Chapter Text
Astarion is stood at the entrance of his tent, waiting. As you pass by him, he touches your back lightly to draw your attention.
‘Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.’
‘Yes, of course.’ You look down as you speak, undoing the straps holding your gauntlets to your harms. You’re unfazed by his request. He talked a lot, and especially to you. You anticipated he’d ask to raid a cellar soon, as he was simply wasting away from the wine the Last Light Inn had on hand. You peel the gloves from your forearms.
He remains quiet, so you look up to find his troubled visage with furrowed brows watching you.
‘Everything okay?’ Astarion snaps out of it at your concern, and his face springs back to neutrality.
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine. I just- feel… awful.’
‘What for?’
‘Look…’ He starts, a wave of adrenaline hitting him. ‘I had a plan. A nice, simple plan. Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me! It was…easy. Instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do… was fall for it. And all I had to do was- not fall for you. Which is where my nice simple plan… fell apart.’
This is a lot of information thrown at you at once, and you’re still stuck at the front end of his admission, that is was a plan. Your mouth is slightly agape in honest and true overwhelm. Astarion expected your surprise, so he keeps on.
‘You’re- you’re incredible. You deserve something real.‘ Astarion hopes he can dull the hurt with sweet words. They’re true words, though.
‘You-? Sorry, I’m- It wasn’t real?’ You trip over your words for a moment before regaining some semblance of composure. He’s just told you—at least, implied— that he’s fallen for you, but it’s shoved to the back of your psyche as his facade is being realized in your memories. You now know why he was so charming. So forthright.
In any case, how could you follow down this path with him if it was all founded on a lie? How could you trust it?
‘Not… at the beginning, no.’ He cringes as he says it.
Oh, gods. Was he ever even attracted to you? Were you a wholly undesirable wretch he bestowed pity on?
‘It was all a ruse? To have a place to lay your head?’ You ask him to clarify, like you need to get this perfectly clear in your mind before you respond. You don't even know if you can respond. It's all so jumbled and... humiliating.
This is not the reaction Astarion wanted, but he would be naive to have expected you to take it lightly. He sees he's distressed you by the expression you wear, which is eyebrows drawn together, creasing in the middle, eyes trained on his face, flitting back and forth for answers. He'll try to assuage your fears, if you let him, but he gets the sense he's running out of time.
‘But it’s not like that anymore, you have to understand.' He pleads with you, hands open and in front of him, moving, shaking in unison with his words to accentuate his point. 'I was fresh off that wretched nautiloid, I would’ve done anything to-’
You draw in a breath and look down at your feet at that, suddenly your face is hot and there's a burn in your throat. He realizes his blunder as he watches you shift.
‘No, no. That was delivered dreadfully on my part, I see that. You’re not anything, it’s…’
‘This is what I was created for.’ He shrugs, like he doesn’t want to accept it either.
A heartbreaking thing to hear from the man you love. That he was created to cheat and worm his way in, and it's still all he knows. After spending so long with him, you know he doesn't want to be physical compensation for people anymore. It doesn’t make it hurt less, it just makes you hurt for him.
You wonder if you've taken advantage of him, in a way. You suppose you didn't have all the information when you slept together the first time, and you couldn't have known better. All you knew--thought you knew-- at the time was this man you'd been admiring from afar... had 'grown to like the whole package'. You heartily agreed, and you felt warm on the inside. It makes you cold now to think that he'd forced himself to do something he didn't want. It's not important, you chastise yourself, because he's the real victim here, but that something was you, and man, that sucks too.
You feel guilty, and you feel he's owed grace.
‘I… can understand that.’ You say, looking to him now with a newfound steadiness, and a calmness to your voice. Astarion can see the cogs turning in your head.
‘I never sought to hurt you, I promise. I did what I thought I needed to do.’ He says sadly, resigned to a pit of a man, excavating his deepest regrets.
