let me be your friend(ly fire)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Tav’s encounter with Abdirak proves that, for Astarion and Shadowheart, there’s no better team building than a little team bondage.
Rating: ExplicitWC: 13,135Pairings: F/F/M and M/F, Astarion/Shadowheart, Shadowheart/Tav, Astarion/Tav, Shadowheart/Tav/Astarion
If she’s honest, Shadowheart has never much cared for Astarion, even before his grand vampiric debut. And she’s pretty confident he returns the sentiment.
He’s not exactly made the best impression so far, has he, what with pulling a knife on Tav and then assaulting her in the middle of the night. Doesn’t help that he’s a bit of a pompous twat, either.
Of course, her distaste for the man has nothing to do with him propositioning Tav only a few nights after Shadowheart’s date with her. Why should she care? She and Tav shared one kiss. Alright, so it might have been a kiss that made her feel kind of odd and tingly, like the muscles in her stomach were spasming in a nice way—but that doesn’t mean anything, really. Shadowheart would never be so idiotic as to develop a twee little crush on their party’s leader while they’re all busy trying not to die.
She’s much too dignified for that.
Well, her internal monologue deadpans as she sips Blackstaff straight from the bottle. Here’s hoping self-delusion isn’t a symptom of ceremorphosis.
The thing is, Shadowheart is not normally a jealous person. And it would’ve been fine had it been any of the others, she thinks. Wait, no. It could’ve been Lae’zel, and at that point Shadowheart might have begged Gale to hurry up and explode already. It would be a speedier end to her misery than the alternative, which would presumably be Faerûn’s first ever case of death by sheer mortification.
So she’s glad it’s not Lae’zel, at least.
But it absolutely could’ve been, say, Karlach. She would’ve been so understanding about that. Karlach is kind, strong, and dashing. She has redeeming qualities, plural(!), which is more than Shadowheart can say for Astarion.
What she means is that this isn't something that would typically rattle her so much. And it wouldn’t now, either, if not for how Astarion seems to always have a trick up his sleeve; she's worried that his intentions here might not be pure. Not to mention that his and Tav's tryst has, impossibly, made him even more unbearably smug.
Shadowheart takes another long drink. There’s nothing for it, she supposes. Tav hasn’t made any commitment to her, so she has no right to be upset about it.
Sighing in resignation, she checks how much wine she has left. The liquid looks black inside the dark green bottle, sloshing violently against the sides for a while before settling into a placid line.
There’s not nearly enough, in her opinion.
Making it to the goblin camp the next morning is a minor production. First, there’s the matter of getting past the sentinel, which Tav handles with a slick bluff about being a hired sword. No sweat, that; at this point baldfaced deception is standard fare for them.
But then, before they can properly cross the threshold to the rest of the camp, they’re assaulted with a vision of the Absolute and its Chosen. Shadowheart instinctively reaches for the artifact she pilfered in her Lady’s name and, by some ineffable miracle, it shields them from the entity’s influence. Which is frankly a lot to process. On the one hand, they’ve gained some modicum of insight into the forces responsible for their plight; on the other, the ordeal raises far more questions than it answers, and Shadowheart can tell that they’re all a tad shaken by it.
Which is what makes it so aggravating that Astarion insists on poisoning the goblins’ booze tub with wyvern toxin—as if they need any more excitement. She wants to protest the suggestion on the grounds that it’s basically guaranteed to backfire, in any one of a number of uniquely insipid ways, but she opts to say nothing when she sees the mischievous glint in Tav’s eye.
Harder to call it stupid when she’s on board.
Naturally, it does go spectacularly wrong. Because, despite how unintelligent they typically are, the goblins are clever enough to connect the dots between a troop of strangers proposing a toast and a mounting pile of drunk corpses. Which isn’t surprising, given that it’s conceivably the least covert assassination ever. If only someone could have foreseen this complication ahead of time, she thinks sarcastically.
And because Shadowheart was born to suffer, the booyahg that accuses them of the crime is exceptionally screechy even by goblin standards, making her fervently regret drinking so much last night. Admittedly, that one’s her own fault, and a lesson she by all rights ought to have learned by now. It’s pure, uncanny luck that Tav’s gift for bullsh*tting ekes out an escape for them without any further bloodshed. She feeds the goblins some lie or another that Shadowheart barely hears over the irritation (hangover) pounding in her skull.
Taking a healing potion to rid herself of the headache improves her mood a little; entertaining idle fantasies of throttling Astarion improves it more. The bastard doesn’t even have the good grace to act sorry for the trouble. No, he’s visibly having the time of his unlife, not at all concealing his demented glee at the carnage.
But, praise be to the Dark Goddess, they’ve finally completed the quest of walking into the building. It only took two hours and several years off Shadowheart's life.
Tav determines that they ought to investigate the entire base prior to engaging with any of the leaders. Shadowheart thinks that it might be the first decent plan any of them have had all day, and is curious to see how they'll manage to screw it up. When she expresses this aloud, Tav chuckles and claps her on the back affectionately; she tries not to preen too much at the attention, but she catches Astarion’s exaggerated eye roll. She generously ignores it.
They begin exploring the sanctum, and most of the rooms they encounter are full of nothing besides dusty storage shelves and goblins, exemplifying its purpose as a makeshift base. That is, until Tav wanders into an unassuming nook off the main entryway, initially indistinguishable from every other one they’ve seen. The rest of them dutifully follow her, and they wind up in a small alcove that seems wholly divorced from the military operation. For one thing, there are no goblins to be found in the chamber, which automatically earns it the title of ‘most tolerable place they’ve been thus far.’
The absence of cultists isn’t the only thing notable about it, though; flickering candles cover the floor, casting a warm, delicate glow that climbs up the walls. It would nearly be romantic, if not for the table piled high with flails, maces, and other implements of pain. Dark smudges of what must be dried gore cling to the grout of the masonry, a few splatters of fresher blood glistening in the dim candlelight. The abnormal quantity of viscera in this room, as opposed to elsewhere in the sanctum, indicates that it is ritualistic, sacrificial in nature.
As a Sharran, Shadowheart instantly identifies the den as a shrine to Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain quite familiar to her due to the affinity between the two goddesses. She sees a similar spark of recognition in Tav's eyes as she scans the room; understandable, with her being a paladin.
Which probably means that the man knelt facing the wall is one of her devotees. He’s not wearing much clothing, save for ornate leather pauldrons and a matching skirt that are connected by decorative straps. It sends a very specific message, and Shadowheart suspects there’s truth in the advertising.
Ever the fearless leader, Tav approaches the acolyte. As the rest of them fall into step behind her, it becomes impossible to miss the evidence of his self-flagellation. His skin is marred with patterns of red and purple bruising, and Shadowheart catalogs each mark with reliable knowledge of how it likely hurt to receive them. She can imagine the sharp hiss of the whip that gave him those whisper-thin welts on his back and thighs; contrastingly, the fist-sized contusion that peeks out over his hip would have been left by the deeper, more solid impact of a blunt instrument. Her own muscles throb with a phantom ache at the sight of them, her heartbeat quickening at the brazen display of depravity.
The man stands, turning to face Tav. “Greetings, child. I am Abdirak.”
“Tav.”
“I’ve met few aside from goblins here.” He gives her a once over, smiling faintly. “Ah, are you also here to assist with the prisoner?”
“I’m only passing through,” she answers slyly, offering no more information than necessary.
“Your tastes must turn to the exotic, if you would stop here by choice,” Abdirak says, not a lick of subtlety in the way he rubs his palms together.
Shadowheart doesn’t really follow their exchange after that, focused instead on tracking the movement of Tav’s tongue as it darts out to wet her bottom lip. Her favorite traveling companion is clearly not ignorant of the suggestiveness in Abdirak’s tone, and Shadowheart swears she sees Tav's breath catch, sees her lashes flutter coquettishly as they chat.
Not only does it seem that Tav is aware of what Abdirak’s faith entails, then, but she seems unambiguously excited by it.
There’s a peculiar sensation in Shadowheart’s gut, vaguely reminiscent of how she felt after being catapulted off the roof of the Tyrran hideout but before she hit the ground, all weightless and swoopy. It almost makes up for the day she’s been having.
