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The curtains remain drawn. The candles burn lower. The scroll lies forgotten on the coffee table, its tragic monologue having served its purpose—or perhaps just its prelude. Armand, still in full Astarion regalia, stalks across the room like he’s on the hunt for a soul, or a snack, or both. His eyes gleam red under the eyeliner, and his voice dips into velvet. “You know, wizard,” he purrs, circling Daniel like a particularly smug panther, “for someone who claims to fear chaos, you’ve invited quite a bit of it into your chambers tonight.”
Daniel, still in the ridiculous wig and robe, sits stiffly on the edge of the couch, his arcane focus clinking against the mug of now-cold blood. He watches Armand with narrowed eyes. “I warned you,” he says, tone dry as parchment. “My heart is a battlefield. My chest, a ticking bomb. And my dinner was soup.”
Armand leans in—close enough to unsettle but not quite touch.“You think I’m afraid of soup?” he whispers. “I’ve shared coffins with liches and breakfast with warlocks. I crave... mystery. Power. A man who simmers.” He reaches up and gently, deliberately, removes the absurd wig from Daniel’s head. A long beat of eye contact. Daniel doesn’t look away.
“You’re impossible,” Daniel mutters.
“And you,” Armand replies, pressing his hand against the hollow of Daniel’s throat where a heartbeat used to be, “are delicious.”
Daniel exhales—slow, reluctant, resigned. He sets the mug aside. “If I agree to this, you’re not allowed to quote your fanfic mid-act again.”
“No promises,” Armand breathes.
LATER THAT NIGHT
The scene is pure chaos: cloaks strewn across furniture, candles burned low and guttering, wigs tossed like forgotten trophies of battle. The scroll has somehow ended up under the couch, half-singed. Armand is shirtless, eyeliner smudged, looking like a baroque painting that got into a bar fight with a romance novel.
Daniel—robe mostly intact but askew—is sprawled on the faux-fur throw like a man who just survived both an arcane explosion and a performance review. His wig is gone. His dignity? Debatable.
Armand is perched beside him, shirt undone, fangs barely retracted, sipping from a wine glass that may or may not contain actual wine. “Well,” Armand says, voice like sin dipped in silk. “That was... cathartic.”
Daniel stares at the ceiling. “You threatened to unleash my weave of magic and then bit my collarbone.”
“I was in character,” Armand says. “Astarion would absolutely say that.”
“You hissed at me.”
“You flared your hands and shouted ‘THE WEAVE IS UNSTABLE’ like you were orgasming through a ritual circle.”
Daniel groans and covers his face. “This is the dumbest, nerdiest, horniest thing I’ve ever done.”
“You’re welcome.” Armand grins like the cat who seduced the canary. “I especially liked the part where you tried to counterspell my pants.”
“That’s not how that spell works,” Daniel mutters.
“Artistic liberty,” Armand replies smoothly. “Besides... you seemed inspired.”
Daniel shoots him a glare. “You licked my neck and said, ‘I taste guilt and potential.’”
“Because I did,” Armand insists. “It was very method.”
There’s a long pause as they lie in the afterglow of spell slots and smudged eyeliner. Then, softly: “…Do we need a safe word for next time?” Daniel asks.
Armand hums thoughtfully. “Something romantic. Immersive. Like... Tasha’s Hideous Laughter.”
Daniel turns to stare at him, absolutely deadpan. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” Armand says, beaming. “Now roll a Constitution save. You might be charmed.”Armand places a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “A fusion of intimacy and narrative. A masterpiece of collaborative storytelling. You played Gale, Daniel. Gale! The walking existential crisis with perfect hair. That’s not sex—that’s character development.”
Daniel side-eyes him. “You whispered ‘Taste my weave, wizard’ like it was a pick-up line.”
Armand lifts his chin. “And it worked.”
There’s a long beat of quiet. Then Daniel shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, expression going sly.
“…You know,” he says slowly, “if we’re talking narrative consistency, Gale does canonically crave affection.”
“Don’t tease me,” Armand breathes, leaning in.
“I’m just saying,” Daniel continues, brushing a stray hair from Armand’s forehead with the solemnity of a man quoting a tragic tome, “he’s emotionally volatile, desperate for validation, and prone to making poor decisions in the name of love.”
Armand practically glows. “God, you really get me.”
“I’m still talking about Gale.”
“Same difference,” Armand says, climbing atop him with the grace of a vampire ballet dancer and the chaos of a bard in heat. “Tell me again about the bomb in your chest.”
Daniel smirks, arms folding behind his head. “You just want an excuse to say ‘My love, you’re about to detonate’ in bed.”
Armand gasps. “How dare you read my mind.”
“You’re not that subtle.”
“I literally seduced you through the Weave.”
“You spilled wax on my stomach and called it a spell component.”
“It was!”
CUT TO: A FEW HOURS LATER
Both of them lie on the floor now. No couch. No robes. One of the candlesticks is still smoldering ominously in the corner. Daniel is wrapped in the cloak like a tired vampire burrito. Armand is lying beside him, staring at the ceiling like he’s either fulfilled a dream or just leveled up in a subclass called “Arcane Thirst.”
Daniel speaks first. “We can never tell anyone about this.”
Armand turns to look at him. “Too late. I’ve already sent a raven to Shadowheart.”
Daniel groans into the cloak. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” Armand says smugly. “You’re just mad you enjoyed it more than you planned.”
A beat. “…Maybe.”