‘Yes, I know, I just...’ You take a breath, and you look around camp for a second. You see everybody in their tents. Reading, sharpening blades, praying, and whatnot. But you feel so solitary, as everything you thought you knew about the nature of your closest comradery... was a miscalculation on your part. You look to your gloves in your hands briefly, and back up to him. You plaster your lips into a tucked in smile.
‘I noticed you seemed far away sometimes, but I didn’t know to this extent. I didn’t know you had to grin and bear it.’ He looks like he's about to speak, so you clear your throat and start before he can. ‘Well, you should know, you don’t have to lay with me for my allyship. You never did. You have my full and free company.’ As words trail out of you, your voice gets thick and your eyes well. The facade is slipping. You don't think it was very believable in the first place, but you do what you can to save a little dignity.
‘I-’ Astarion tries.
‘Y’know it was... it was real for me. Gods, I’m such a dunce.’ You turn and start away from him before any tears can fall.
‘Darling-‘ It's a call fallen on deaf ears.
You're already halfway across camp to your tent, unreachable physically and otherwise. Astarion hangs his head low.
Your chest hurts. It has to hurt before it heals, you suppose. It doesn’t make it any easier.
—
Alfira comes to your camp that night.
When you saw her again at the Inn, you told her she was always welcome with you, wherever you were. Astarion isn’t fond of her, but you are, so he keeps his opinions of her mediocre lute-playing to himself.
Astarion sits cross legged on the ground in front of his tent. He keeps it open in hopes you’ll return to him. You don’t. Actually, you don’t come out at all until Gale calls you for dinner. He offers Alfira a plate but she says she’s already eaten. Gale doesn’t bother offering Astarion a plate anymore.
‘Any requests?’ The bard asks. You sit on one of the logs surrounding the fire with your serving. Astarion can see you from where he is, and you can probably feel his eyes on you, what with your always astute intuition. But you keep your gaze down into your bowl. It gives him the opportunity he seldom gets to observe you. You move around the food with your spoon like you’ve no appetite.
Lae’zel perks up from her seat on the log next to yours.
‘I have a request.’ Alfira was hopeful at first, but her smile fades when Lae’zel continues. ‘None of your chipper melodies. Play something foreboding. A war song, perhaps.’ Lae’zel grunts out. She thinks she’s being helpful. Astarion sees you smile like you’re holding back a laugh at her Githyanki lack of tact.
‘I… don’t know any war songs.’ Alfira says, demoralized.
‘Chk. You people can’t do anything, can you?’ You can’t tell if she’s talking about teiflings or bards. Lae’zel scowls and returns to her food.
‘Something… somber, then.’ The bard says, sighing as she does. Her adept fingers begin their work on her lute, and she plays for a few moments before she starts to sing. Astarion sees you turn your attention to her.
Alfira’s lute springs to life under her hands, and she sings about a house in Nebraska.
Where you came
And I laughed
And you left
And I cried
It feels like a deep seated longing for comfort, and it feels like love lost. You watch, and you listen. Then, the final verse breaks.
You know, I still wait
At the edge of town
Praying straight to God that maybe you’ll
Come back around
You watch her with wide, doll-like eyes. You enjoy Alfira and her voice, but right now, you rather she would not play at all than play a sad song. You don’t really need to be taken down a notch right now.
I cry everyday
And the bottles make it worse
‘Cause you were the only one
I was never scared to tell I hurt
Your own internal dialogue starts to twist and wind within you. Your head dips down, and your chin almost touches your chest, and Astarion gets the feeling you’re hiding full eyes. You think of Astarion all those years ago, a freshly made vampire, staring down the barrel of two hundred years of servitude. Maybe he was hopeful for a split second after he crawled out of the grave, to know he could live again, before it was crushed under his masters foot.
You don’t know where you stand with Astarion. You don’t know where to go from here. You want to cower and sulk and break the earth in your hands. The last bullet point in the timeline of your’s and Astarion’s relationship was you bursting into tears and skittering away. It’s not very leader-like, and you chastise yourself for being ungrateful. To be in a slump over affection that’s been shaken, when he was fighting very real battles emotionally... it’s naive.
