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You’re in camp—in the tent—and you have that look on your face again. The one where your eyes press shut and you lean forward, knees pressing together, hoping that uninvited ecstasy can pass for something a little more along the lines of a panic attack, should anyone pass by. It’s not pretty, and certainly never free of embarrassment, this: Haarlep is using your body again, somewhere in the Hells.
You’re jolted halfway out of the feeling by the end of Astarion’s boot swinging into your knee, tapping the reflex spot. It’s an entirely different kind of nerve ending, and suitably distracts. He’s taken to doing this. Some jab or jolt to pull you back. It helps. You’ve never been so grateful for having a lover who’s willing to kick you.
“I can never decide if you look dreadful or not, when this happens,” he complains, accompanied by the suitably dramatic flumph! of throwing himself into the adjacent pile of pillows. He leans on his elbow. He looks up at you, and there’s a subtle crease between his eyebrows. He worries about this. About the toll.
You reach out and press your thumb to the crease. He tuts in protest and then turns his head, rolling his cheek into your palm, every inch a cat. Astarion kisses your palm, taking your wrist in his fingers. He likes to coax you gently, rarely aiming for anything more than your full attention. It’s soothing, but today, somewhere in the wash of sensation, it’s distracting, too.
You look at the shape of Astarion’s mouth and think about Haarlep’s hands—your hands—on stretches of unknown skin and feel tremendously guilty. You turn your hand so it’s holding Astarion’s, instead. Trying to push away the feeling. He notices, red eyes flicking up to you, watching you cautiously from under his eyelashes. He never wants to hurt you the way he’s been hurt.
You slide off the log stump that serves as a seat or a table depending on the day, ass scraping down the bark to settle in the dirt, and admit, “I can never decide if I feel dreadful or not.”
Astarion never quite disentangles his fingers from yours. He never moves closer, never moves further away. He’s here for you. For this. “Darling,” he says, in that soft and rounded way he does when he really means something, “you’re not at fault, if you enjoy it a little. It happens, like that.”
“I’m not?” You lean your head back against the log stump, rolling it to watch him. “It feels as though I should have some fault. We probably could’ve killed Haarlep—maybe we should have. It was my choice, to take a different path.”
“And what a path it was to watch,” Astarion muses, eyes briefly twinkling, something of the roguish lover in him coming to the fore. It catches your eye, but he keeps talking, waving his free hand delicately, as though trying to clear the self-blame from you like a little cloud of smoke. “I don’t know that we could’ve handled Haarlep and Raphael in the same afternoon, my sweet. It’s not as though we can go back to find out, either.”
You nod, and then circle back, delicately. Before speaking, you tap your tongue against your teeth, contemplating the best way to approach the subject. “We’ve never really talked about it.”
“Oh?” He’s being sarcastic, voice shifting flighty and a little shrill. “We haven’t discussed the incubus giving you a level of primal erotic thrill that I can only dream of? You know, I never noticed, I assumed we’d just resolved all our emotional malaise by melting Raphael’s skin off his handsome, boney skull.”
You stare at him and say nothing. Has he been so bruised, all this time?
Astarion relents, and the crease appears in his forehead again. “We haven’t had to talk about it. I’m not saying I’m thrilled with the whole thing, but I understand it. And it causes you enough problems without me expressing jealousy or inadequacy or … such,” he flicks non-existent dirt off his trousers, “tedious things.”
“You’re allowed to feel those things and I want you to talk to me about them,” you say, and then, abruptly, have to cover your mouth with your palm. Your other hand squeezes Astarion’s tightly, and a shudder wracks your body, hot pleasure directly between your thighs, rocking through you. It isn’t a full, physical orgasm—it’s Haarlep’s, after all, not yours—but it’s enough that you whimper, drawing your knees tightly together again.
When the feeling settles and you can open your eyes again, muscles relaxing, Astarion is closer, an indeterminate energy rolling off him. He cups your face, sincere, worried, and … something else. “Why does it seem more intense, each time it happens?”
“I think”—you pause, resenting your own breathlessness—“that the more Haarlep gets to know my body, the more adept they are at stimulating it.”
“Ah,” Astarion muses, “A skilled hand.” He makes a noise that reminds you of the owlbear cub, a strange, frustrated little growl. “What was it you were saying about my being able to express jealousy?”
