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Careful to never overexert himself, Astarion lets his bare ankle touch a little bit of the late afternoon sun. He’s all too used to basking in the warmth of it without the fear of burning, and all this recent talk of going to the Underdark seemed foolish. Reckless, even. How could he walk away from the sun now, after barely getting to know its treasured fruits? Hardly fair, and he's sure to let everyone know. Often.
“Hmm. You know, I’ll miss seeing the sun as often as I do now.” The pale elf stretches out a bit more, before bringing his foot back into the tent. “How cruel that I should have to go without."
No bite whatsoever, so he emphasizes with a clear of his throat. "Again."
Busy with packing torn maps and scattered camp supplies, Deirdre doesn’t look up. “We’re all going to be without it.”
Astarion pouts, sitting up on his elbows to look at the wood elf proper. “How could anyone understand? None of you are damned to be horrid, sniveling vampire spawn. Who knows if we’ll even survive long enough for me to see the sun again?” He tries to glare daggers but she looks at him like a newborn pup.
“Don’t worry. I’ll personally see to it that you return to terrorize everyone topside. I’ll even join you for the fun.” Deirdre smiles at him, casually grazing her scarred knuckles on his cheekbone.
He’s taken aback by her easy kindness and reassurance, but doesn’t say it. Her hand on his cheek still makes his muscles tense and his jaw clench, anticipating instead the heavy palm of Cazador, or the icicle cold pain of nails dug into his skin. He so badly wants to lean into her touch just as it falls away, but instead he freezes. Can’t even bat her hand away or hurl a snide comment back to save face. He is cold once more.
Like nothing fucking happened, she goes back to rummaging through rotted baskets and obscenely heavy pouches, all while cursing under her breath.
“Want to give me a hand?” She asks, barely sparing him a glance, or a chance to respond. "Or don't."
“You’re no fun.” He lays on his back, fingers drumming on his own empty chest. “No. I don’t want to look through weeks worth of trash. Make Gale do it. Was he not asking to eat boots earlier?”
“I’d love boots. All we’ve got is backpacks full of bones and rope.” She pantomimes despair by jokingly pulling on her already mussed hair as she organizes piles of trash. “Why, why, why so much rope?”
There's a brief lull in the conversation where all Astarion can hear is the shuffling of bottles, and the booming of his intrusive thoughts. Rationally, he knows she's occupied with more important things. They've spent an alarming amount of time together clothed, and just as much time together without. He knew the song and dance, finetuned and perfected it to the dismay of many of Baldur's Gate citizens on the fringe. Sex was easy. Talking wasn't. Even worse, not talking. Sharing space. Enjoying one another's company. What in the ever living fuck was he supposed to do with that?
“Rope has its uses.” Astarion drawls, happy to be lost in the familiar comfort of debauchery. He only watches her, and can’t help the way his fingers find their way to the bare skin of her tanned, freckled back. She shivers, and it feels like a thrum of power goes directly to his cock.
“I should ask Halsin what else we may need.” Deirdre mumbles aloud, now sorting through the not at all concerning amount of daggers hoarded by her bedroll.
Astarion finds it soothing, actually, to press his finger to her skin while she busies herself in preparation for their next expedition. Mentions of Halsin? Not so much. Not after he caught wind of Halsin’s flirtations as of late. There’s a stone cold chill of ice that goes straight to the pit of his stomach at the remembrance, so he busies himself with what he can feel, right here; right now. Her skin is warm to the touch, unlike his own, and he can feel the smooth expanse of mostly untouched flesh. The pads of his fingers linger, studying every detail while he can. There’s musculature from her archery. She seems to be sunkissed everywhere. No internal language carved into her back. Unlike him, she wasn't tainted.
“Where is that great oak of a man?” Deirdre mumbles, only briefly glancing outside the tent without getting up.
The unruly sailboat that is his mind naturally gravitates towards unsavory places. That hunkering creature of an elf was pretty much the antithesis of Astarion. Altruistic, wise, and oh so large. Not quite Astarion’s type exactly, but he saw the appeal. Deirdre was not quite his type either- at least he doesn’t think. She too is an elf, only far smaller and more gangly compared to the druid. Both were rather top heavy now that he ruminates on it. The thought sours his mood immediately, as the thousands of victims he caught for Cazador were less about taste and more about need. Anyone who was simple, easy, and naive enough to believe his honeyed words was good enough. It was simply much too much effort, and too painful, to seek out anyone he may have actually enjoyed.
