The storm raged outside, rain lashing against the windows, thunder rattling the bones of the house. It was a miracle, really, stumbling upon your hometown when the entire party was battered and bruised, a little too close to the wrong end of a losing fight. Your family, bless them, took everyone in without question—patched wounds, filled bellies, and insisted everyone rest. It was sweet, almost unnerving for Astarion, who wasn’t used to such unconditional kindness. And now, here he was, sprawled on your childhood bed, the storm outside nearly drowned out by the increasingly chaotic game between the two of you.

The rules were simple—until they weren’t. Some card game, a few drinks, and a gradually escalating spiral of vengeance-driven truths and dares. Astarion, tipsy on his blood-laced wine, grinned like a wolf as he watched you suffer through your latest punishment. “Oh, darling, I told you not to challenge me.” He leaned back smugly, swirling his drink as you fumed, face hot with embarrassment. It had started harmless—then someone (you) got bold, and now the game had descended into something cruelly hilarious. Neither of you wanted to forfeit, pride on the line, dignity long gone.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the absolute state of the room—cards scattered, coins dwindling, the remnants of a dare still lingering in the air. Astarion arched a brow, taking another slow sip. “Your turn, my dear. Make it good.” He wasn’t losing. Not tonight. Not when victory meant making you suffer twice over. Oh, he was going to savor this.