honorable leader come morning. he can't even fully blame them, really. this is what decades of playing the rake gets you. some can't see past the glamour.

"the deed is done, ghastly as it was. i guess the better question to pose is, was it worth it? it's nothing i haven't done before, a thousand times, even, so why do i feel so bloody awful?" astarion barks a laugh, forlorn and mirthless. he wishes wyll hadn't been there to see that, that none of them were, because astarion had donned his veneer of seduction and vampire charm like a second skin. he's done many things in the name of survival, not all of them remarkable or praiseworthy, and the hope that things could be different has turned to ash in his mouth.

hope is a dangerous thing, and it was foolish of him to agree out of blind faith. "i can still taste her. utterly vile. no telling what she's been putting in her body to be so full of rank corruption." he turns his head to the side and spits, then levelling his gaze back on wyll's face. astarion has seen wyll in moments of extreme vulnerability, situations that call for tact -- it's not easy to be the one wearing the other shoe for once. he clears his throat abruptly, trying to dispel the morose mood settling in over the camp. "well! i suppose i've had a revelation. i never want to do that again."

[faerus]

they've traversed far enough, braved the unlivable conditions of the underdark long enough to pick up on a trait or two. the scoff, delivered breathless and mocking, both ends of his smile curling stiff and insincere. he's visibly distressed — body presumably pinned underneath subtle pressure. "and we'll make certain that's the case." wyll is adamant when he responds, ever foolish in his confidence, though he pursues brave speech and certainty irregardless. he wills it, says it like fact, because hope is as dangerous as it is healing — and if astarion can't bear to wield it, wyll will carry it in his stead. then, with a swooping eye, tracking a fallen lock to the knot of astarion's shoulders — his hand extends, gloved but weighty. they set tenderly, not overtly intimate, on the curve of his arm. "common as that — wretched demand of hers may have been — it was still wretched. a damnable thing to ask, a damnable thing to feel. you need not explain it, astarion. not to me, not to anyone, not even to yourself." though he wouldn't dare argue any level of understanding (the level of violence and cruelty as unspeakable as it is to comprehend), he communicates the sympathy — and rather uncharacteristic anger — felt in-between. and to simplify the exchange as monsters haunting one another, dims astarion's vibrant humanity, undead or otherwise. they are more than a human-turned-devil and a vampire spawn, more than mortals made undone, more than boys stolen into shadow. they are friends, companions, peers, partners even. but in that, he digresses. never one to underestimate the skills of their party, wyll's palm lifts from the tenderness and traces the expression that follows. "would you prefer to rest, or proceed with the plan? — rest assured that my blade will point wherever your vengeance leads us. to her downfall, or past it." it's only halfway playful when he lifts his dominant arm in a raised bend, a salute as familiar as it comes. to astarion's side, the blade of frontiers.

[evilaffable]

oh, sweet wyll. he smells as fragrant and as saccharine as ever, amidst the notes of melancholy. astarion doesn't mean to be dismissive of wyll's feelings, as frightful to him as they are, because he's well entitled to them. this is new to him, and occasionally astarion forgets just how young wyll is because of how well he's able to articulate himself. a wise and valiant hero ensnared by a cambion's sharp talons and tricky infernal contracts. his own situation is equivocally bad, but that being said, astarion doesn't envy what wyll has to contend with. moments of guileless sincerity don't come easy to astarion, so he nabs the bottle back from wyll's hands to take a swig. it's no gnome blood, but it'll lower his inhibitions well enough.

"you made the right decision, you know. you're only being punished because mizora is a foul wretch. i'd like to see her as a lemure in the hells or better yet, a pile of gore sticking to the bottom of my shoe. you deserve better." blech. sincere offerings stick to the roof of his mouth like molasses, astarion has no idea how wyll says honeyed words of comfort with such ease. different strokes for different folks, he reckons. with such kind words spilling from astarion's words, you'd almost think this was an attempt at manipulation, but he really has nothing to gain here aside from bolstering morale. gods, he's going soft. he blinks, a look of surprise coloring his pale face before he barks a laugh.