Hard as you try, your bad conscience can’t veil the fact that you still feel intensely for him. It’s like nothing you’ve known before, and it’s an unmovable object. There’s a dense fog that surrounds you both when you’re together, and it feels like it’s just you two even though you might be in company. You spin around each other. You find him to be endlessly enthralling. You love him, and you will love him.
And he finds you…
Well, apparently you’ve fallen short of the mark.
Guilt whips like wind around intense, unheard-of feelings of inadequacy. They mix and separate, and your mind argues against itself as the bard’s song plays as background music. You burn from the inside.
And I found photographs of our school
On the day we met
I thought you were so beautiful
It was love, I guess
And you might never come back home
And I may never sleep at night
Astarions stands, made bold by the song. He takes one step towards you, the fire still blazing between the two of you. He takes another tiny step like he’s trying not to spook a scared animal. You can vaguely see his form move from above your focal point on the bowl, and you feel the hairs stand up on your arms. In one fell swoop, you stand and turn to retreat back to your tent, and on your way you set your abandoned food on the table by Gale’s pot.
Astarion watches you go where he can’t reach you, and he almost says calls your name. Almost. He mirrors you instead. He rips open the opening of his tent and falls inside onto his bedroll. He runs his hands down his face, distressed. The tent is doing nothing to block out the sound of Alfira’s song, and he wishes he could block it out. He can’t though, and it feels like a punishment.
But God, I just hope you’re doing fine out there
I just pray you’re alright
He listens to the lyrics still, and they ring through him like surgery. He curses Alfira for seemingly knowing the exact right song to cut through him. He thinks of you and your heartbreak, your thick whispers of pain. Astarion thinks that if every bit of strife could be poofed from existence for a moment, and the mood was high, you’d sway side to side to the song. You’d listen in awe of her voice, and maybe drop a tear from being moved by the melody. You wouldn’t feel the song deep in your aching bones like you both do now, and you’d ask Astarion to sway next to you. It’s a simple request, but intimate. To be asked to join you in something you relish in. He can’t help himself. He thinks back to that night in the forest, where you joined. He rests his hands over his eyes as he tries to shove the feeling down. The memory is stronger than him, though.
You flipped him over very early on, his back landing into the grass. Your hands rest on his chest and you roll yourself over him. You crane your neck up into the sky in pleasure, and Astarion is awarded a devastating view of the punctures you’d let him leave in your neck, a lone, drying droplet of blood trailing down onto your collarbone.
In the moment, he has zero viable thoughts. He hears his own breathing, and he does feel slight comfort in the proximity of someone he doesn’t find repulsive. Not even close. But he doesn’t feel much else. His body thrusts him into a luke warm emptiness of mind to protect him from the unknown. You could be the Messiah reborn, and you still wouldn’t be able to pull him out. This is a shield centuries in the making.
He puts forth his practiced thrills, moaning when needed and running his hands over you. On his back, he’s allowed to relax at least, while you do all the work. You don’t know it, but you’re making it easier on him right now.
And he has to admit, he doesn’t feel so used up afterwards. It’s… foreign.
I feel so alone
I feel so alone out here
While he couldn’t appreciate it at the time, he looks back on the memory, watching you play out on the back of his eyelids, moving on him, blood and arousal leaking out of you, abdominal muscles contracting and releasing as you circle your hips. Now, he can appreciate the view of you from a removed, almost third person perspective. His own blood rushes, and his pants feel tighter.
‘I think you want to be known…’
He hears his voice play over the scene, and a red hot wave of guilt crashes over him, through him. You did want to be known.
He was never given time to dwell on his solicitors. Victims.
He’s allowed time now.
The memory shifts, and he finds himself in the second time.
His face is pressed into your neck. Your legs wrap around his waist and your hands are in his hair. Your hips are both at just the right angle, and it feels so good everytime he plunges back in.
