Chapter Text
It was a quiet night at camp. You sat on a log by the fire, staring at the flames. There wasn't any danger in these woods, no need to keep watch. But you'd stayed up anyway while the others went to their tents, wanting some time alone. Everyone was long asleep by now.
His voice surprised you, you didn't hear him come up. But of course you hadn't. Astarion was only noticed when he decided to let his presence known.
"What do we have here?"
You look up to find him standing, expecting him to have come back from hunting, you hadn't even noticed he slipped away and you were going to ask him how it went when you noticed what he held in his hand, dangling from his fingers. Your journal. The one you could've sworn you had tucked at the very bottom of your pack. The one with - oh gods. It had to be something else. It couldn't be.
"You know, darling, I was simply looking for something to read before bed. And you do pick up every single book we come across, don't you? The diligent little reader that you are. I was hoping to find something adventurous, some heroic tales." He takes a step closer and perches beside you on the log, stretching his legs out in front of him. Close enough that you can smell that scent of his, bergamot and something else. "But this? This is so much better than anything I could've found."
He opens it with theatrical slowness while your heart beats faster, his red eyes scanning a page you can't see. That smirk. That insufferable, knowing smirk of his.
"What a delicious little conundrum your hero has. Torn between a wizard and a rogue." His voice drops lower, to something more intimate. "Tell me, my dear, when you were writing about being pinned against walls, about power and submission and all those wonderfully depraved details... are you perhaps working through some feelings?"
The sound of the journal snapping shut sounds much louder than it is as you look at him.
"Because I couldn't help but notice," he continues, "And do correct me if I'm wrong, but our dear wizard has been making quite the impression on you lately. All those earnest conversations about magic and fate. How stimulating for you both." There's mockery in his words, and something more underneath it. "Though I wonder, does Gale know you have such delectable fantasies? Or is this little confession just for me?"
You reach for the journal that he's quick to hold away with a smile that only spreads wider, high enough that you'd have to practically climb into his lap to get it. A blush rises to your cheeks as you ask, "Where did you find that?"
"Oh no, no, no," he says. "We're not starting with recriminations about my admittedly impeccable skills of... acquisition." He taps the journal against his thigh. Close enough that you could reach it, but you didn't want to look desperate. Maintain some dignity despite what he might have read in it. "We're starting with you, darling, and this absolutely fascinating window into that pretty little head of yours."
He leans back, crossing one leg over the other, utterly at ease with your discomfort. Enjoying it, even. The light from the fire catches the sharp angles of his face as he studies you and there's something almost predatory in the way he watches the blush spread.
"Your pack, of course. Really, if you're going to write such deliciously scandalous things, you might want to hide them better and not so obviously look around to see if anyone's watching when you rearrange the contents of your pack to put it at the very bottom. Then again..." His eyes narrow with amusement. "Perhaps some part of you wanted it to be found. For someone to know what goes on in that mind when you're alone in the dark. Perhaps even someone you wrote about."
He opens the journal again, slower this time, running one pale finger down the edge of a page and reads out loud. "'I touched myself and thought of him.'" His gaze flicks up to meet yours, sharp and knowing.
"So tell me, when you touch yourself in your tent at night, thinking of loyal wizards and charming rogues with power over willing victims, which one of us do you imagine more? The wizard with his honeyed words and tragic backstory?" He pauses, leaning closer. "Or the vampire who already knowns exactly what you taste like?"
"Astarion!" You didn't think he'd bring that up. You didn't think he'd bring this up. That he'd ever find what you had written. Which didn't even include names, really. Just stories, that's what you thought of them. Not even that because they were just snippets. "You can't - you can't just - it's not." You abandon the deflection and switch to another approach. "Can you please give that back? It's just. It's just a story."
His laugh is low and rich. He makes absolutely no move to return the journal. Instead, he shifts closer, near enough that you can see the way the light reflects in his eyes.
"'Just a story? Oh, darling." He drawls the words out like a caress. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I'm sitting - and I'm sitting rather close, aren't I? - this reads rather like a confession wrapped in a fantasy and conveniently distant titles. Wizard. Rogue. No names."
He sets the journal down on his lap and keeps one hand resting possessively on it.