She wouldn’t have guessed it, is all—that their team’s ever-righteous commander would be enthralled by such a gruesome spectacle. Maybe that’s part of the charm; maybe how wrong it is makes it enticing.
Whatever the reason, Tav seems thoroughly captivated. Shadowheart is itching to ask if this is a fledgling curiosity for her, or if she’s flirted with these sorts of fetishes in the past. And also if she would be receptive to further experimentation.
Unbidden, a series of images flit through her psyche: Tav stripped of all clothing and bent over her knee, squirming in anticipation as Shadowheart teases the sensitive flesh of her ass with her fingertips. Or Tav sitting perfectly still, so good and patient for her, as Shadowheart uses one of the bundles of rope they’ve collected to weave an intricate design across her chest and back. She finds she rather likes the mental image of her like that, hands bound behind her and the taut rope scratching her lightly with every minute movement.
Shadowheart gets lost in that reverie for longer than she cares to admit, being that she’s ostensibly in public. When she comes out of it, Abdirak is speaking to Tav in a tone of hushed reverence, “–we worship her through pain. Often our own. But it is an intimate and loving thing, this sort of ritual, and one we are always… eager to share.”
Tav nods, completely engrossed. She thankfully appears oblivious to Shadowheart’s degenerate flights of fancy, preoccupied with asking Abdirak about the ceremony.
Unfortunately, not everyone is so inattentive. For his part, Gale is—mercifully—too disturbed by Abdirak to notice anything amiss with Shadowheart. But Astarion is watching her closely, a knowing smirk playing at his lips, obviously able to deduce what she was thinking about.
Great, that’s precisely what she needs: for her kinks to be peer reviewed by a smarmy vampire. She can totally trust him to be considerate and respectful about the matter, and he definitely isn’t already plotting a myriad of different schemes whereby he can use this to embarrass her.
Maybe it’s not too late for her to join the cultists; she should ask the goblins if they have any devotional literature she could browse.
Although, the more she thinks about it, it seems unlikely any of them know how to read. Probably theirs is more an evangelism by fire.
Regrettably, the reality is that, if she wants the best chance of preventing herself from becoming a mind flayer, Shadowheart is simply going to have to suck it up and live with whatever torment Astarion subjects her to over this. Her mouth wrenches into a displeased line as she reluctantly accepts that fate. She's reserving the right to be a brat about it, though.
Almost as if on cue, Astarion decides now would be a good time to use their parasites to connect his consciousness to hers. Shadowheart knows this because she hears his amused chuckle in her mind, without any warning or even a cursory attempt to ask her permission, as distinctly as if it were aloud.
Forget what she said about sucking it up, actually. Her new, better plan is to cause him a great deal of bodily harm. Perhaps by spiking all his potions with holy water, but she’ll workshop more options later as a treat to herself. She deserves it for not immediately striking him with a bolt of radiant energy at this massive breach of her privacy.
Shadowheart tenses in trepidation of him trying to pry into her psyche, hastily constructing mental barriers to inhibit that potential trespass. Shockingly, though, Astarion makes no effort to dig into her subconscious. In fact, it rather appears to be the reverse: the vampire using the link to broadcast his thoughts and emotions to Shadowheart, communicating telepathically without compelling her reciprocation.
This is an intriguing development, he says casually. Like this is the type of thing they do all the time; a friendly, normal thing for them to do together that isn't immensely disquieting. Our dear paladin seems rather taken with that deviant.
At that, a low hum of desire filters across the bond, and even though it doesn’t belong to her, it nevertheless sends pinpricks of pleasant heat to Shadowheart’s abdomen. The sensation is similar but different to that of her own lust, which is something refuses to examine any further. Evidently, though, Astarion is just as affected by Tav’s blatant interest in sadomasochism as she is. And for reasons entirely inscrutable to her, he’s determined that Shadowheart—a person who can hardly stand him on a good day—needs to not only know this information but experience it firsthand.
Truly, hers is a charmed life.
Astarion is either painfully unaware of, or merely unsympathetic to, her vexation. He speaks to her slowly, as though savoring every syllable, And here I was, worried this excursion would be utterly dull. But if our dutiful captain revels in such twisted diversions, then I dare say we could have some fun, cleric.
He hesitates a moment before adding, thick with intent, Should you be so inclined, that is.
Lady of f*cking Sorrows, he cannot be serious. Her wound flares in response to the blasphemy and Shadowheart hisses, vowing to find time to be penitent later when the universe starts making sense again. Because this? This is absurd—Astarion can’t actually be trying to, what, trade some friendly banter about their mutual sexual attraction to Tav? Delight in the joys of cooperative voyeurism? Or possibly something too aberrant to even contemplate, based on how laden with innuendo his tone is.
She’s about to unequivocally rebuff him, to use the link to tell him to piss off and go be horny literally anywhere other than inside her head. But she stays her (metaphorical) tongue as it occurs to her that if she does, then the chances are pretty high that he’ll do exactly that. And mostly likely, he'll choose to do that with Tav. Which would leave Shadowheart equally horny about the whole thing, except with no one but her own hand for company.
Damn it, she really doesn’t want to have to entertain his dumb proposal, but she doesn’t like the other option either. She’s grateful, suddenly, that their connection is one-sided; at least Astarion paid her that courtesy, so she can assess the circ*mstances with some degree of privacy. Kudos to him for accomplishing the bare minimum amount of civility, she supposes.
Alright, Shadowheart thinks, the facts as she understands them are as such: Tav is romantically pursuing both her and Astarion, but her endgame is woefully unclear. She trusts that Tav was sincere about cherishing their night together, but that doesn’t invalidate whatever misguided affection she harbors for Astarion. And if it comes down to choosing one of them…she hates to admit it, but the vampire currently has a significant advantage, having already slept with Tav while Shadowheart has foolishly been attempting a slow burn.
Now, Astarion is offering…well, he’s not being especially forthcoming about the specifics. But unless this is part of some needlessly complex setup to humiliate and/or kill her (which she isn’t ruling out), then he’s making a gesture to involve Shadowheart in his relationship with Tav to some degree. If it were anyone else, she might find that considerate; he’s acknowledging that they’re interested in the same woman and, rather than trying to edge her out, he’s broaching a compromise. A situation where no one has to lose. With how insecure she’s been about this lately, the concept indisputably has some appeal.
Has the cat got your tadpole? Astarion mocks, more impish than outright callous.
Shut up, Shadowheart answers testily, I’m thinking. Projecting the sentence to him is easier than she would have assumed, as though there’s a tether adjoining them and she’s skipping the words across it like pebbles on a lake. It’s too intimate by half, however, and a peculiar sort of disquiet takes root in her.
Ah, Astarion says. Do try not to hurt yourself, darling.
She graciously elects to move past that.
Shadowheart glances back to the tableau of erotic tension currently unfolding between Abdirak and their leader. As the priest regales her with details of his worship, Tav's lids are half-closed, and she swallows like there’s something big and unwieldy lodged in her throat. Her weight restlessly shifts from foot to foot, like she is actively trying not to squeeze her thighs together. Shadowheart would be willing to bet the artifact that her underwear are already drenched.
Tav is so responsive, so obviously greedy for attention. She would go wild, Shadowheart thinks, at having the undivided focus of both of Astarion and herself at the same time.
…As far as arguments go, Shadowheart finds that one very compelling.If nothing else, this presents a golden opportunity for her to suss out Astarion’s true ambitions vis a vis Tav. Keeping her enemy closer, as it were.
Screw it; if she can't beat him, then she might as well join him as he beats Tav.
Having made her decision, she cautiously reaches out to Astarion again, Perhaps we could take up a common cause, just this once.
Excellent, he purrs. The poor thing’s been through so much; it’s high time she got a bit of satisfaction.
Agreed, Shadowheart says easily, unable to keep the smirk from her lips. Seeing as I doubt she’s finding it elsewhere.
Their nascent alliance aside, she’s immensely gratified when a muscle above his mouth twitches slightly, as though he’s suppressing a scowl. By the time Shadowheart blinks, however, his features slip back into a mask of magnanimity.