"wyll ravengard," astarion murmurs, tone playful and taunting. "are you trying to fish for compliments? don't tell me the blade needs stroking. there are hands more skilled than mine that are capable of doing it, surely. though i'm not opposed if you're that down in the dumps." astarion's version of comfort might look very different compared to what wyll's used to. he ponders on this for a moment, unsure how astarion even comforts himself when feeling depressed aside from juvenile distractions and bouts of brooding. a kittenish smirk tugs at his lips as he offers the bottle back. "drink your wine, wyll. don't make me hurt you."

[faerus]

his good eye twinkles amidst a reflexive grin. he takes rare comfort in astarion's threatening, the venomous bite of it more satisfying than he's used to. "well, few deserve such a fate. so i'll drink to that." and he does, a necessary sip that bleeds into a mouthful. the ales across faerûn, though occasionally spiced with differing temperates and tongues in mind, the majority are both familiar in name and colour. he's had his fair share of fireswills and dark wines, of portal sherrys and whalebones (the latter of which are spiced more heavily in ode to the grove). they taste nostalgic every time. like home, like baldur's gate, like a tavern he'd stumble upon mid-travel, like a campfire under distant starlight. funny; he'd traversed the coast on his own for years, but a few nights alongside dangerous company and he's already branding the allyship into memory. astarion's selfless words and undeniable charm, a balm to his weathered, hells-touched soul. "...but my mood will improve — it has quite already. your doing, perhaps." the smile that follows is a pointed one, a compliment to meet astarion's own. "are you enjoying yourself? melancholic devil aside?" wyll tilts his head gesturing, the self-effacement a needed transition out of predictable woe. he suspects them all to harbour weary thoughts and bitterness underneath the mead and whistling melodies, but surely astarion is largely at ease. relaxed, liquored — maybe even seduced by an eager tiefling or a curious companion. a picture of disinterest, of blasé responses and toying smirks. (lae'zel shares similar sentiments, and as her intimidations are often celebrated by astarion — well. wyll won't judge, though he'll question it in private.)

[evilaffable]

@clearwinged: “what do you see when you look at me?” ( wyllstarion ♥ )

over the decades, astarion has become quite skilled at anticipating what a person wants to hear. wyll in this moment in particular isn't a mystery to him. a raw part of him prickles at how glum wyll has been lately all because he's sprouting a pair of infernal horns when astarion has been a monster much longer than that. but it's fresh and wyll's having trouble processing it, he does understand. astarion sighs. "a man, wyll. a sweet foolish one, at that, and my answer would be the same regardless of whether or not you were donning those infernal ornaments of yours. a rather dashing look, i'd say. and the people of the swords coast will see that in time," astarion reassures, handing him a bottle of arabellan dry. if he's going to mope about by the lakefront all by his lonesome, he might as well drown his sorrows while he's at it.

"now, are you done being an utter drip, or do you need more consolatory sense knocked into you? i'm not really the hero type, but we did something, well, heroic. so maybe celebrating isn't out of the question," he muses, shrugging his shoulders with a sly grin. as selfish as it was, astarion didn't want wyll to sulk out here all by himself because who knew when they'd have another opportunity to celebrate anything? even if it was just a bunch of snot-nosed tiefling thieves and refugees from the certain death of another goblin attack. they had a long journey ahead of them, made no less treacherous or easier after bouts of self-pity and brooding. astarion's been doing a bit of that himself.

[faerus]