"And you're absolutely right, by the way. I can't just - what was it that you were about to protest about? That I can't bring up our little nighttime arrangement?" His head tilts, expression shifting from mockery to something more dangerous. He's provoking you. "Why not? It's hardly a secret between us. You offer, I accept. Very civilized. Very... transactional."
He leans in, close enough that his next words are barely above a murmur. "Though I have noticed something interesting. You never just tell me that you want it. You offer. Repeatedly. 'Would you like to feed tonight, Astarion?' 'I'm here if you want to feed, Astarion.'" He mimics your tone, then drops back to his own. "Always so very accommodating. And then you lie there, so beautifully still, letting me lean over you, letting me touch you, even if it's just your neck, even if it's to tilt your head just so," he says, his fingers curling in the air as if cradling something precious. Demonstrating. Performing. "And then I leave. Because that's our arrangement. So very proper of us. But tell me, when you write about men who don't leave, who stay and make you feel things you're too afraid to ask for... are you perhaps trying to work out what you'd like me to do instead?"
You squirm under his gaze and look away. You can't bear to look at him, with all the secrets, all your desires laid bare in front of him. While he sits there, the flattering light that frames his perfect face. What are you supposed to say to that? To him? After that? After he's read everything you never meant to be for the eyes of anyone else?
The silence stretches between you. You can feel him looking at you still. When he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its mocking edge, replaced by something more considering.
"Oh, this is delicious." He sounds genuinely pleased. "The articulate, decisive, noble leader of our merry band of misfits, struck utterly speechless. And all I had to do was ask a simple question."
You hear the soft rustle of pages, and you know, you know that he's reading again. Your mortification deepens as he decides to read out loud again.
"'His deft fingers that would soon be on my skin, trailing goosebumps at their touch.'" A pause. "You have quite the fixation on hands, don't you? Very specific. Very detailed."
The journal snaps shut again and you jump a little. That's why he was performing earlier. Of course he's read everything. Examined everything. You hadn't written in it in days, there had been the battle, and then you had to keep moving, and there was never any time. How long has he had that?
When he speaks, his voice is closer than before. He must have leaned in. "Look at me, darling."
It's somewhere between a command and a request and you don't know what to do with that. When you don't comply immediately, he lets out a soft, amused exhale.
"No? Feeling shy?" The mockery is gentle now, almost fond. "How fascinating. You'll bare your neck to me in the dark, let me bite you, drink from you, night after night after night. But I read a few lines about what you actually want, and suddenly you can't even meet my eyes."
There's a beat of silence, then he continues, his tone unreadable. "Though I suppose Gale gets your eyes easily enough during the day, doesn't he? All those earnest conversations about magic. Does he make you squirm like this, I wonder? Or is that particular pleasure reserved just for me?"
"Astarion," you say softly, turning to see his face. You don't know how he feels about Gale. You don't know how he feels about your interest in Gale. But you don't want to hurt him. You're sure of that.
His face is a mask but there's something in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the journal, that suggests you've struck a nerve.
"There it is," he says, and there's no teasing tone in his voice anymore. "That look. That concerned look you give me, like I'm something fragile that might break if you say the wrong thing."
He stands abruptly, journal still in his hand, and takes a few steps away before turning back, his body casting a shadow over you.
"Let me make something perfectly clear, darling." His tone has a sharp edge again. "I don't do jealousy. That's not what this is. I'm not some lovesick fool pining away while you make eyes at the wizard." Something flicks across his face as he says it, something quick you don't catch.
"What I am is curious," he gestures with the journal. "Because you write about power. About wanting to be consumed by it, controlled by it. About men who know exactly what they want and take it." His eyes meet yours. "And yet, during the day, you gravitate towards Gale. Sweet, earnest, safe Gale who explains things and asks permission and would probably apologize for kissing you too enthusiastically."
He moves closer again, and there's an intensity in his gaze.
"So, which is it? What do you actually want?"
And this time, you're honest.
"I want you more than I've ever wanted anything."
And you've wanted quite a lot. You don't get into a warlock pact without being someone who wants and wants something enough to decide to get into an infernal pact. And you want him more than that.
