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The heat coming off of Karlach is palpable. There’s sweat beading on her chest and the edges of her hair curl with the moisture. The engine glows bright orange, highlighting the scarred ridges and bumps that creep outwards from the centre of her torso.
No one else has noticed, but Astarion watches her from the corner of his eyes, keeping his eye on any potential threats. Or rather, keeping his eye on unpredictable threats. He knows instinctually to watch his back around the rest of his campmates, a gith, a monster hunter and a Shar worshipper, but he’s found himself letting his guard down around Karlach more than he’d like to admit. She’s affable and generous, yet at the same time, Astarion has watched her rage. Just a few days ago, he watched her launch herself at a hag and grin as she sunk her axe into the flesh. She relishes the blood and the gore of their current circumstances, nearly as much as he does.
There’s also the matter of the ticking time-bomb in her chest with an as-yet undefined blast radius. Astarion needs to make sure that he’s out of the way when it goes off.
This is why he’s the first to notice that she’s running hotter than usual, and without reason. It’s been an uneventful day of travel, there have been no adversaries, no fighting, no reason for her to rage. And yet, Astarion watches her burn. She avoids the fire. He picks up a tin cup after she’s used it, and he burns his hand, the water as hot as that in a freshly boiled kettle. She steers clear of others in the physical sense. Earlier tonight he’d watched her chat with Wyll and instead of her usual interested lean forward, she stood back with her arms crossed over her chest, at least 5 paces away from him.
It’s late and most of the party has retreated into their own tents for the night. Astarion remains by the fire, feeding the embers twigs and tinder until he runs out. He doesn’t need sleep the same way the others do. Behind him something rustles. He ignores it, having grown used to the sounds of nature, knowing that it’s more than likely an animal of some sort. And then he hears heavy footsteps. He waits until they’re retreating before he noiselessly turns. He finds Karlach’s tent abandoned, and sees her retreating from camp with her bedroll tucked under her arm.
He waits until she’s gone far enough that he won’t be heard to follow her. It’s easy, because her heavy footfalls leave indents in the grass. He hears noises in the distance, rustling and breathing. He keeps his footsteps soft, sticks to the shadows. The glow of her engine, so hot that it’s tinged blue, lights the entire clearing. The tiefling lies on top of her bedroll, head thrown backwards. Her tail is splayed out lazily next to her thigh. He follows the line of her arm, over her shoulder, down to her lean muscular forearm all the way to her massive hand, shoved down the front of her pants. She opens her mouth and groans as she tries to get herself off, quick and dirty.
“Oh fuck!” Astarion says, stepping out of the shadows.
He should just walk away, but his surprise knocks the exclamation out of his mouth.
Karlach’s eyes fly open, her face is cast in strange shadow, but he can see the embarrassment taking her over. Her tail tenses as she yanks her hand out of her pants.
“Astarion,” Karlach says. Her voice is breathy.
He doesn’t look away, instead he looks directly at her hand.
For a moment they just look at each other, caught in a dead stare. Then Astarion takes a step forward towards her, looking down.
“Fuck, Astarion,” Karlach says, “Would you piss off.”
“Why? Doing something naughty?” He teases.
“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what I’m doing,” Karlach says.
She props herself up on her elbows and rolls her eyes.
“Ah,” Astarion says, “So it is what it looks like. Running a bit hot, darling?”
Karlach makes a noise that’s half groan and half growl.
“I just can’t,” she clenches her fist and lets out an angry breath, “Find any satisfaction.”
“Hm,” Astarion says.
“So could you kindly fuck off and let me try.”
“If that’s what you’d like,” Astarion says.
Karlach doesn’t say anything.
“Or,” Astarion drags out his syllables.
His eyes linger over her abdomen, up over the swell of her chest, to the tense expression she wears on her face.
“I can try to help.”
“Don’t,” Karlach says.
“Lie back,” Astarion says.
“Astarion,” Karlach makes an irritated noise.
And then she does lie back. The light coming from her engine pulses.
Astarion makes a satisfied noise.