You’re both caught in the web of this experience with Haarlep, you realise. The wrongness of it, the violation, the deal, your body copied and used. But, too, the feeling, and the memory, scents of the Hells, the perfumes of Raphael’s boudoir, all of it—arousal and terror all in tumultuous harmony.
You understand. Astarion resents that Haarlep has you, but he likes it, too. He resents himself in turn for liking it, as if he’s condoning something terrible happening to you. There must be a way forward that relieves you both of this.
You start small. “Tell me about the jealousy.”
Astarion’s eyes flicker warily over your face. “It’s silly.”
You say nothing.
“Ah—fine. I love you. I like to hold hands, and spoon, and only sometimes have a night of passion, rather than often or always. However … I rather like seeing you be treated the way you deserve.” His eyes rove over you. “What I’m less fond of is being excluded. Feeling left behind, superfluous. When you were under Haarlep, I just happened to be there, rather than invited …”
He trails off, mouth pursing. This is difficult for him. You could respond in a number of ways. You could kiss his mouth, pull him close. You could apologise, but you don’t think that he really wants that. You could vow to always include him in your trysts in future, given that you do have such things, from time to time. You could even be accusatory, demand explanations, ignore that you understand the strange way you—you and him—can both hate something and enjoy it.
None of them seem quite right. You have always done this, thought too much, too carefully about how to answer Astarion, but you think you have the measure of him, finally, and maybe the measure of yourself, too. A little assurance, first. “You’re not inadequate, you should know that. I’ll always have you exactly as you are.”
“I know that,” he says, although he doesn’t. Astarion is looking down at your joined hands. He needs the reassurance. His shoulders lower, a tension he might have been aware he was carrying but won’t admit to. He rolls one shoulder a little. “Thank you anyway.”
“Next time this happens to me, do you … want to watch?”
He looks at you sharply. He’s repressing interest at the idea, you can tell, the mixed uncertainty making him antsy, shifting where he’s sitting. A little wild eyed with possibility, a little baffled. You’re offering him more than he’s ever been offered before. Did he think it was all or nothing? That he had to be intimate with you or be doomed to watch you go behind a curtain with Haarlep, Halsin, beautiful Drow twins, forever?
His mouth opens and closes and then, finally, he asks, “Are you sure? I used to try and enjoy it, too. It made me miserable.”
“This is different. You were alone. We have each other now.” You struggle to sit more upright, rubbing your free hand over your face, looking at him. “It might be,” you start, exhaling heavily, “the best way forward, for both of us. I know it might not work out, giving over—trying to enjoy it—but I want to try. And you can watch, see it happen.” It could be the assuage to guilt that you need. It could be the balm to this situation. To make it yours, make it his, make it something shared and held. Pointedly, “You can enjoy yourself, as well.”
“And if Haarlep calls on you sometime when we’re marauding in the woods, all manner of beasts and aggrieved folk at our throats?”
“Then,” you say, “I suppose we’ll have to finish whatever fight we’re in fast.”
***
It doesn’t happen when you’re marauding in the woods, or in the middle of a fight, for that matter. Instead, the next initial shivers come of a late summer’s evening, moving between buildings, navigating the alleys of the Lower City, breathing in the smells—awful and beautiful in turn—of Baldur’s Gate. This is your home, for both of you. You walk the nights palm-in-palm here with Astarion.
You stop, putting a hand on the wall and exhaling heavily, eyes closing. You feel Astarion’s hand on your lower back. He crowds you, worried at first, and then he says, “Our devilish friend?”
“Yes,” you gasp, heart starting to pound, your body taken with shivers; the feeling of unfamiliar fingers undoing clothes that do not match your own. Haarlep’s lover is practised, almost tender, knows and wants this body well. Or perhaps it’s Haarlep’s direction giving life to the delicacy of touch that makes your skin flush warm under your clothes. “It’s too much, this time.”
“Let’s get you out of here.” Astarion has a protective streak that he doesn’t often show. You’ve seen it in battle, and different threads of conversation. He stands up for you. He wants the best for you. He has been learning how to want these things, for you and for him, ever since you met.
You appreciate the thought, but in the rush of feeling, you take hold of his hand. You turn your head towards him. In the gloom, his eyes almost glow. “Do you still want to watch?”
“Do I—?” Astarion sounds startled, like you’re asking him something ridiculous, but then: “What do you have in mind?”