For just a moment, a single, unguarded moment, something raw crosses his face. Surprise, perhaps. Or hunger. Or something more dangerous than either. Then, the mask slips back into place but it's not quite as seamless as before in light of your honesty.
"Well." His voice comes out slightly rougher than he intends, and he clears his throat with deliberate elegance. "That's certainly direct of you."
He looks down at the journal in his hands, then back at you, and there's a new calculation in his eyes. Testing. Measuring.
"More than anything," he repeats, tasting the words on his tongue. "My, my. That's quite the declaration."
He moves closer, crouching down so he's eye level with you, the journal dangling forgotten from his hand.
"And yet you also quite like our dear wizard, if I'm interpreting your fumbling correctly. You do realize those two things are somewhat at odds, darling?"
His hand moves and for a moment, you think he might touch you and your breath catches, but he doesn't. Instead, he simply gestures, theatrical.
"Because here's what I'm hearing. You want me, of course. But you also want Gale, who's 'grown on you'" he says, quoting words from your story, "Like some sort of pleasant fungus. Which suggests that what you actually want is *exactly* what's in your little story. The wizard. The rogue. There are three people in those scenes of yours." He glances back at the journal, then at you, and that dangerous smile returns. "Tell me I'm wrong."
You don't reply. It was one thing for him to have read it. Quite another to be discussing it in detail with him. You can't seem to speak. You've forgotten all the words.
He stays crouched, perfectly still, waiting for the confirmation that plays across your face in the silence. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper, intimate and dark.
"You greedy little thing."
It's not an insult. It's something else entirely. Appreciation, perhaps, mixed with delight. You don't know how it's possible, but you blush harder when he calls you that. And you like it.
He sets the journal down on the log beside you, almost gently, and shifts his weight so he's kneeling in front of you now, close enough that you'd only have to lean forward slightly to - but you don't. You stay still while he keeps talking.
"Let me see if I have this right." His hands rest on his own thighs, deliberate in their restraint. "You want me. You want him. And more than that, you want both of us. At the same time, given the rather explicit nature of your little fantasy."
He tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle box he's just figure out how to open.
"Does Gale know? Have you stammered your way through confessing this to him during one of your fireside chats about the Weave?" A pause. "No. Of course not. You've barely managed to tell me, and I had to steal this to get it out of you."
He reaches then, finally, just one finger beneath your chin, tilting your face up so you have to look at him.
"The question is, darling, what exactly do you expect me do with this information?"
"I don't know," you finally manage to say. It takes effort to keep breathing. You can even feel the pulse in your ears. "It wasn't information you were supposed to have."
It's not an accusation. It's just the truth. You grip the log harder under your hands to steady yourself. He's so very close.
His thumb brushes against your jaw, a feather-light touch, before he withdraws it entirely. The loss of contact feels deliberate, calculated to make you feel its absence.
"Ah, but I do have it now. And we both know I'm not the type to simply forget things." He rocks back on his heels slightly, putting a few more inches of distance between you, and the cruel amusement returns to his expression. "Besides, you wrote it down, darling. In detail. With feeling. If you truly wanted it to stay secret, you wouldn't have been quite so... thorough."
He stands then, brushing off his knees with exaggerated care, and you're left looking up at him silhouetted against the light of the fire.
"Here's what's going to happen." His voice takes on a commanding edge. "I'm going to keep your little secret. For now. Because watching you squirm has been the most entertainment I've had in days, and I'm not about to end it prematurely by letting Gale stumble onto this."
He picks up the journal, weighing it in his hand.
"But you and I? We're going to have a conversation. A proper one. About what you want. What you actually want, not just what you write about when you think no one's watching." He glances towards Gale's tent in the darkness. "And about whether our dear wizard might be... amenable to certain arrangements."
His eyes find yours again, sharp and assessing.
"Because if you think I'm going to let you pine uselessly between the two of us while writing sad little fantasies in your tent, you're very mistaken. I don't share well, but I do enjoy a good game. And this? This has potential."
He turns to leave, journal still in hand, then glances back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and darling? Next time you offer to let me feed?" That dangerous smile again. "I might just stay a little longer."
You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, but you also feel something else. Disappointment, and a little indignation.