Yes, well, I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you? he asks cooly. Shadowheart is about to volley back with something devastatingly clever, but Astarion continues speaking before she can think of anything. Hmm, would you look at that. Seems our entertainment is about to begin.
“If you would permit it,” Abdirak says, and at some point over the course of their conversation he has stepped awfully close to Tav, “I can show you firsthand.”
There’s a pregnant pause where all of them are holding the same charged breath (though Gale’s is less lascivious and more apprehensive). Tav looks back at her party, like she's only just remembering their presence, nervousness flitting over her features as she presumably fears losing their esteem.
Astarion shatters that tension by grinning wolfishly, “I must see this. Don’t you dare say no.”
The anxiety in her expression melts away, her lips stretching into a smile so full of naked hunger that Shadowheart immediately determines that she made the right call. There is nothing she wouldn't do to see Tav like this as much as possible, a flush high in her cheeks and her pupils are blown, all flustered and pretty. When Tav turns to meet her eyes, Shadowheart allows her gaze to trail leisurely down the paladin’s figure. She hopes her expression adequately conveys what she’s thinking, which is something along the lines of: I want to devour all the sounds you’re about to make. It must do, because when her eyes return to Tav’s face, the other woman is staring at her mouth like she's imagining it all over her.
Gale clears his throat awkwardly. “Erm. Your hide, your choice, I suppose. Not quite my cup of tea, though.”
Tav spares him an apologetic glance, but whatever concern she may have for his unease is not enough to prevent her from whispering, “Well, I guess I am curious.”
“Oh,” Abdirak sighs, the single syllable made weighty and significant by the near-tremble in his voice. “I have something exquisite in mind.”
As he lays out the ceremony Tav is about to participate in, Shadowheart’s pulse pounds in her ears like a war drum.
“Simply face the wall and we can begin,” Abdirak instructs, gesturing with a nod as he begins to run his fingertips over the instruments on the table.
Tav hesitates for long enough that Shadowheart worries she’s not going to go through with it after all (which would be fine, of course, albeit disappointing). But she then begins doffing her armor, starting with her boots.
“It'll be a pretty sh*t offering if I can’t feel it through the plating,” she explains, as though the decision is solely a pragmatic one. It’s not terribly convincing when it comes out that soft and breathless.
Tav carefully discards each piece of her chain mail, setting them neatly on the stone floor. The chamber is quiet enough to hear a pin drop as she finishes removing it, standing before them in her plainclothes.
Then, after a pause, she unbuttons her trousers and pushes them down her thighs.
Tav doesn’t bother attempting to justify why that's necessary, but no one is about to complain.
Soon enough, her bottoms have joined the pile on the floor and her hands are tugging at the hem of her shirt. Abdirak’s stare implies that he’s about three seconds away from lunging at Tav and trying to eat her. Shadowheart would disapprove of it but she can't, really, sitting as she is in her own glass house.
Once more, she senses the press of Astarion’s consciousness sliding against hers before his arousal floods her synapses, potent and heady.
Shadowheart has the impulse to shove him out; she might be begrudgingly willing to work with him, but she would really prefer to focus their efforts on Tav and limit their involvement with one another. But loathe as she is to admit it, it feels good, his desire thrumming in time with her own, compounding and amplifying it. And she’s been kind of lacking in the good feelings department lately, on account of her having a terminal case of brainworm. So despite herself, she relaxes to the phenomenon, lowering her mental defenses enough to return the favor (and it’s uncanny, isn’t it, to know how delighted he is that she does). Despite her misgivings, she's immediately glad to have relented when searing hot want travels back and forth between them in a feedback loop, building in fervor until Shadowheart is barely suppressing a shudder.
Tav finishes stripping off her clothes, now wearing nothing but a set of lacy underwear. It does not leave much to the imagination, and Shadowheart has spent weeks doing more than her fair share of imagining. She inhales through her nose sharply, not finding the capacity within herself to care about how flagrantly she’s ogling Tav’s ass.
Astarion laughs inside her head again, and a heaping dose of self-satisfaction trickles through their connection. Because, to Shadowheart’s endless chagrin, he’s already seen Tav like this.
Prick, Shadowheart says simply, but it’s difficult to be too upset when Tav is striding over to the wall on slightly shaky legs. She leans forward and presses her hands to the stone, her stance wide so that her back, bottom, and thighs are all poised to be struck.
Abdirak doesn’t move at first, merely taking in the sight of her. Eventually, he wraps his fingers around the handle of a mace and hums appreciatively. “Yes,” he murmurs. “This will do nicely.”
He stalks toward Tav, placing a hand on her lower back. She startles at the contact, hyper-reflexive, then centers herself back into stillness with a wobbly exhale. Abdirak waits for her to settle before guiding Tav to bend over further, her weight shifting until it’s her forearms, not her palms, that are braced against the stone. This new position forces her to arch her spine, forces her ass on display.
Ah, so Abdirak has abandoned any pretense of decorum as well. Hard to quibble about it, though, when the result is such an enchanting visual. Their leader is so delectably exposed that Shadowheart has to literally bite her tongue to smother the noise she almost makes. She can’t help it; Tav looks absolutely obscene like this. Like she’s begging to be ravished..
She anticipates a surge in Astarion’s passion to mirror her own, but it doesn’t come. If anything, he’s growing increasingly impatient, keen for the ritual to begin already. She’s taken aback by this apparent lack of interest, because she knows he’s turned on. Shadowheart is viscerally, intimately aware of that, so prominent and exhilarating that she’s tempted to stop thinking and melt into it. But as she examines the sensation more closely, she can tell that it’s primarily the promise of sadism stoking those flames; incomprehensibly, Astarion seems largely indifferent to Tav’s nearly-naked body. Which is baffling for a lot of reasons, chief among them that he’s already had sex with her.
So…why did he do that, then? Because Shadowheart doubts it was mainly to spite her. Was Tav just a convenient lay for him? Is he trying to get something from her? It would support her theory regarding his ulterior motives, but would beg a lot of questions about why he chose to rope Shadowheart into it. She must be missing context here, the disparate pieces not adding up into a cogent whole.
There’s a beat where she considers delving further into his intellect for answers, but she restrains herself. Given her own tendencies toward secrecy, it would be hypocritical. Instead, she says: Curious, that you aren’t thinking of bedding her right now.
I figure you’re doing that enough for the both of us, Astarion replies dismissively, hardly acknowledging her. It’s not a denial, and Shadowheart makes note of that. But there are more pressing matters at hand, as Abdirak raises his mace at last.
He swings the weapon in a viciously swift arc, landing a solid blow to the meat of Tav’s right buttock.
“The pain you suffer will cleanse you – do not fight it,” he orders, and Tav obeys. She cries out, a pitiful mix between a moan and a whimper. Little shivery spikes of pleasure shoot up Shadowheart’s spine at the sound, and she can’t tell whether they originate from Astarion or herself.
She resolves to put aside her suspicions for the time being; she may not know what his long-term goals are, here, but for right now their purposes are thoroughly aligned.
In the calm before Abdirak’s next strike, Shadowheart asks, “Would you have joined up with her if you’d known she’d be indulging in this sort of thing, Astarion?” Her tone is demure and deliberately casual. It makes Tav quiver, unable to conceal her perverse elation at this small act of exhibitionism.
“I mean, I had my hopes,” Astarion responds without missing a beat. Tav buries her face in her bicep, then, endeavoring to muffle her involuntary whine at their flirting.
(And if this is how she reacts to it, flirting with Astarion has just become exponentially more appealing.)
Abdirak takes advantage of her distraction to crack the mace down once more, and Tav throws her head back and howls at the impact.
“Pain is proof that we live! Revel in it,” Abdirak bellows, so incredibly reverent. Shadowheart can't say she blames him for perceiving divinity in Tav’s pain. Judging by the phantasm of something clenching in deep her core, nerve endings singing in body parts she does not have, Astarion agrees.
“Come on,” the paladin manages to taunt in spite of her labored panting, “a child can hit harder than that.”
f*ck, Shadowheart is so thoroughly obsessed with her.
“Hah! You want more? As you wish, dear one,” Abdirak says sweetly, returning that steadying palm to her back as he swings the mace again, slamming it into the underside of Tav’s ass. She yelps, her hands balling into such tight fists that her nails must be digging into them.
