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This thing you have with Astarion? It started off as a distraction, really. You are both attractive, capable adventurers, who know their way around bodies– in more ways than one. It doesn’t escape you that he certainly seems to have some ulterior motives, but it’s also a fun time away from the tadpoles in your brains. So far, you’ve had no conversations about the nature of your relationship, no feelings have been shared.
That’s not to say that you don’t feel anything. In fact, you have already decided that you care for this man, perhaps more than you know and certainly more than you’re willing to admit to him. There’s no use in telling him, you decide. He likely doesn’t feel the same way and you don’t want to ruin the good thing you have, which is a delicious distraction.
And that’s exactly what he’s doing to you right now: being a veritable nuisance to your nighttime routine with the way he’s lounging. His feet are propped on a pair of pillows, as he reads in a dim candlelight. A book rests comfortably between his long, dextrous fingers, and the light near him is casting his face in a gentle glow. His shirt hangs loosely, his sleeves are pushed past his forearms, and you can almost swear that he’s posing for you.
So what if he is , you think. You can’t help the way you feel anymore, as much as you can help breathing. So you enjoy the view as you prepare to turn in for the night. Perhaps you enjoy it a bit too much because you hear a distinct squelch as you’re laying out your bedroll.
“Oh hells,” you mutter, eyes finally tearing away from Astarion to see the mess you’ve made.
Today, your group is setting up camp in the Shadowlands after a disgusting battle with some shadow-cursed Kuo-Toa. Looking down at the grotesque residue sticking to your bedroll, it seems like someone didn’t finish cleaning up the fish guts that they spilt before arranging everyone’s tents.
There’s no use laying any blame, either. You could have easily avoided the revolting pile of fleshy remains, but you were blinded, stupidly entranced by a silver-haired elf.
Reluctantly, you trudge off to the group’s chest to replace your bedroll. Looking around, everyone seems to have finished their respective nighttime set ups and has either gone off to sleep or just about. Except Astarion, who is now peering at you over the lip of his book. His eyes sparkle in the candlelight, and you drop your gaze, lest he pull you away from your next task.
You crouch at the traveler’s chest, sure that you have a spare bedroll or two in there somewhere. The chest feels bottomless as you dig through the group’s equipment. You toss some knives, a few potions, push aside dozens of lengths of rope, only to come up for air empty handed.
“Gods damn,” you curse under your breath. It was the last bedroll you had in your supplies, and here in the cursed Shadowlands, you’re not sure where you’ll find another. After your fruitless search, you go back to the soiled bedroll, crouching to get a better look. It would take at least a few rinses to be usable again, and you are honestly too tired to care right now. “I’ll just sleep on the ground.”
“Nonsense.” Astarion casually walks up behind you, having clearly witnessed everything that just transpired. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow and we can’t have you sapped of all energy from a bad night’s rest. Share my bedroll tonight.”
You can feel something catch in your throat at the image that this conjures in your mind: your bodies pressed together at far too many points for comfortable sleep, all at once amazing and miserable for your love-stricken heart. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your beauty sleep,” you say, shaking your head. “The ground is perfectly fine.”
“As if I need sleep to be beautiful,” he dismisses. “Besides, the ground is colder than I am. No, no, you’ll have to join me.”
“Fine,” you relent, tossing loose bits and bobs back into the chest. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It’s the least I could do,” he says, pulling you up from the ground and holding you a bit too tight to him. “And it’s not as if our bodies haven’t been quite close before.”
That’s exactly the problem , you think, regretting your decision immediately. You hope he can’t feel your heart pounding in your chest, or the warmth spreading from your head to your toes. You respond before he can sense anything is amiss, “Right. We will just happen to be in the same bedroll. It’s nothing to write back to Baldur’s Gate about.”
Your own heart aches at your words, and you think you might spot his face fall for a moment. If it did, the emotion is quickly replaced by mirth. “Darling, you wound me. I’m nothing if not someone to write home about.”
“Yes, well, will this wounded man please set up his bedroll.” You slip out of his arms, avoiding his piercing red eyes. “Some of us are quite tired.”
He’s quiet for a beat before responding with a soft, “Of course.”
You watch him carefully lay out his bedroll and wonder if he’d been aiming at some more ‘fun distractions’ tonight. His hair does seem particularly well-coiffed, his shirt especially billowy. You’re not quite sure if you’d like to lose yourself in him tonight. In fact, the more you fall for him, the more concerned you are about your late night trysts affecting your relationship, whatever it may be.
