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Wyll’s tail was utterly adorable.
Not that Astarion would ever tell him, of course.
For one thing, he was certain that he was about 150 or so years too old to be fawning like a school boy over something that could only be described as “cute.” Perhaps if there were any other words that would be more apt to the situation he might broach the topic: “funny” maybe, or “appealing,” or “lovable.”
No, actually, “lovable” was absolutely NOT the word he was looking for. Would that he could dunk his brain in some cold water so he could wash the thought out like a bad stain.
His own limited vocabulary behind, however, Wyll’s tail was also a bit of a sore spot for their dear Blade, both figuratively and literally. The hellish transformation he’d gone through was not without pain, both during and long after. Of all of them, the only new addition that had hurt Wyll more would be his horns.
The tail was nearly identical to that of a Tiefling, with ridges all along the top where it connected to Wyll’s lower back and a pointed tip that swayed back and forth as he shifted his weight. If one were only taking a cursory glance at the Blade of Frontiers, they’d likely write him off as a particularly ornate but otherwise normal man of infernal persuasion.
Tiefling tails, however, tended to grow thicker than what Wyll currently sported. His started more proportional towards the top, but narrowed down to a whip-thin end. The tip was another noticeable difference, shaped like an arrowhead like something out of a cartoon rather than the single pointed fin most Tieflings sported.
What made Wyll’s tail such a stand-out feature to Astarion, however, was the complete lack of control the man had over it. He seemed to make a habit of forgetting the thing was even attached to him, leading to many a scenario where Wyll had gone to sit down only to jerk up in pain because he had sat down on himself. Whenever he made the rounds about their camp to check in on its inhabitants, his tail would follow behind him like an afterthought, knocking into supplies and leaving trails in the dirt.
It is this lack of awareness wherein lies Astarion’s fascination.
Because though he would deny the claim if he ever heard it, Wyll was, at his core, a liar. In fact, Wyll was perhaps the best liar Astarion had ever had met.
Wyll lived every day behind the mask of the Blade of Frontiers, molding himself into the perfect picture of a leader for their rag-tag group of adventurers: Confident in his and his companion’s abilities, kind to all the unfortunate souls they came across, and fearless in the face of the absurd odds they battled against. Had Astarion not been a skilled bender of the truth himself, he might have never noticed there was a mask at all.
There were times when it was noticeable, however, if one knew to look. You could see it in the way he never answered a question directly back when they all had first met, and in how even now, over a month later, Wyll’s instinct was still to deflect. You could see it in how he solved the problems they encountered in the wilds with fibs just as often as with fact, if not more so. You could see it in how his shoulders fell as soon as he thought no one was looking, letting the weight of keeping their group together crash down on him only in privacy.
Wyll wanted to be perceived at his best at all times, living behind a wall of pleasantry and people-pleasing so thick you can almost never tell what’s actually going through his head unless he told you.
That, or if Wyll’s tail tattled on him.
“Astarion!”
Wyll walked over to them with his best smile plastered to his face as usual. Granted, almost every smile was his “best smile,” but again, it’s not as though Astarion was in the habit of telling him that.
Astarion, who had been in the middle of listening to Karlach give a VERY animated speech about blade maintenance (the fact she hadn’t set anything on fire yet was either a miracle or a side effect of camping in the middle of the shadow cursed lands), looked up at the leader of their troupe and noted that his tail was swishing behind him faster than it usually did.
He turned in his seat on the log next to the campfire, a smirk of his own settling into place as natural as anything. “Why yes, dear? What can I do for you?”
Though Wyll’s expression didn’t change, his tail’s tempo picked up even more at the pet name. “I was hoping I might ask you to join me with the rest of the adventuring party tomorrow. We’ll be looking into that mad doctor’s crypt tomorrow, and I’d bet good coin that your roguish skills will be sorely needed.”
Astarion pretended to think on his answer. He could give him an easy affirmation, or… “I’m not quite sure, darling. You see, Karlach and I were JUST discussing how best to keep your blades sharp, and it appears I’ve been taking utterly dreadful care of my knives. I was considering taking tomorrow to remedy this problem before it costs us anything with the help of our dear hellion here. Isn’t this right, Karlach?”
Karlach looked between the two of them, puzzled. “I- sure? Of course, fangs, if that’s what you want.”
“Ah. I understand,” Wyll said, just a tad slower than what was called for. The only clear sign of disappointment on his face was the slight dampening of his smile. His tail, meanwhile, had ceased its swaying entirely, going limp against the ground like it had deflated. “If it keeps you as sharp as you need to be for the future, then by all means, I wish you both luck in your polishing. Just remember to visit my tent later before you trance, yes? Though you’ll be staying behind, it doesn’t mean you should go unfed. In the meantime, I had better see who amongst us might be as good as finding and disarming traps…”
Wyll trailed off as he went to leave. Astarion let him walk away a few paces, watching as the pointed tip wrapped itself loosely around his leg and swept up and down Wyll’s calf in a self-soothing motion. A tad dramatic, Astarion thought to himself even as something in his chest splintered. “Actually, Wyll?”
“Hm?” Wyll turned back to look at him, his tail perking upward like Scratch’s did when he heard one of them say “treat.”
It was sickening how just that small movement made his dead heart clench. Astarion was unable to smother a genuine smile of amusement. “I think I could put off the maintenance for a day more. If you think my skills will truly be necessary, that is.”
Wyll quirked an eyebrow at the sudden change of heart, but still broke into an honest to gods grin. “I think they would be. It’s much appreciated, my friend. I promise, you’ll get some time to yourself the day after.”
“I’d be much obliged. And don’t worry, darling,” Astarion said, dropping his voice to a purr, “I’ll be sure we get some time to ourselves later tonight. I wouldn’t miss it for the world”
Wyll’s face flushed slightly at the tone, eyes widening. His tail raised into the air behind him, forming an arc at its base. Astarion wanted to laugh. Paragon of chastity though he may be, it was laughably easy to get a rise out of him. “Of course. I’ll be seeing you, then.”
With that, their fearless leader finally scuttled away to whoever needed talking to next, the long appendage behind him fully unwrapped from his leg and- oh, dear sweet gods, it was wagging . Wyll’s tail was wagging . Because he’d said he’d join them tomorrow. Once again, his traitorous heart lurched behind his ribs in equal parts guilt and delight.
He tore his eyes away from their departing leader to turn back to Karlach, only to be met with narrowed eyes and a sly smirk.
Astarion bristled. “What?”
Karlach raised her eyebrows, amused. “Tricky, fangs. That was awful tricky of you.”
He rolled his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”
She huffed a laugh. “Suppose we should just be glad he only does that around you. Don’t think he’d’ve gotten away with telling that freak doctor to off himself if he telegraphed like that in front of every bloke he met.
Astarion nodded, then froze. “What do you mean he only does that around me?”
Karlach’s smirk somehow grew even more smug. She stood from their log. “I think I’m gonna turn in for the night. Better get yourself ready for that ‘time to ourselves,’ mate.”
With that, Karlach paced over to her tent, leaving Astarion sputtering in his spot.
“Only around him,” huh?
Gods, if he had a tail, it might very well have been wagging as well.