Shadowheart can already see premonitions of bruises forming on Tav’s behind, the ruddy, irregular imprints of Abdirak’s weapon. Gods, she can’t stop thinking about touching them; she knows how hot under her fingers they’d be, all the blood pulsing just under the skin from the broken capillaries. As she fantasizes about it, she broadcasts the image to Astarion, sighing when another wave of reciprocal pleasure crashes over their connection.
In answer, Astarion envisions Tav’s thighs, as yet unblemished. He thinks about spreading them, about lavishing them with a flogger until they’re as marked up as her ass. About drinking from her femoral artery while the abrasions are fresh—feeling that same blistering heat under his mouth, making her twitch and spasm when his teeth puncture the still-tender flesh. Shadowheart would normally be opposed to him feeding on Tav, but it’s different when their emotions are entwined like this, when Astarion finds it so electrifying that it makes her dizzy.
Shadowheart bets Tav would let him do that. Unexpectedly, she realizes she would very much like to watch it happen, ideally with Tav's head resting on her lap so she can stroke the paladin's hair. She tries not to picture what might come after that, but can't quite help it.
Dear me, Astarion replies, faux-scandalized in a way that does nothing to hide his glee. Who would have known you were amenable to sharing her so intimately?
Shadowheart realizes that she must have projected that thought to him inadvertently, and she would probably be stressed out about that if she weren’t so turned on.
And of course Astarion is obnoxiously pretending this wasn't always what he was angling for, having retained just enough plausible deniability to act like this is her idea; she'd never expect anything less of him.
In the interest of not ruining the potential for a good thing, though, Shadowheart lets it slide. Which is something she's done enough times to day that she deserves some sort of medal, or possibly sainthood.
Not me, I assure you, she tells him, because it's the truth. It’s been a very enlightening day.
Let’s discuss this fascinating proposal of yours at camp this evening, then.
Must we? she asks archly. You’re so much more charming when you’re silent.
As far as comments go, it's on the border between insulting and flirtatious. Under normal circ*mstances, she'd have stuck strictly to the former category but, well, Tav clearly got off on their flirting earlier.
Darling cleric mine, he replies, his mirth palpable, you’ve no idea how charming I can be.
With that, Astarion severs the link between them, and the tether dissipates as quickly as it was formed. The loss of him is almost more disorienting than the intrusion itself; now that she’s alone in it again, her brain feels bizarrely empty. Shadowheart will never, ever cop to it, but a part of her mourns the absence.
That said, it does make it easier to focus on what’s happening in front of her, as Abdirak straightens and takes a step back.
“Sweet child,” Abdirak murmurs, “you bear the pain like a true believer.” His right hand flutters in an aborted movement, as though longing to hit her again.
Shadowheart notices him considering it, and while she doesn’t really want to put an end to the affair, she has aims of her own to account for. “Now, now,” she says coyly. “Don’t wear her out entirely, priest—I might have use for her later.”
Abdirak’s eyes are sparkling with licentious joy. “Then far be it from me to interfere with a private benediction.” He turns to Tav. “You may stand now.”
She does so gingerly, her expression unreadable as she faces the party. Or, mostly unreadable; the arousal is still very conspicuous, but it’s difficult to tell what she’s thinking aside from that.
Abdirak drops into a deep bow and tells her, “I am proud to have served you this penance.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed myself.” The response spills from Tav’s mouth filthily with her speech so gravelly from her cries. It does funny things to Shadowheart’s insides.
Abdirak’s too, she presumes, given how he straight-up groans, “As did I, dear one.”
He bestows her with a blessing from Loviatar, and Tav redresses, looking significantly worse for the wear.
Gale coughs, voice high pitched and strained as he asks, “So did we still want to talk to Priestess Gut, then?”
It catches Shadowheart by surprise; she’d completely forgotten he was there.
They don’t end up talking to Priestess Gut, as it turns out. Tav seems keen to set up camp for the evening, and Shadowheart can’t blame her for that. Although she’d healed her as much as she could, Shadowheart knows personally how draining that type of 'ritual' can be.
She’s secretly kind of glad about their early departure, because she’s been struggling to think about anything other than what just happened and her tentative detente with Astarion. Tav had asked her a couple of questions during their trip back and she’d floundered uselessly at them, unable to believably act like she was paying attention. If Astarion’s snickering was any indication, he’d found her predicament hilarious.
But thankfully, they’ve made it home now. Gale has started preparing another meal that smells improbably good for the ingredients involved, and if he still feels awkward about today then he's hiding it well. Tav disappears into her tent, citing fatigue, and asks them to wake her up when dinner is ready.
In the meantime, Shadowheart lounges in front of her tent, endeavoring to focus on the book she’s reading and losing the battle. Her mind keeps wandering to her forthcoming conversation with the vampire. She wishes their plans had been less vague, but it does give her time to organize her thoughts.
Frankly, she isn’t sure how to proceed, or even precisely what it is that she’s feeling. Shadowheart doesn’t like Astarion; she honestly finds him sort of repellent, personality-wise, but she can’t pretend their little escapade wasn’t enticing. She found it weirdly fun, them sniping at each other telepathically and sharing dirty daydreams. And in a way she can’t imagine doing with anyone else, either—she couldn’t be that catty or that deviantly horny with Wyll, for gods’ sake. There’s a distinctive charm to her antagonism with Astarion she hadn’t noticed before, but that she suspects was always there.
The thought that her relationship with him offers her something unique and valuable is utterly intolerable, so she chooses to pretend it never occurred to her and rapidly turns her thoughts to other topics. Namely, that she still has a few concerns about his intentions toward Tav, and about what he wants out of this more generally; it’s probably her biggest reservation about allowing this…thing…to progress any further.
Mulling all of this over in her head makes her antsy to just get it over with; her body vibrates with excess energy, still keyed up and jittery from the encounter with Abdirak, and she’s tired of waiting around. She decides that if he wants to talk, he can do so on her terms, and her terms are that they should do it right now or not at all.
Shadowheart reaches out with the tadpole briefly to instruct him to meet her down by the river, then starts walking.
Belatedly, she realizes it would have been easy to relay that message verbally, and wonders whether it might be dangerous to get too comfortable using the parasite like this. It could be for a number of potential reasons, but she figures worrying about it is a problem for a future version of Shadowheart whose capactiy to worry isn't monopolized by the thought of arranging a polyamorous partnership.
The trip to the river is a short one, and before long she arrives at its rocky shore, sitting down near the water. She studies the ripples on its surface while she waits for the vampire to arrive. It feels more real, now that they’re only minutes away from actually discussing it. A sick, sudden panic squeezes her chest as she questions whether indulging in this is the worst idea she’s ever had, actually.
Shadowheart doesn’t have much time to contemplate it, however, because Astarion arrives only a few minutes after her. She’s amazed, having fully presumed he would make her wait; absentmindedly, it occurs to her that he must be about as anxious as she is to talk.
Despite the day’s adventures, he looks perfectly put together, hair coiffed and remarkably free of grime. She despises him for that, envious of his body’s inability to sweat.
“Hello, pet,” he greets, sauntering toward her with effortless confidence. Her nose scrunches up at the term of endearment.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “Try again.”
Astarion grins wickedly. “How do you feel about ‘kitten’?”
“Differently than you do, I suspect, having never had one for a light snack,” she replies, unimpressed. “Perhaps your third attempt will be the charm.”
A pause follows, during which Shadowheart dreads the inevitable.
“Lover?”
So predictable.
“If you’re feeling suicidal, Astarion, we can talk about that,” she says with feigned benevolence. “I’d be honored to help you plan it.”
“Fine, if you insist on being tedious,” he sighs, as though Shadowheart is being terribly unreasonable. “Hello, darling.”
She closes her eyes for a long moment, exhaling slowly as she tries to combat her increasingly violent urges.
“Astarion,” Shadowheart nods once she opens them again, finally returning his greeting. His eyes are bright with mischief, so very thrilled with himself. “I believe we have a common objective.”
“So it seems.” The vampire quirks an eyebrow at her bluntness. “What do you propose we do about that?”