it isn't confidence that he lacks. he is brave still, courageous, morally certain in-between the muddiness (and the insistent writhing of his parasite) that there are clear-cut evils; some horned and many greedy, their despicable natures visible from the heavens above. but where wyll once garnered royal expectation and heroic presumptions, he now faces frightful judgment. the same judgment his foes, felled or free, often face. as does lae'zel, as does karlach. as does astarion, fangs distended. their collective strangeness and communal history written unfairly upon skin and bone, behaviours and tendencies argued in. it is a strange revelation to digest, one that wouldn't be particularly new, if not for his own naivety. his messy and narrow youth, his partial sight. still astarion speaks to him with familiarity, sympathizing in his crooning, and wyll smiles. a reflexive act, grateful amidst a dreary embarrassment — brows bent in unspoken apology. he's grown to trust his companions, grown to respect them, regardless of their stubborn faults. so it is shame that floods him, shame that has him grieving the loss of his humanity and shame that tells him otherwise. they are here after all, a team of troubled souls, turned temporary heroes. who is wyll to judge? (a sweet man and a foolish one.) his eyes swim, the red of which lingers upon astarion's crooked smirk. prior to the illithid abduction, he would've pressed for a lonesome evening — but much has changed since. the blade of frontiers somewhat dulled. "it depends. what other consolations do you have tucked beneath those —" wyll gestures, teasing, "frilly sleeves of yours?"

[handweavers]

she let me hit because i am devastatingly sincere

[evilaffable]

there are things astarion understands very well. how to attract, seduce, entice, is something that he's had to do even when he no longer drew breath. a means of survival, because even as he was sucking the marrow out of a rat that was circling the attics in cazador's mansion, it was the one thing he could leverage. whatever natural gifts astarion had bestowed upon him that wasn't skulking about in the shadows or planting a knife in someone's organs, he resented. so you could infer that love is a complicated concept for astarion. once upon a time, he thinks the water would have run so clear and unmuddied. instead astarion feels like a salmon swimming upstream. it is an embarrassing, gutting, vulnerable and ultimately futile task. but he's always been an optimist. despite his flamboyance and extroverted personality, and layers upon layers of pretense he constructs, astarion knows what it's like to be unable to take a compliment. wyll's sheepish and endearing response prompts a wide smirk to cut at his lips, dimple deepening. "you really are infuriating. but your bedroom rhythm isn't the only thing i'm curious about. is the humbleness real, or are you just putting it on?" astarion antagonizes, suddenly remembering their proximity and taking a generous step back in a vain attempt to allow wyll some personal space. he gestures at wyll vaguely with his hands -- an incessant habit. it feels generous for him at least, when all he wants to do is wrap his arms around wyll's torso and sink fangs into the muscled meat of his shoulder. the fact that wyll would never know the extent of his restraint is yet another infuriating indignity he's resigned himself to suffer. his always busy hands want to wander.

and because the stars always align just for him, the universe prompts them with another question. the threat of danger and murder occurring within close proximity of where they camped was never out of the question, but this was just tempting fate, astarion thinks. "you're in high demand tonight, wyll. i wish i could say i didn't understand the appeal." he tries to play it off with grace, but nadira already grated on his nerves with her attitude and this was an egregious slight. hells, he's going to have to pretend to faint like a maiden in the woods to lure him away from her. he's already done that once, and it's beginning to feel a bit played out. astarion mutters something under his breath about leading a horse to water, tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek before his eyes light up with the ghost of a smile. "don't mind me. wyll here was just finding his rhythm." astarion is more frustrated by this than he'd ever thought he would be, and because he feels like a pot that's about to boil over, he stalks off with uncharacteristically heavy footsteps.

[faerus]

his stomach turns, rotates, rumbling for reasons outside hunger. "is that so? -- no rehearsal required then?" nadira adds, charmed, unbothered and grinning still. the dripping sentiment of it is not lost on him, her attention sharp enough to pin him to the spot. he considers rejection -- not entirely for astarion's sake -- she is, after all, quite a forward, insatiable seeming acquaintance of theirs. and wyll had his limits, boundaries of his own. but he watches, shoulders slowly swooping down when the stern, narrow point of his good eye -- softens against astarion's retreating back. the answer had come partially answered. turning to nadira, wyll nods once, shy and reserved and still somewhat bound to tradition. "i'm a few tonics in, so if you'll accept one amateur round -- gladly." for all of her, largely admirable, confidence, she takes this offer with stride -- delicate hand then extended atop his. they dance, the dark swirl of their horns silhouetted by campfire. and wyll, even with careful, buzzing focus, tears his gaze away once -- maybe twice -- in astarion's direction, a confusing guilt, a meddling yearning lurching to the back of his throat. (the swing of their choreography cannot peter out quick enough.)