Not everyone can see in the dark. And in the Lower City, you can get away with a lot. There are so many little nooks and crannies. At the end of this alley, there’s a set of wooden steps you can lead Astarion down. You do just that. You go under the stairs, backing yourself up against a wall.
There’s a palpable ache between your thighs. It’s not just Haarlep. It’s the way Astarion is looking at you. He follows you into the dark, into this place both public and secluded, and he looks curious and hungry. “Here,” you whisper, and he draws close, not quite touching, hovering into your space as though there’s an inch of invisible barrier between you.
A hand, somewhere on another plane, is deft and nimble, presses up the inside of your thigh. You let your weight sag against the wall, and part your legs. Astarion’s eyes follow the movement. He braces his hands on the wall either side of you, tilting his head as he watches. “Tell me what’s being done to you.”
Lovers have trysts in the dark of the city all the time, but somehow you think nobody else has ever had anything quite like this, palpable and real pleasure with all your clothes on, pinned deliciously under your lover’s gaze but not his hands. Your breath shudders before you can speak. “They’re touching the insides of my thighs. They’re taking their time with me.”
“As they should,” Astarion remarks. “At least it sounds like Haarlep is a good teacher.” He’s realised the same thing as you: nobody is going to be this good at touching you without practice or instruction. Your head tilts back against the wall. Astarion’s voice reaches into you as much as distant, planes-away hands do, shifting into a low purr. “Keep talking, darling. I want to know you’re with me.”
“I’m here,” you assure him, “I’m—oh—“ Elsewhere, there’s pressure, no longer between your thighs but teasing up your sides, over your chest. Hands pressing. The faint sensation of pointed nails sparking up your skin. Claws. You wonder just who Haarlep is making love to, but only for a moment. It’s Astarion in front of you, watching the rise and fall of your breathing, his pupils huge in the dark. The intensity of his gaze matches the phantom touch. You rush to catch up, whilst you can still speak. “Hands over my body. Claws. Being played like a lyre. Gods, Astarion, you’re beautiful.”
“I was going to say the same to you,” he murmurs. His gaze is starving, but this contents him, you realise. All the benefits of watching your pleasure, and none of the drawbacks that still exist for him, none of the fear, the far away look he sometimes gets. He is present. He is with you as much as you are with him.
It’s glorious to be seen, and it makes it easier to relax into the feeling, to moan when feeling intensifies, to whimper when you know that something is inside Haarlep—stoking all your fires and nerves, making your skin break out in flushes and trickles of sweat. Your hips roll towards nothing, wanting, begging for a friction that isn’t going to come.
And you can see that Astarion is aching. His breathing comes quick and fast, his mouth half-open with desire. In the heat of when you’ve had each other completely, you’ve never quite been able to take in all the details of him as you do now. The both of you are fully clothed and yet you feel stripped, vulnerable, and you can tell he does, too.
The city falls away around you. This could be a forest, a bedroom, the tent in camp. It could be a crowded room and you wouldn’t notice. There is nothing but you, Astarion, the wash of sensation, the push-pull that drags you ever closer to shore, arousal a swelling tide. You have spent so much time feeling guilty for sensation imposed on you. No more. This is yours, now. You take ownership of what’s happening to you and it becomes a precious thing to share with Astarion.
“Fuck me,” you gasp, more exultant exclamation than a request, spine arching off the cool brick behind you. Astarion growls, a quiet frustrated sound. You look him over, you look at the need he carries—the tempting bulge between his thighs—and you want to touch him, but there’s no way that wouldn’t be a strange breach of this agreement. For you to feel, for him to watch. But you did agree that he would enjoy himself. You realise: he’s waiting for permission. Maybe he thinks it would be uncouth if he didn’t wait. “I want to see you,” you say, voice thin with all your wanting. “I want to watch you watching me, Astarion—please—“
“Darling,” he says, faint and soft strain in his voice. One hand drops from the wall to undo the fastens of his trousers, and at first his fingers disappear inside them; there’s a momentary devastation, being denied what you want to see, but his mouth opening further, spit-slick fangs shining in the dark, the sound he makes—that all more than makes up for it. An almost wounded sound, but not hurt, more like … new pleasure. Different. He is exploring himself freely, unburdened by the need to make someone else happy.
He is, though. Making you happy. Hot, lava hot, arousal pours down your spine to watch him, and only grows when he finishes undoing the fastens and you can see his beautiful fingers touching himself. There’s glistening fluid leaking over his fingers. He uses it to slick the path of his hand. He’s panting, now, watching you, watching him, watching you.