“Well,” Shadowheart says slyly. “I have a few thoughts.”
“Do you now,” Astarion murmurs, not really a question. He leans down until his nose almost brushing hers, his voice full of salacious promise as he asks, “Why don’t you tell me them?”
It’s such a brazenly tactless ploy that it’s insulting. Worse, Astarion looking at her like that is twisting up her insides unpleasantly. She needs it to cease immediately. Actually, she needs it to cease thirty seconds ago, before it happened.
“Ugh, quit that,” Shadowheart cringes, putting some distance between them. “I’ve been inside your head, remember? I know that you're not attracted to me.” She pauses, then adds: “And for what it’s worth, the disinterest is mutual.”
Shadowheart is annoyed that she even has to say it, having been nothing but straightforward about her distaste for him. That’s probably why her rejection comes out sounding just on the other side of ‘too belligerent': because it’s frustrating that Astarion would ignore her blatant signals and come on to her anyway.
He straightens to his full height again, recoiling from her as though slapped. “Is that so?”
“I’m not opposed to…collaborating with you,” Shadowheart continues, “in service of our collective inerest in making Tav come—so long as you know that she’s the only reason I’m willing to touch you. But by all means, you’re welcome to continue trying to seduce me, if being humiliated is what gets you off.”
Astarion puts his hands in his pockets, regarding her.
“How foolish of me,” he says in a monotone. “Somewhere between all the wanton lust and fantasies of group sex, I must have gotten the wrong impression.”
Shadowheart opens her mouth to protest, but Astarion pretends not to notice.
“An easy mistake to make, you must admit,” he continues nonchalantly. “Given that you took such unabashed pleasure in sharing your innermost desires with me. Your commitment to the cause is admirable, to do all that for Tav’s benefit. Especially since she had no way of knowing it was happening.” Astarion locks eyes with her, then, his stare derisive, “But by all means, you’re welcome to continue pretending this is only about her, if it makes it easier for you to justify sleeping with me.”
Indignation charges through her like a minotaur, so fast that it makes her lightheaded. She smothers it, shoves it down, refusing to let him see her facade break. Refusing to feed into his pathetic delusions of her being attracted to him by giving him any sort of reaction.
Fortunately, repression is second nature to her.
“Speaking of Tav,” she says affably, like this is a normal conversation between friends. As far as deflections go, she is excruciatingly aware it is not the most artful. “I wanted to ask about your intentions with her.”
Astarion blinks, unprepared for the abrupt change in topic. “What of them?”
“She’s not stupid, Astarion. She’s going to notice if you don’t want her.” The words tumble from her mouth, harsher and more accusatory than she intends. It's possible his audacity is getting to her still, which is shameful in its own right. “And while normally I’d be more than happy to reap the benefits of that, I’d prefer if she doesn’t get hurt. In the unfun way, at least.”
The shift in Astarion’s demeanor is palpable; he looks away from her, the muscles in his jaw tensing and releasing as though he’s grinding his teeth. He reminds her somewhat of a cornered animal, hackles raised and unsure whether to fight or flee. Except the only threat here is Shadowheart, and she thinks it should be gratifying that he considers her dangerous. Instead it makes her feel itchy and gross, like she's akin any common beast that's covered in fleas and foaming at the mouth.
Eventually, he throws his hands up, a noise of exasperation tearing from his vocal chords. “You are impossible, do you know that?” He glares at her, then, demanding, “Who says I don’t want her?”
Shadowheart is in too deep to back down, now, unable to take her words back even though he tries to give them to her. “You seemed apathetic about her earlier, aside from the sad*stic bits. I happened to notice it, when I was in your head.”
“Oh, yes,” Astarion replies, dripping with sarcasm. “Very good, cleric. You’ve caught me: this has all been a cruel, elaborate joke I’ve chosen to play on a woman who could split me in twain if the whim struck her. How incredibly astute of you—whatever enclave of antisocial misfits you hail from is no doubt rejoicing at your perceptiveness as we speak.”
Shadowheart doesn’t know what to say to that, caught off guard by how contemptuously he spits the rant at her. She needn’t say anything, though, because Astarion fills the silence for her.
“Clearly, your brief sojourn inside my mind has made you the foremost expert on what I do and do not want,” he scoffs, affronted, which is an irritatingly reasonable point.
With the benefit of hindsight, Shadowheart can maybe see how, under a certain light, she’s been a bit unfairly presumptuous. The idea of having to admit fault to him makes her skin crawl.
Astarion’s gaze drops to her mouth for a split second before finding her eyes again. “Which, incidentally, is rich coming from someone insistent on languishing in denial of her own desires; I’d appreciate the irony more if it weren’t so aggravating.”
An oppressive, fiery blush rises to her cheeks at the insinuation, and she curses everything because there’s no amount of compartmentalizing she can do to prevent an autonomic reaction.
He’s missing the point though, because this isn’t supposed to be about Shadowheart. It’s meant to be about Tav. She’s not going to let him distract from that, so she asks, “So you do want her, then?”
“Oh for the love of…” Astarion makes another frustrated sound low in his throat, and she gets the distinct impression that he wants to break something. Possibly her. Provocative thought, that. “Just—look, will you?”
He leans down, placing his hands on either side of her head, and there’s a now-familiar pressure in her skull as he reaches out with the tadpole. This time, though, he hesitates, waiting for her permission.
Shadowheart acquiesces, and she hates how natural it is to do, now, but she doesn’t have time to dwell on it as her own thoughts are rapidly subsumed by his. He’s projecting more than just sensations, overwhelming her with an avalanche of different memories all at once. She winces at the onslaught, instinctively trying to shrink away from how bright and loud and vivid it is. Astarion holds her firmly in place, though, and soon she is experiencing life through his eyes.
She watches his sire coerce him into exploiting his body, forcing Astarion to lure in victim after unsuspecting victim, so many of them that they all blur together into a sickening, vulgar slurry. For one horrid instant, Shadowheart suffers the same revulsion, the same disgust, the same aching hollowness as he did for centuries. Astonishingly, the memories where he fails to fulfill that task are equally harrowing. With lurid clarity, she feels the flesh being flayed from his body as though it were her own; can feel his mind turn brittle and crack under the weight of Cazador’s psychological torture.
He shows her more recent memories, too—recollections of their time traveling together, of his first taste of freedom in so many years that he stopped counting them. There’s a desperation to cling to it as tightly as he can, so viscerally terrified of it slipping through his fingers. He’s reluctant to let himself hope it could last, knowing what it would do to him if he lost it again.
And then there’s Tav.
When he thinks about her, Shadowheart learns that tempting her into bed was strategic on his part, and something he’d always aimed to do. The Astarion in the present doesn’t shy away from that fact, letting her witness the unflattering reality of the situation. He does it, she now knows, because he thinks it will make him indispensable to Tav, that she’ll be easier to manipulate and more likely to protect him. Using his body as a means to an end like that is distasteful, but familiar, as easy to him as breathing is to her. His own satisfaction doesn’t matter; his survival does.
He has no expectation of enjoying it.
But then he does. He enjoys himself. That alone concerns him, and then the concern evolves into fear as the paladin continuously defies his assumptions. She’s impressively tenacious, strong, and unusually entertaining to talk to. She’s nothing but understanding of Astarion's affliction, allowing him to feed without judgment and miraculously taking joy in the act. She knows exactly what he is, and yet, when she looks at him she doesn’t seem to see a monster.
(The bond between them stutters, somewhat, as Astarion swiftly moves past that thought and onto the next. It makes Shadowheart speculate about whether Tav’s acceptance of him matters more than he’s willing to confess, how dearly he craves it more precious than every other secret he’s divulging to her.)
The more Astarion shows her, the more it becomes unmistakable that—entirely by accident and against his own will—the vampire sincerely likes Tav. He would very much prefer not to, but he doesn’t exactly have a say in the matter; even an unbeating heart wants what it wants.
Which brings them to today. Reliving such recent events from his perspective is disorienting enough that Shadowheart begins to grow nauseated, but she wills herself to remain present. When Tav submits so readily, so earnestly, to Abdirak’s sad*stic whims, it makes Astarion long to be the one hurting her. He can see that she needs it, her gasps at each hit sounding far more like catharsis than pain to his ears. The idea of being the one to give that to her is electrifying.