Brushing the thoughts away, you resolve to be more normal around him. Feelings will only get in the way of your mission, your team, and whatever burgeoning friendship you had with him. “So are you ready for a cuddle?” you ask, adopting a teasing tone to diffuse the silence. “You are the one who wanted me to keep warm.”
Astarion laughs at that. “I don’t know if I’m the best cuddler,” he says, shooting you a wry smirk. “What with the fangs and the slow, undead heart.” He pats the readied bedroll, inviting you to sit with him.
You give him a tsk , before sitting down. “Wouldn’t be the first time I have your fangs at my neck while I sleep. I doubt it will be the last.”
“Oh?” he asks, leaning into your space. “Is that an invitation, darling?”
You debate a moment, knowing that that may very well be a slippery slope to something more. “Only if you’re feeling peckish.”
“I’m always peckish for you, dear,” he says, breathing lightly on your skin. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise, your skin tingling with anticipation. But he doesn’t bite. “Alas, I’m afraid that if I start now, I may not be able to stop.” His voice is thick, and you’re glad his eyes are fixated on your neck because you have time to compose yourself before he looks back up at you.
“Thank you,” you say, clearing your throat a bit. “For being so considerate.”
“Come now,” he says, suddenly falling away from you. He lays down and rests his head on a bent arm. “I thought you were tired.”
“Don’t you need to meditate?” you ask, laying down facing him, careful to keep a few inches of space between you on the bedroll. You’re hanging over the edge, fearful of the electricity growing between you both. Does he not feel it? Isn’t he afraid to get shocked? you wonder. “I don’t want to disturb your usual sleep.”
“I barely need any meditation at all,” he dismisses, laying his other arm around your hip and pulling you closer. His fingers play along the edge of your nightclothes, tickling you ever so slightly. “And what’s this? Are you so determined to touch the ground instead of me?”
You don’t resist his pull, though your stomach does a little flip at the feel of his cool fingers along your skin. “No, I just…” Excuses escape you. How can you explain to him that you’re trying your absolute best to not fall further in love with him? And failing miserably. “I just haven’t shared a bedroll like this before.”
He chuckles, and wraps a leg around one of yours. “I can’t say I have either, but I’d like to think I’m a quick learner.”
The feel of his leg on yours is almost too much, and even in the dim remains of the fire light, you’re sure a blush has crept across your skin. He’s playing with me , you think. I mustn’t let him. I don’t think I can handle being his distraction much longer.
“Are you now?” you try to keep your voice unaffected, as you pull up on the bedroll’s furs to cover you both. “And what have you learned about me?”
Astarion pauses at that, you see a flicker of surprise on his face. You know he was expecting you to continue the sexually charged banter, not… whatever this was, but you don’t regret it. Because this stops him in his tracks– he takes a moment to pause, his leg freezes on you, his fingers stop teasing at your side. “Quite a lot, I suppose,” he muses. “Where could I even begin?”
You take his moment of thought to curl into him, head tucking into his chest. Avoiding his eyes seems like the best course of action currently, as one wrong glance is liable to break your heart. “Begin at the beginning, of course,” you mutter into him. “When we first met.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and you’re worried you’ve pushed too hard. Or perhaps he’s entered his meditations already. After a bit he says, “Dangerous.” You tilt to look up at him in confusion. His proximity might normally have led to a kiss or a tease, but his face is genuine, as are his next words. “You’re quite possibly one of the most dangerous creatures I’ve ever met. And I grew up in a den of vampires.”
It’s a weird sort of compliment, but it fills you deeply, down to your curling toes. “Thank you,” you mumble, staring into his ruby red eyes. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
A deep laugh rumbles through him, reverberating through to you. “I’m hurt. None of my previous compliments have struck a chord then?”
“They have been lovely,” you start. “But I think I like the real compliments better.”
Now he furrows his brow, eyes darting between yours. His fingers tighten their grip on you once more, as he asks, “Whatever do you mean?”
I shouldn’t have said anything. But you have, so you continue, “I’m used to a life on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion. I’m not so naive to misunderstand your sweet words. I know that you could hardly mean half of them.”
He lifts his head up from his arm, propping himself up at an angle. “You mean to question my honesty? I’ll have you know that you’re every bit as beautiful as I say you are.” His tone is offended, and you wonder if maybe you’ve judged him too harshly. Then he follows it with, “And if my sweet words are what you want to hear, who am I to deny you?”
You close your eyes to this, heart aching before your brain even has time to process. He’s only performing the dance he thinks you’ll like , it warns you. “You’re right, I’m only here to receive pretty platitudes,” you say, harsher than you intend. “Let’s just go to bed.”