So this- all of this, is new. And all he truly knows how to do is ruin it.
“That Halsin… he’s got many uses, doesn’t he?”
Deirdre makes a noise of acknowledgement, but that’s it. Polishing off blood encrusted blades seems more important at this present moment.
Astarion takes to tracing her spine with his own long, spindly fingers- so different from Halsin’s.
“Will he be with us much longer?”
“For as long as the Shadowlands are cursed, I suppose. He seems to know all about that.” Deirdre briefly turns around, just to look at Astarion. She makes no move to deter him from her bare back, exposed by the deep v-neck on the back of her blouse. “Not a bad ally to have, eh?”
“I suppose not.” Astarion splays his hand across her back, pressing down gently to her. “But I think he’s here for more than just that, darling.”
Deirdre barks out a laugh, her collection of unused infernal coins clinking together.
“Let’s bet on that one.”
Astarion feels his stomach both sink and swim, full of something leaden and murky. Once, Cazador had told him that his screams sounded the sweetest of all. It made him bite his tongue until it bled all too often, refusing to give the vampire lord the satisfaction of having fully broken him. Here, in the mundane cloth confines of his companion’s tent, he feels the ever tempting compulsion to press at his own bruises until he screams of his own free will.
“What do you think it’d be like?” Astarion asks, his voice pitching to that breathy drawl all his victims liked so much. “If he were to have you?” His hands still dance this practiced routine, tracing letters into her skin. He writes his own name, as if to affirm his own place. That she is marked. His.
Deirdre doesn’t take the bait, just squeezes his calf gently, and smiles back at him before going back to her mess of supplies.
He can stop now, play it off as a joke, and make this queasiness go away. He doesn’t have to imagine things between them; doesn’t have to pretend to savor the thought, doesn’t have to pretend he’s okay with her going to anyone but him.
But, does he have the right to that?
Is it okay?
Of course not.
So he goes back into step. He sits up, both hands on her shoulders, smoothing them out.
“Enormous as he is, I get the feeling he’d be quite tender. Wouldn’t you say, dear?” Astarion moves his hands a little more purposely, squeezing her upper arms and his face moves towards the nape of her neck. There’s something acrid in his throat, that makes his breathy tone laughably easier, as he feels himself use words to cover up for the bile rising in it. “ Is that what you want? Hmm?”
Everything that I'm not.
Deirdre leans back, into his touch, but doesn’t meet him with the passion he imagined. He feels a little bit dead inside- like how it usually was with this sort of affair, and the feeling leaves him hollow and too easily filled with trifling emotions like confusion and bah, longing. Or something like it.
Astarion kisses her neck, tongue laving at the familiar space with which he bit into her when he fed. His mark. His and his alone.
“Is he what you really want?”
“Hmm.” Deirdre hums, neck free for him to mark and ruin and ravage. This makes him thrum, but still, he’s holding back.
“I’d rather enjoy the one who is actually in my tent.”
Astarion breezes right past the reassurance he’d been indirectly asking for- begging for, and can’t even snap out of his performance mode. He sucks on her neck, too hard, sure to leave a mark. He knew she wasn’t always fond of those.
To her credit, Deirdre doesn’t shove him away. It’s worse. She pulls away only to turn and face him. She looks at him and lays back down, daggers and other crap pushed aside.
“Come here.”
Like an obedient dog, he obeys. Lays down beside her like he’s going into his own coffin.
“Halsin is a good ally. A strong fighter.”
Astarion wants to scream, but he just nods his head dumbly. “I know.” He mumbles, shock stiff.
“I’m with you. For-,” Deirdre gestures in the brief reprieve of privacy in the tent, searching for words. He doesn’t dare presume to fill in the blanks. “Whatever this is, I’m with you.” She concedes.
“Right.” He says, not looking at her, just speaking it out loud into the tent. His stomach, tight and knotted and unsure, starts to finally ease.
Suddenly, organizing daggers and rapiers feels like a welcome respite, but he supposes he can make due with this. Deirdre’s shoulder at his side, the sunset allowing for a smaller sliver of sunlight to revel in, and the promise of something together.