It means something to him, too, to see the techniques used to torture him for so unbearably long reclaimed into something euphoric, beautiful. Sex itself is not a prospect he finds especially motivating; it can’t be, after everything. But much to his own disgust, his affection for Tav and his saccharine impulse to make her feel good has awakened Astarion's long-dead libido. The massive amount of faith it takes for him to even desire that kind of interaction is not something he is capable of feeling with a total stranger in the room, though, no matter how titillating it is to watch Tav writhe and scream.
(The memory he shows her of today is conspicuously choppy, as though he’s carefully presenting her only a fraction of the truth. Shadowheart suspects he’s purposefully editing her out of it, safeguarding his opinion of her. It's a valid move; she’d do the same were their positions reversed. Nevertheless, she wonders whether he’s hiding it because it’s bad, or if he’s hiding it because it isn’t.)
Astarion releases her temples, then, and Shadowheart brutally slams back into herself. It’s not unlike being engulfed in light after hours spent in darkness, harsh and unforgiving while she readjusts to reality. She feels wetness on her cheeks and realizes that she’s crying, and she has no clue when that happened. For his part, Astarion appears equally exhausted, hands braced on his knees as his body heaves with gulping breaths he need not actually take.
“Happy now?” he asks bitterly, once he collects himself.
“Don’t know if that’s the word I’d use,” Shadowheart answers, still processing everything he’s shown her. There’s a rising tide of guilt in her chest, which is severely uncomfortable. She’s so bad at this, at admitting when she’s wrong. It’s like she’s a kid again, being reprimanded by the Mother Superior and feeling so small and sh*tty and insignificant.
It helps that she knows he wouldn’t have shown her that just to make her realize she’s been uncharitable to him, although she definitely has. Giving her that many pieces of himself, rendering himself so vulnerable (especially to someone like her, someone who has spent her life learning how to exploit weakness), all to win an argument would be certifiably insane. And if there’s one quality Astarion has in spades, it’s self-preservation.
The only thing that makes sense is that, for some reason, it’s important to him that she understands. That she trusts him. Because he obviously trusts her, to confide in her like that.
It unsettles her, a little. A lot. But she thinks she owes it to him to at least try, so she sighs and tells him, “I’m sorry I doubted you.” It’s the best she can do, because she knows she can’t express sympathy for him having gone through all of it, certain he would mistake it for unwelcome pity.
“It’s a touch late for apologies, isn’t it?” he grumbles, but he plops down gracelessly beside her anyway.
“Oh, lovely,” Shadowheart deadpans. “Because I’ve never been particularly good at them.”
“It’s fine,” Astarion says, though it’s ambiguous which one of them he’s trying to reassure. Then, atonally cheerful, he adds, “Besides, we’ve bared so much of our souls already! Why bother showing restraint now?”
Shadowheart snorts, appreciative of the gallows humor to cut the tension somewhat. Neither of them speaks again for a moment, both staring out at the water in front of them.
“I don’t want to see yours, for the record,” Astarion says after a minute, still not meeting her eyes. “Whatever happened in that messed up little head to make you like that kind of thing, I mean.”
“Not everyone’s fetishes have a tragic backstory,” Shadowheart points out.
“Of course,” he agrees amiably. “But yours do.”
“Fair play.”
They fall back into stillness, and it’s almost companionable. Shadowheart doesn't know when or why that happened, but it's comforting. She isn’t sure how much time passes like that, with the only sounds being the flow of the river and the distant chirping of birds.
Eventually, she looks at him and says, “It’s weird, you not talking. Really putting the ‘dead’ in ‘dead-quiet.’”
“I shudder to think how long you’ve been sitting on that one,” Astarion replies. “And I seem to recall you finding me prettier when silent.”
“Is that what it was?” Shadowheart asks, bemused. “Could’ve sworn I said charming.”
He shrugs agreeably. “Who’s to say?”
Their eyes meet, then, and when Shadowheart smiles at him, he returns it. She knocks her shoulder against his. “You know, if you wanted to make it less complicated for us to negotiate a threesome, I feel I should say you chose a spectacularly bad tactic.”
Astarion laughs loudly, surprised. “Perhaps,” he agrees cheekily, “but look how endeared you are to me now.”
“So that was your grand design, was it?”
“A bit,” he admits, and it makes her heart thump considerably faster, how it sounds almost sincere. Odd. “Has it worked?”
“I don’t know,” Shadowheart murmurs thoughtfully. “You still slept with the girl I like.”
“I did,” he concedes. “And I think I’d rather like to do it again. Care to join?”
She grins. “I could be persuaded.”
“How convenient,” Astarion says, turning to face her. Shadowheart mirrors the position reflexively, without thinking, and then feels her stomach bottom out when his hand reaches up to gently grasp her chin between his thumb and index finger. He leans in close, until there’s only a whisper of space separating their mouths. “Because I can be very persuasive.”
There are a lot of supremely confusing chemical signals happening in Shadowheart’s brain right now, preventing her from thinking straight. She reminds herself that she doesn’t want this, not with Astarion. Because he is rude, and a dick, and also she hates him. It would be a really good idea to pull away from him, before she misses her chance to and he does something they can't take back.
Any second now, she’s going to move.
Astarion must notice her internal conflict, because the look in his eyes is devilish when he taunts, “You can leave, if you’d like; I won’t stop you.” With how close his mouth is, she can feel the words as he speaks them, ghosting delicately over her lips, and a distressing shiver runs from her toes to the base of her skull.
“We despise each other,” she tries to protest, only it comes out instead as a mortifyingly petulant whine.
“I know,” he murmurs, sounding positively delighted about it. “Isn’t it fantastic?”
And Shadowheart doesn’t know how to argue with that, because if she's being honest with herself it kind of is. If she's being more honest with herself, she hasn't even done a particularly good job of pretending she doesn't think so. And Astarion clearly already knows that she wants this, so the only thing denying it accomplishes is denying herself something she can apparently have.
That's so f*cking irritating, she thinks, but she rolls her eyes and closes the distance between them anyway.
At first, it’s nothing more than the soft brush of his lips against hers, intentional and slow like he wants to savor it. His hand slips over her jaw and onto her neck, holding her to him with an uncharacteristic amount of care.It’s astonishingly sweet, almost tender, the way they move together. Until it isn’t, suddenly, so many things happening all at once that they blur together into a gauzy, surreal lace: Shadowheart making a noise of frustration and threading her fingers into his hair, Astarion’s cool tongue probing at the seam of her lips and slipping into her mouth, a flurry of movement that culminates in her straddling him.
It feels like his hands are everywhere, pulling her closer and stroking her back and massaging the skin of her hips. She makes a needy little noise into his mouth, and he swallows it then gives it back to her in a different octave. How his tongue slides against hers is nothing short of filthy, and she thinks she ought to be put off by the temperature difference, by the fact that there’s no way to pretend he’s alive, but she isn’t. It’s novel and intoxicating, sending chills running through her. He kisses her like he’s trying to prove something, and Shadowheart doesn’t even care; she will gladly tell him how right he was later and put up with his obnoxious, inflated ego if it means he’ll keep touching her.
He maneuvers her until she’s firmly seated in his lap, and she gasps as she feels the hard length of him through his trousers. Her hips twitch of their own accord in a desperate plea for friction, instinctually rubbing him against where she's already throbbing and hungry. Astarion groans, bucking against her as much as he can in this position. Using his grasp on her waist, he drives her body down to meet his shallow thrusts, and Shadowheart takes the hint and starts grinding against him. Each time she rocks her hips, it sends white-hot bursts of pleasure straight to the core of her. And gods, she’s so f*cking easy, because she thinks she could probably get off like this.
Something about the way that idea spins around in her head feels off, and it takes her a second to realize why: she might begrudgingly accept now that she wants this, but given what he’d shown her she doesn’t understand why he would. Once again, it feels like she’s missing something, or like even if she has all the pieces she’s still putting them together wrong. Then it hits her that she knows how badly he wants to make Tav happy, that maybe he initiated this whole arrangement so she wouldn't be forced to choose. It adds up too well for Shadowheart to be comfortable dismissing it without knowing for sure, so she stills the movement of her hips. The thought of him doing this for any reason other than out of sincere desire makes her feel ill, makes her feel like she just sank to the icy bottom of the Chionthar.