You call out after him, "Hey! It's good writing." You don't ask for it back. He's read it all already after all, apparently. You wonder when he read it. Because you certainly hadn't seen him read it. Did it do it at night? He must have. Did he...
He stops mid-step, and his shoulders shake with silent laughter before he turns around. The look on his face is absolutely wicked. He's delighted that this is what you've chosen to defend.
"Good writing," he repeats, his voice dripping with amusement. "Is that what you're worried about right now? Not that I've discovered your rather ambitious sexual fantasies involving both me and the wizard, but whether I appreciate your prose?"
He walks back toward you, just a few steps, and holds up your journal. "Though you're not wrong. It is good. Very... evocative," he lingers on the word. "All those delicious details. 'Deft fingers'. 'Trailing goosebumps'. The way you describe the power dynamic, the submission, the-what was it? 'Pure physical freedom' of giving up control." He taps the journal against his palm. "You have quite the talent for putting sensation into words, darling. Descriptions that make one wonder if you're writing it down to remember, or to *enhance* the experience later." He takes another step back, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. "So yes, it's good writing. Is that what you wanted to hear, darling? Or do you want to hear how much I enjoy your good writing? You want me to enjoy it when I'm in my tent alone tonight? Giving it the attention it deserves? Just your words and my imagination?" He waits for a moment, enjoying watching you squirm before turning again to walk away. "Sweet dreams, darling. Try not to think about what I might be doing with your story."
"You can't just say things like that," you mumble, low enough that he wouldn't have heard. If it wasn't for his damned elven ears, that vampire hearing.
He freezes mid-step, but doesn't turn around fully. He just angles his head enough that you can see his profile.
"Can't I?" His voice is soft, dangerous in its quietness. "You keep doing this, darling. You're still sitting there, gripping that log like it's the only thing keeping you tethered and keep chirping up when I start to walk away."
Now, he does turn, taking slow steps back towards you.
"What do you want? What is it that you wanted me to do? What's making your pulse race like that? Is it just the thought of me reading your story again? Or is it something else entirely?"
He crouches down in front of you once more, and his voice drops to barely more than a murmur.
"Are you going to tell me, darling? Or do you want me to read your mind?" He smiles as something occurs to him. "Wouldn't that be illuminating? Would you like me to read your mind while I read your story? See exactly what you imagined? Every detail you didn't write down?" The pause is heavy with implication. "Or would you perhaps like seeing mine? So you can see exactly what I think about? Everything I've thought about when I'm leaning over you in the dark, when my hand cradles your head, when I-" He stops himself, a mischievous look in his eyes. "But we have an agreement. How terribly civilized of us."
You've never wanted to touch him more than you do now. But you don't move. You wouldn't do it unless you were certain that's what he wanted. It takes all your willpower to keep your hands where they are.
"We can make a new one," you whisper.
His eyes widen fractionally, he's genuinely surprised that you're suggesting it. He didn't think you'd have the courage to admit what you wanted, not after how quiet you've been.
"Can we now?" His voice is barely audible. "And what sort of agreement did you have in mind, darling?"
He's close enough that you can see his throat move as he swallows. Close enough to realize that he's not as composed as he's pretending to be. You're affecting him.
"Because if you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting," he says, a warning in his tone, but you can't tell if it's meant for you or for himself. "You should be very, very certain what you're asking for. The mind is such an intimate thing. More intimate than blood, in some ways. More honest. More than just sex."
He leans in, and his breath, the breath he doesn't need but has anyway, that breath ghosting across his cheek.
"I could see everything. Every filthy thought you've had about me. About Gale. About both of us." He takes a pause before he continues. "And you could see mine. Everything I think about when I'm in your tent. Everything I want to do that I don't. Everything I *would* do if-" He stops abruptly, pulling away slightly. "Is that really what you want, darling? To know what's in my head? To let me know what's in yours?" That dangerous smile returns, showing a hint of his fangs, but there's something vulnerable beneath it. "No more secrets? No more pretending?"
You gulp. You wanted it the moment he'd brought it up to tease you with it. But also, you knew the intimacy of what he was proposing. How this would be so much more than anything you could want. Anything he could give you. It's a lot to ask of him. And you don't want to do it if he's not ready. "You don't have to show me if you don't want to. You can just look into mine."