You remember the first time you went to bed with him. That was great. This, without touching, with all your clothes still on and his mostly, is phenomenal. There’ll be time to reclaim the space of each other’s bodies together. This is the first real step. This is as intimate as you’ve been—in an alleyway in your shared city.
The feeling of being taken intensifies. If you wanted to focus on it, you suspect you might be able to work out exactly the position Haarlep is being pressed into, from the way that your muscles feel sore and stretched the longer this goes on. They’re being worn out. Used. You can feel every part of it, and although you had thought you might need help yourself along, you understand now that you won’t need to—particularly with Astarion as such a rich sight for your eyes.
You think not about Astarion touching you, or having you, but about the things you have always found attractive about him. His hands, gorgeous now as he touches himself. The thatch of silver hair. The pallor of his skin, the lines around his mouth. The soft moans you both exchange—his voice, strained by desire, is everything. You could listen to him all day. To watch him in motion and know that he’s yours—not ownership, but partnership, mutual belonging—is revelatory.
You whine his name. He locks eyes with you, eyelids fluttering drunkenly. You’re in tandem, getting closer. When Haarlep finds release, you will too, but this time it will be yours, unashamed, unburdened. You don’t have enough air in your chest to tell Astarion any of this, but he knows it. You don’t have enough air in your chest to tell him what a pretty mess he’s making, either, but you hope the starving moans do the trick.
If anyone sees you now, it doesn’t matter. Let them look.
Astarion breaks, startling himself, gasping, shocked, ruined, taken by surprise by the force of how good it can be when you’re truly in charge of your own desire. His nails scrape the brickwork. Hot fluid splashes over his fingers, on your clothes, and he works himself through it with a needy, desperate sound that shapes up as your name, over and over.
And then you come. Not Haarlep. You were both on the edge of it, but you shatter first, here, all by yourself, untouched in reality—thighs trembling, knees wanting so badly to buckle. Watching Astarion, knowing how much he has enjoyed watching you, has brought you to the brink and then over it, ecstatic, having to cover your mouth because you are being far too loud, even for a dingy Lower City alleyway, even as secluded as you are. Heat comes in waves.
And then, again. It is Haarlep’s turn this time, and it’s so good but it hurts, ricochets of electricity all over. Your vision blurs out, but Astarion has you, suddenly, his hand on your face, your waist, his body pressed close to yours, supporting your frame as you shudder through a second, forced—but nevertheless welcome—orgasm. You whimper “Astarion,” you take huge gulping breaths of air, you come down to the earth in his grasp.
The connection to the Hells drifts away. All there is, all there ever really was and ever needs to be, is you and Astarion, skin too warm, the night air cool, sweat making your clothes stick, his smell in your mouth. You and Astarion. Physical and real. Not even needing to touch to love each other.
“Oh, well then,” you exhale.
Astarion hums agreement, with a little tittering giggle.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Gods, please.”
Tangling closer, then, to kiss Astarion, something delightful in how it can be chaste in the wake of orgasm and yet your mouths can still be open enough that you can feel his teeth, taste his tongue. To kiss each other seems to settle something in both of you, ritualistic, calming. At his invitation, you help Astarion get his clothes back in order. This secluded corner, under the steps, together, is somehow so private and intimate that you feel emotion making your eyes prickle damply.
With your breath caught, you can work your way around to a question. The only one that matters, really, small and trite as it is. “Was that alright?”
Astarion gives you a look. Then knows he needs to speak, that an eyeball of Obviously, darling isn’t going to cut it, not right now, not in this precarious post-haze state. “It was magnificent. You really are marvellous to watch.” His thumb skims your cheek. “Are you alright?”
“I feel as though we’ve taken the whole curse away from Haarlep.” Which is to say, yes. Overwhelmed, but yes, you’re alright. “If we can do that—keep making it ours—then I am. And I’ll continue to be.”
“Alright.” Astarion is searching your face, making sure you’re not lying for his behalf; honesty has become so important here, and he doesn’t doubt you specifically, but he does doubt. Internally, externally. You know he’s satisfied when he kisses you again. “Now, will you please let me get you out of here?”
“Yes.” Pause. “I need to change my underwear.”
Astarion’s smug laugh carries you home.