“Wait, wait, stop,” Shadowheart mutters against his mouth. Immediately, he does, allowing her to put some distance between them. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Noted,” Astarion says, too cavalier, and his eyes are half-lidded as he stares at her mouth. “Is that all, then? Can we get back to dry humping?”
“Astarion, I’m serious,” she insists, annoyed at him for being deliberately obtuse about something so important. It’s good to be reminded, she supposes, of why she didn’t want to admit to liking him.
“So am I,” he says, and before she can say anything or try to climb off his lap, Shadowheart senses the intimate pulse of the tadpole connecting them. He doesn’t show her anything specific, merely allows his feelings to bleed through to her. Which is an excellent strategy, she thinks, because what he’s feeling is a frankly devastating amount of lust.
Astarion doesn’t say anything about it, but Shadowheart can draw her own conclusions about what this means he must feel about her. Well, theoretically she can; at the moment she’s too preoccupied with sating her bone-deep hunger to think about anything else.
“Happy now?” he asks, parroting his question from earlier.
“Yeah,” Shadowheart replies breathlessly. She thinks back to how intense it was earlier, with their emotions echoing in a loop across the connection. They hadn’t even been touching, then—how much better could it get, now that they are?
There’s only one way to find out, and she really, really wants to find out. So she lets Astarion into her mind, grabbing his face in both hands and crashing their mouths together, hot and messy.
Oh, she thinks as her tongue teases his soft palate and she feels the tickle of it in her own mouth, we might be geniuses for this.
The only way Shadowheart can think to describe the sensation is that it's utterly all-consuming. She can taste the mania in how Astarion clutches her to him, needing her as close as possible and then closer still, because every point of contact between their bodies is so electric, so alive. There’s a phantom tingle in her scalp as she gets her hands in his stupid, perfect hair and tugs; a similar dull sting when she nips his bottom lip. It’s not one-for-one, more like the shadow of a feeling, but it’s enough to spur them both into a frenzy within a matter of seconds. One of his hands slips under the hem of her top, his cool fingers a welcome reprieve against the feverish skin of her waist, contrasting with her awareness of how warm she feels to him, the paradox of feeling both simultaneously wracking her frame with a shudder.
Gods, they must look like animals right now. Probably sound like them, too, the moans falling from their mouths obscene and much too loud. They’re not that far away from camp, she thinks. It's not impossible that someone will catch them in the act.
Shadowheart doesn’t care—couldn’t conceivably care—when rutting against Astarion is f*cking rapturous like this, the sort of phenomenon that poets could spend their whole lives trying to capture in pretty words and nonetheless come up short. There’s a rhapsodic harmony in the way their bodies writhe, weaving together in effortless synchronicity. She moves atop him like she’s honing a knife, practiced and precise, sharpening herself into a savage edge. Little white pinpricks of light dance behind her eyes with every thrust, and she’s worried they're going to exhaust themselves before he’s even inside her. That can’t happen, she thinks, with so many wicked deeds for them to explore like this.
Astarion seems to agree, guiding her to lie on the ground and pulling his shirt over his head in a smooth motion. Shadowheart very much approves of this plan, and she scrambles to disrobe as fast as she is physically able and watches him do the same. They manage the task impressively quickly, and the second they're both naked she tries to pull him on top of her, needing contact, needing to feel his skin against hers. Astarion doesn’t let her, halting once he’s hovering a scant distance above her, because he’s evil, because he’s a miserable excuse for a man. Shadowheart hates him so much and abhors him and also detests him, because she lets out a whine so thin and treble at his denial that hearing it makes her want to die.
Patience must not be a virtue the Sharran church teaches, hmm? Astarion smirks, so infuriatingly arrogant, and then travels down her body to nestle between her thighs.
Shadowheart intends to respond with something caustic and incisive, but all that comes out is slurred jumble of her repeating IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou, which is more than a bit degrading.
Flatterer, Astarion responds, and she can sense how pleased he is, though whether it’s at her or himself is unclear. He spreads her thighs and brings his face close enough that she can feel his breath on her sensitive flesh, knowing he must be doing it to tease her because he has no need for oxygen. She doesn't mind, because it’s strange and wonderful that it’s slightly colder than the air around them. She squirms at the novel feeling, biting her lip to try to smother the sound she makes. You’ll have to forgive me for doing you the great disservice of going down on you first, but I’d rather like to see what this feels like. His tongue is on her before the thought is even finished, and Shadowheart blesses the efficiency of telepathy for not having to wait a second longer than necessary for this.
Because, hells, this is so good, so blindingly good, and it’s not even because of the bond. It’s seductive that there’s the ghost of her own taste in her mouth, and Shadowheart loves feeling how much he gets off on doing this to her. But the way he sets her nerves alight, until she feels like she’s burning alive, her whole body engulfed in scorching hot bliss, is entirely down to how skillfully he caresses her cl*t with his tongue.
She’s whimpering and wracked with feeble tremors, her hands fisted in his hair too roughly, and Astarion growls into her c*nt like he’s starving for her. The closer she gets, the more noises he makes, his hands shaking where they hold her thighs apart. Shadowheart grinds against his face, chasing her release, and she’s reminded again of being on the Tyrrans’ roof, of standing on a precipice and the weightlessness of freefall. Back then, the brutal impact had knocked her unconscious so fast she barely felt it. Now, though, Shadowheart surmises how intense it must have been, every single piece of her splintering apart at his touch as she’s sent crashing gloriously over the edge.
When she comes back to her senses, shuddery aftershocks still pulsing in her core, Astarion’s hand is covering her mouth. Shadowheart very much does not want to imagine how loud she must have been for him to feel the need. His eyes are wild as he looks at her for a moment before slotting his mouth to hers, all teeth and tongue like a feral, rabid thing. Shadowheart moans as she tastes herself on him for real, so deliriously erotic. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she digs her heels into his ass to force their bodies together, and quivers at the sensation of him pulsing thick and hard against her hip.
Now might be a good time to f*ck me, Shadowheart goads, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth and biting it. If you keep taking your sweet time, the ceremorphosis will come before you do.
Intriguing proposition, Astarion responds, though her mind being flooded with his desire belies the pretense of nonchalance. Even without the bond, the way he kisses her so ferociously, like he’s trying to devour her whole, would tell Shadowheart how badly he craves her. If we’re enterprising, we might be able to find a use for the tentacles.
Seems doubtful, Shadowheart says, and her thighs cradle his hips as she rubs herself against him, spreading sticky-hot wetness between them and making him groan. If you were enterprising you would already be inside me.
An excellent point, he concedes, and smoothly lines himself up with her entrance. Even just the slide of the head of his co*ck against her is phenomenal; she’s still oversensitive from her org*sm, and every time he nudges her cl*t it sends sparks shooting low in her belly. Then he’s burying himself inside her, ruthless and rough like he can’t help himself, and she's so extremely grateful for that because it's exactly what she needs from him, what she aches for.
It’s such a singular feat of pleasure—the delicious stretch of him splitting her in half and the empathic echo of her tight, wet heat squeezing Astarion’s co*ck, f*cking and being f*cked at the same time—that Shadowheart comes again, voice hoarse as she cries out. Once he’s seated inside her, he doesn’t move for a long while, trembling and struggling to hold himself up against the sheer, overwhelming ecstasy.
They stay suspended like that until Astarion collects himself again, overcome with a profound depth of feeling and staring into each other’s eyes like this is something other than what it is. It terrifies her, or maybe it terrifies him, or maybe they’re just both the exact same type of coward. Then Astarion shifts, dragging his co*ck out of her so slowly that it’s torturous, but then he’s f*cking her for real, like he means it, until she can’t remember what it is to fear anything.
Shadowheart wonders how it would feel if he bit her now. She’s suddenly desperate to know, desperate to taste her own blood in his mouth, desperate to finally see what it’s like to be full. Astarion’s eyes widen and his movement inside her stutters as he senses it, unable to suppress the immediate, suffocating rush of hope he feels at the prospect.