“Take off your top,” Astarion continues,
Karlach props herself up just enough. She makes deliberate eye contact with him as she pulls it over her head.
“Really? That easy?” Astarion asks.
“Don’t start,” Karlach says.
“You look lovely.”
He leans against the trunk of a nearby tree and watches.
Without being told, Karlach flips open the front of her pants and shoves her hand below her waistband. He watches as she furiously moves.
“What’s the rush?” Astarion says, his voice low.
This is the point, in his usual routine, where he would stalk over to her. Where he’d make himself available and useful. This is different, he can’t touch her, and though he can feel himself stiffening in his own trousers, he doesn’t want much more than to watch. Usually, he would make himself subservient, he would do whatever it took and he would do it quickly and clandestinely.
“Slow down,” he says, with some authority.
Karlach does.
“Stroke yourself, gently,” he says.
Karlach does. Her hand slows.
“Good, now give yourself a finger, darling.”
Karlach grunts at the pet name, but he watches as her wrist curls, as she reaches farther into herself. He can see every line of her body, can see the thick coil of hair poking out of the top of her pants. He can hear everything, in the silence of the night, sounds that were once nauseatingly familiar are painted anew with her hand on herself.
Karlach takes a sharp inhale.
“Two fingers should probably do it,” Astarion says.
Karlach doesn’t hesitate, plunging two fingers inside of herself and pumping in and out.
“Slow, slow,” Astarion says.
Karlach slows her pace.
“Curl your fingers. Find what feels good. Don’t worry.”
He watches as she slowly builds towards a climax, fingers curling in and out of herself, stroking her clit. Her mouth falls open, her eyes fall closed. She groans.
“Now stop,” Astarion says.
Karlach’s eyes fly open and she really and truly whines. He can feel the authority going to his head, the pleasure comes from the fact that she’s listening.
Her hand stills.
“If you want to be satisfied,” Astarion starts, “You need to work yourself up to it more.”
Karlach nods. Her chest heaves. He thinks he can hear the engine churning.
“Start slow.”
Astarion watches her hand move, gives her more instructions. When he realizes that he wants to see more, he tells her to pull her pants down to her knees. He watches how her muscles ripple and tremble each time she gets close. He gives her the instructions that bring her to the edge twice more. Her full figure fills the bedroll, she trembles. He can see sweat pooling underneath her, dripping between her tits and below her brow.
“Keep going,” Astarion says.
He watches her back arch off of the bedroll, her mouth falls open, silently, breathlessly. Her tail twitches, thumping against the dirt, her legs shake, her face quivers.
“Breathe,” Astarion says.
Karlach gasps. He watches as her hand starts to still.
“Ah, ah,” Astarion scolds, “Keep stroking yourself, curl your fingers.”
Karlach does. Her orgasm continues to ripple through her. A noise escapes her throat and she groans, lower, deeper than she had before. The noise rumbles, and hits Astarion somewhere new and unfamiliar in his chest.
“Fu-uck” Karlach says, it's strangled.
Astarion shifts his weight, putting more of it against the tree
Karlach’s hips buck up to meet the movement of her hand. She writhes there on the ground, shaking and cursing until finally Astarion clears his throat. She throws herself back, exhausted. The glow in her chest is a warm yellow. She lays there, looking up at the stars before flopping over to look at Astarion
“Reckon that did the trick,” she says.
And then, she laughs. She just lies there and fucking laughs. Her body heaves, the cellulite in her thighs jiggles and she just… laughs.
Astarion doesn't join in. This, out of all the unfamiliar he has seen, feels the most.
She looks at him as she lies there. She's naked and exposed and Astarion feels like he should be rolling over and hiding himself.
“Thanks mate,” she says through her laughs.
Astarion feels himself slumping. His legs slowly fold on themselves as he slides down the trunk of the tree until he's seated, with his legs folded up to his chest. He looks down at his own hands, over to hers. His mind feels clear though his mouth is dry.
“Well, you just looked like you
needed a bit of…’
‘Yeah it's good to have… sometimes I need some-”
“Control.”