Keeping your eyes shut tightly, you turn away from him. You’re not sure how you will sleep, but it certainly won’t happen if you’re left to stare at his beautiful, annoying face, heart breaking at each insincere word. His arms stiffen as you move away, but don’t let go.
After a few tense moments of silence, he closes the distance between himself and your back and wraps you from behind. Spooning you gently like this, it almost feels tender. “Darling,” he says into your ear. His voice is light, betraying nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling. “I wasn’t done telling you all that I’ve learned. Would you allow me to continue?”
From this position, you’re sure he can hear the pounding of your heart, the tension in your back as you feel his stomach, his legs, his arms all touching you in a dozen distinct nerves. There’s no point in feigning sleep, there’s no point in trying to speak to him. So you just give a reluctant little dip of your head.
Astarion sighs into your hair, a shaky breath of relief. “Thank you.” His fingers trace a delicate pattern on your hip again as he continues, “I have learned what a powerful leader you are. Despite your best efforts to try to convince us that you’re not.”
Internally, you roll your eyes at this, and, despite yourself, mumble, “I’m not.”
He chuckles lightly. “See what I mean?” Now his fingers squeeze you, an unmistakable sign of affection this time. “It’s adorable.”
Your fickle heart picks up its pace once more. You silently curse its betrayal, hoping that Astarion can’t tell.
If he can, he has the good grace not to mention it as he resumes, “I’ve learned that you’re fearless. I don’t think we’ve met an enemy yet that you’re not willing to stare down.”
You shake your head and retort once more, “Not fearless. We just get into a lot of very bad situations. Probably because I’m not a good leader.”
“Well, somehow I find myself following you into each and every one of these bad situations,” he whispers into your neck. “I might even follow you into the hells if you ask nicely.”
“Gods I hope not,” you whisper back, but your body tingles at the ghost of his breath, the meaning of his words.
He plants a single, soft kiss on the nape of your neck before saying, “You somehow convinced us to reject a god as well. Who does that?” Astarion’s words are playful, but his tone is reverent. His hands are now cradling you, as if he’s not sure how you ended up in his arms at all. You would give anything to see his face right now, but you can’t bring yourself to move even the slightest. “You are so…”
Trailing off, you’re not sure what he might have said because he just takes a deep breath. You can feel his nose trace the length of your neck, and another delicate kiss follows before he leaves his forehead pressed to your shoulder.
“Astarion?” you question. You can barely hear yourself over the pounding of your own heart. Something akin to hope is threatening to burst out of it, but you dare not push him too much too quickly.
“Sorry, darling,” he says, lifting his head back up. “I’m afraid I lost myself in thought. Suffice to say, I think I’ve learned quite a lot about you. I hope you know my words come from a place of… honesty.”
You believe him, truly you do. But you can't help the nagging thought at the back of your head, that this is all an act, an expert one at that. Nevertheless, you try to relax next to him and say, “Thank you. For that.”
“You’re welcome,” he says brightly, as if he hasn’t just forced your heart and body into extreme, bloody combat. And just when you think he won’t remark on that fact, he continues, “Oh also! I’ve learned that you may want to see a healer. Your heart beats awfully fast sometimes, I wouldn’t want it to give out on you.”
You don’t need to see him to know that he’s smirking. A swift elbow to his stomach and a pained grunt from him later, you say, “I’ll take that into consideration. For now, I will just need to take that risk.”
“Or,” Astarion says into your ear, voice dropping an octave. “I can make sure to give your heart plenty of exercise. Strengthen you for the battles to come.” He certainly knows what he’s doing, because your heart responds to his words in kind.
“Stop that,” you say, swatting back at him. “I really will need a healer if you don’t let me sleep.”
He responds with a mock sadness to his voice, “Very well. Who knew love could be so cruel.” He’s joking, you’re almost certain, but when he says the word ‘love’, a warmth fills you that you aren’t quite ready for. As if realizing what he’s said a second too late, he follows it quickly with a playful growl, “Sleep now, or I really will take a bite out of you.”
“Okay,” you mumble, silently praying for another bedroll to fall out of the sky and save you both. So much has been said and yet not nearly enough.
You’re not sure how you’ll fall asleep now– or if you even want to. What you are certain of is that the two of you will need to face these feelings, whatever they may be, sooner rather than later. But now, sharing a single, small bedroll, you would rather pretend that the warmth building between the two of you is purely physical, that the ache in your heart is simply an exaggeration. That the vampire you love could not possibly be falling in love with you as well.