In a parallel universe where they weren’t connected, where they weren’t both so strung out and shaking, she’d make him beg for it. Maybe someday she will. As it stands, she can’t imagine hearing him say it would come anywhere close to the rush of enveloping his agonizing need in her psyche, hiding it somewhere secret and safe inside her so she never forgets how this feels.
It's not a decision, really, when Shadowheart bares her throat to Astarion. It's mostly just inevitable.
His teeth pierce the skin of her neck and she’s cold, numb, helpless; but her mouth is searing hot, warmed by the borrowed sensation of her blood beginning to coat his tongue. She feels lightheaded, her vision swimmy as he drinks from her; it’s also invigorating, like she could do anything, like she is never going to die.
She remembers overhearing the conversation where he speculated about how their party members would taste, remembers that the suggestions were more abstract and metaphorical than she'd have thought, but it doesn't prepare her for the reality of it. Because to Astarion, Shadowheart tastes like the night sky when it’s full of stars, the vast emptiness of space as well as all that it contains within it. The gravity of it astounds her, and maybe this is why he so badly wants to drink from thinking creatures now that he has the option, because the way it explodes over her is like entire galaxies being created and destroyed on her tongue.
Shadowheart wonders if this is how she'd taste to any vampire, or if it's unique to Astarion. She hopes it's the latter, hopes this experience is theirs and theirs alone.
The way they rut together now is utterly graceless, lacking in any sort of rhythm or finesse, both of them too far gone for it to be anything but. It doesn’t matter, because every thrust hits her like a suckerpunch. The cacophony of sentiments and sensations is constantly intensifying, eclipsing everything except the points where their bodies collide. Another org*sm violently tears out of her—through her intestines and ripped straight from her throat in the form of a broken sob. The sensation of it pushes Astarion over the edge, too, and the two of them are twitching and convulsing in one another’s arms through the staggering, sublime euphoria of it. For a moment she’s not sure if they’re coming or if the world is just shattering underneath them, the impending apocalypse already upon them. It feels like the world must be ending. It feels like she finally understands entropy.
Unable to support himself any longer, Astarion collapses on top of her. Wordlessly, Shadowheart wraps her arms around him, and he threads one of his legs between hers, the two of them entwining their bodies like a braid of limbs as they shiver and bask in the afterglow. She strokes his back absentmindedly while they regain their composure (and she’ll need to get a better look, later, at the raised scars she feels all over it). It’s the least she can do, she thinks; this was easily the best sex Shadowheart has ever had, nothing else even approaching the experience. Which she can never, ever tell him, because the effect of that on his ego would be catastrophic.
“Too late,” Astarion says aloud, muffled and amused against her chest, “and you’re welcome.”
Instantly, Shadowheart severs the bond between them. Astarion huffs out a breathless laugh at her expense.
“So that’s a no on telepathic pillow talk, then?”
“Shut up,” she grumbles, though she doesn’t stop petting his back. “I already regret this.”
He doesn’t need to be in her head to know that’s a lie.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, cleric,” Astarion says, and she hates how much gleeful mischief she hears in his voice. “It was very selfless of you, doing all this for Tav.”
Shadowheart groans in vexation and contemplates whether a murder suicide would doom the rest of their party to calamari-dom. “I hate you. I hate you so f*cking much.”
“Mhmm,” he hums, like he’s humoring a small child.
“When we get back I’m going to tell everyone you attacked me,” she says, the threat audibly hollow, especially as she’s made no move to get out from under him. “I’ll use the bite mark as proof.”
“Be my guest,” Astarion teases. “But if you do, I’ll have no choice but to exonerate myself. How fortunate that I have a means of showing them precisely what happened.”
“I hate you.”
“Though I can’t imagine them not figuring it out anyway, with your lovely braid all tousled and coming undone,” he continues, sighing wistfully. “Not to mention how we positively reek of sex.”
Oh, gods, she hadn’t thought about that. Everyone is going to know. Tav is going to know.
“Well, Astarion, this has been fun,” Shadowheart says, “but if it’s all the same to you, I think I am going to let the river take me now.”
“Your prerogative, I suppose,” Astarion says, then lifts up his head to look at her, his eyes dark and intent. “Though if you’re looking to be taken, I think there are better options than the river on the table.”
“Oh?” she mutters, and it’s embarrassing how quickly heat starts gathering in her belly again.
He grins roguishly at her. “You’re an inquisitive sort, cleric; aren’t you even a little bit curious what it’s like without the tadpole?”
“Not really,” Shadowheart says, waiting just enough of a beat for Astarion to look dejected before she smirks, “but perhaps I could be persuaded.”
“That was mean,” he chastises. He smiles at her, though, small but genuine. Her chest hurts, looking at it.
“It was,” she agrees. “You like it when I’m mean.”
“I do,” Astarion says. “Of course, it wouldn’t kill you to appreciate me a bit more. After all, I just gave you the best sex of your life—”
“Shut up, Astarion,” Shadowheart interrupts, bringing her face near his until they’re naught but centimeters apart. “You’re prettier when you’re silent.”
And Astarion can’t really argue with that, so he kisses her instead.
When they arrive back at camp, having smoothed their hair and straightened their clothes, Tav is chatting with Karlach by the fire. It seems most everyone else has already gone to bed, which makes Shadowheart wonder how long they were gone for.
Karlach notices their approach and bids Tav a cheerful goodnight, whistling innocently on the walk back to her own tent.
Disgraceful, really, that the rogue and the trickery cleric failed so abysmally at subtlety. In her defense, though, she doesn’t think Astarion was really trying; her effort was doomed from the start.
“Welcome back,” Tav smiles kindly at them, gesturing for them to sit. She shifts over to make room for them, grimacing a bit as she does, presumably aggravating one of her bruises. The thought of them underneath her clothes, still in the process of darkening, fills Shadowheart with startling heat.
She genuinely doesn’t know how she still has it in her to get turned on at this point.
“Seems like you two have sorted out your issues,” Tav says wryly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Astarion sighs, sounding terribly put upon. “Shadowheart has so very many of them; I don’t think we can solve them all overnight.” She wants to be annoyed at him for the cheek, but she’s too preoccupied with him actually calling her by her name for once. It’s nice, she thinks. It feels nice.
(Although, by the end of their lengthy encounter, she’d relented to being called ‘pet.’ A tiny, private part of her enjoyed how it made her feel cared for and cherished, and Shadowheart intends to take that to the grave. Even if Astarion probably already knows, the bastard.)
“Good thing we have more nights ahead of us, then,” Tav grins. “Maybe not a lot of them, though, so we should really get started on unloading that baggage.”
“Actually, I've found she prefers her baggage with the load inside, as it were,” Astarion says, as though unaware that Shadowheart can hurt him with necrotic magic at any moment.
“If we’re going to use my emotional issues as a euphemism for sex, can we at least—you know what, no, just please immediately stop doing that,” Shadowheart says with no small degree of exasperation. “You’re going to give me a complex.”
Tav breaks into peals of throaty laughter, the sound of it warming her from the inside like good firewine.
Shadowheart has so much affection for her that she aches with it. The fond glint in Astarion’s eye as he watches her giggle into her palms suggests he feels much the same.
“So you’re alright with this?” she asks softly, pretty sure but needing to be certain. “Whatever ‘this’ is, I mean.”
“Overjoyed, more like,” Tav corrects, looking up from her hands to smirk at Shadowheart. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to propose a threesome for days now. I had charts and schemes and everything.”
“Glad that’s settled, then,” Astarion says cheerfully. “A pity all that hard work was wasted, though—I’ve always wanted to be the subject of a good scheme.”
“The charts are obsolete, yeah,” Tav concedes, “but most of the schemes could be repurposed, on account of how they were just elaborate sexual fantasies.”
“My favorite kind of scheme,” he smiles.
Something giddy and content blooms in Shadowheart’s chest as she says, “Why, isn't that a strange coincidence. It happens to be mine as well.”
“What are the odds,” Tav says, breathy and sweet. “You know, I have them written down; if you’d like, we can all go back to my tent and look them over together.”
Shadowheart, for one, thinks it’s a spectacular plan.