Astarion’s heart beats no longer, but he feels his blood start to run faster than it already is, and he realizes he’s enjoying this. He really can’t dwell on it for long though, because you’re moving in tandem with him, your ankles around his back ushering him, pressing him and his cock back into your warmth.
Astarion can’t stop the runaway train, and he gives in. This recollection is smoothing the rough edges left in the wake of the last one. He lays back on his pillow and runs his hand down his chest and stomach. He palms himself over his trousers and swoons.
Astarion listens to your little noises and sighs as you move together, and he returns with his own. He relishes in yours, though. They shine on him. He seeks them out, rolling his hips to make you feel better, feel more. The first time was performance but… there’s been some significant time spent in between then and now. When you venture out of camp to do whatever the day asks, Astarion walks right beside you. You talk while you travel long roads. You listen when Astarion says he needs to rest, even if for a short time. You let him indulge, and you giggle with him at his mischief and whining and comments. Sometimes you even indulge with him.
He’s learned so much about you. You care, you’re determined, you’re funny- so funny. You’re kind to a fault. Gods, you’ll help anyone who calls on you. He asks about your childhood and you tell him what you can remember of it. And you listen to him talk about… everything. Always. You’re one hell of a listener.
You’re a natural born leader, even though you don’t want to be. He remembers you saying you don’t want to be a soldier forever. He understands.
He thinks he’s never been so hard and throbbing all by himself before. Astarion plunges his hand into his pants and wraps his fist around his dick. He starts off slow, embarrassed of his debauchery, but the inhibitions take a backseat as he falls further into the abyss.
And fuck, can you fight. You’re quick on your feet and even quicker on the draw. He would be fearful to find himself on the other end of your blade. You don’t shudder at blood and viscera. And that… excites him.
Astarion feels guilty for thinking of you like this when you’re upset at him, but you’re so good. So good. Even just the memory of you. He strokes himself fast now, hurdling towards the edge, back arching off the bedroll.
He self loathes as he pleasures himself. The shame is rendering him dirty. But… It’s not enough to get him to stop. And maybe it’s even egging him on a bit.
He throws his head back and his eyes screw shut, mouth open in gratification.
I feel so alone without you
I feel so alone out here
He hears Alfira’s song end with a final strum of the lute, and he hears people return to their respective posts.
You squeeze around him and intertwine your fingers in the hair at the back of his head. Astarion moans at this, a high pitched, muffled mmph! sound escaping him. He’s here. He’s here. Finally.
‘Starion…’
He’s moaning and cursing now, and he has to cover his mouth with his unoccupied hand as to not alert unwanted visitors. He fists his cock hard and feverishly, wet with precum.
Astarion feels himself nearing the edge, and it’s different. He’s had lackluster orgasms pulled out of him, not from enjoyment and true arousal, but from friction and mindless movement. And he’d always pull out, and finish on their stomach or back.
Now, he doesn’t orgasm, he comes. He doesn’t pull out, he couldn’t, you’ve locked him in with your legs and he doesn’t try to escape. He wants to stay.
You come at the same time, you cry out and it makes him release even harder, a trail of fuckfuckfucks come out of him. He rocks you both through it, pulling out a bit and forward again. He spills inside and collapses on you, and you hold him.
The last thing he sees before he comes is a flash of you giggling at something he said. He doesn’t know what he said, but if he did, he’d say it over and over again. Then, it’s a white, hot, flash of pleasure wracking through him. He thrusts as he breaks the dam, wishing his hand was you. Astarion bites down on the fist that covers his mouth and writhes on his bed as pearlescent ropes hit his stomach, more than usual from being pent up. He grunts wildly into his hand like an animal. He hasn’t touched himself in… he can’t remember. But he never felt that hungry burning while being prostituted. Why would he?
When his movement dies down, he’s left sweaty and ashamed of himself, staring at the ceiling.
Why couldn’t the gods have sent you later? When he was better? He could’ve been better. A tear rolls down his temple.