Something complicated and unguarded flickers across his face. And he lets you see it this time. He's quiet for a long moment, studying you with an intensity that you feel under your skin.
"How remarkably considerate of you," he says softly, and for once, there's no mockery in it. "To offer to bare yourself completely while asking nothing in return. How noble of you. So very you."
He sets the journal aside on the log again, and this time, he reaches out, slowly, deliberately, to take one of your hands from where it's gripping the wood. You let go, let him lift it to bring it between the two of you. His touch is gentle. His fingers cool against yours.
"That's not how I want this to work, darling. It has to be an equal agreement." He turns your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb in a way that looks completely innocent and feels entirely too intimate. "If we're doing this. If we're really doing this, then it's all or nothing."
His eyes meet yours, and there's a challenge there, but also something that might be nervousness, carefully hidden.
"You get to see what I think about. What I want. What I've been carefully not letting myself reach for." His grip on your hand tightens slightly. "And I get to see all of you. Every desperate, greedy, gorgeous thought. Everything you've been too afraid to say out loud."
He leans in closer. "So, let me ask you again, and think very carefully before you answer. Is that what you want?"
You don't do that. You don't have to think at all about it. Your answer is immediate.
"Yes."
His composure cracks completely. You see the want, the hunger, the desperate curiosity he's been hiding behind all that practiced charm. Then, he closes his eyes, draws in an unnecessary breath, and when he opens them up again, there's a resolve there.
"Then let's not do this by the campfire where anyone might wake up and interrupt."
He stands, still holding your hand, and pulls you up with him. The journal that you'd completely forgotten about, he picks up with his free hand. "Can't have Lae'zel finding it and asking why we're wasting time writing smut when we should be planning our next battle."
"That's not what it is," you protest. Sure, it wasn't literature. But it was more than just smut.
He laughs and continues, "Though I suppose Shadowheart might appreciate it. She does have that whole 'forbidden pleasures' thing going on. Should we take bets on who'd be more scandalized?" The teasing edge is back in his voice again. "Gale, realizing he's featured in your fantasies? Or Wyll, discovering that our fearless leader has such deliciously depraved thoughts? Karlach would love it."
He's stalling. You can tell. His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, a nervous gesture he possibly doesn't realize he's making.
"Your tent or mine?" He asks.
You don't entirely care, and he answers for you.
The bravado is back as he starts walking backwards, drawing you with him. "Yours. You're already accustomed to having me there in the dark after all. This will just be rather more... reciprocal than usual."
He turns again, walking in the direction of your tent as you walk behind him. "Fair warning," he murmurs. "I'm not entirely sure what you're going to find in mine. I'm very good at not examining my own thoughts too closely. This will be educational for the both of us."
He stops right outside the entrance of your tent, the grip on your hand tightening.
"Last chance to change your mind. Once we're in there, once we do this, we can't unknow what we learn. Are you sure you want me to know what you want? To know if you want pure physical freedom and have the rogue take the warlock's control away," he says, bringing up your story again. "Is that what you want from me? Or is that what you want from us? Me and Gale? Because once I look, I'll know."
You can't seem to stop blushing harder whenever he brings up the story. "It's not - I -" You take a breath and admit, "I don't remember all of what I wrote."
His eyebrows rise, and that amused smile is back, the widest one yet.
"Oh, darling. So you were just... what? Writing in a fugue state? So consumed by your fantasies that you poured them out without even keeping track?"
You glance away and look down when talks about you writing it. "I was just a little distracted," you say, shifting on your legs.
"I suspected, of course. And you were."
You look up at him and see that considering look on his face, the one that sees too much of you, more than you intended to reveal. "So that's why you don't remember all the details. Because you were touching yourself while you wrote it. Too preoccupied to keep track."
There's a heat in his gaze now, unmistakable want. "That's why it's so vivid. So detailed. You weren't just imagining it. You were *feeling* it. Come inside, darling," he says, pulling open the tent flap with his free hand and gestures for you to enter first. "We shouldn't talk about such scandalous musings in public."