Pairing: Astarion x reader
Summary: Astarion comforts you after your failed attempt at flirting with Gale.
Tags: Act 1 Astarion; Nameless Tav; Slow burn; Act 1 party; Spawn Astarion; Musician tav; Pre-relationship; Mostly sfw; This is basically the first time you're really interacting alone lol; Kinda want to make this a full fic, kindaaa want to use a named tav
Upbeat music fills the air in the distance - the sound of your friends' laughter joining it in sweet harmony. The goblins have been disposed of, allowing the tieflings safe to travel the roads once more, and all thanks to your little group of misfits. At this very moment, you and your companions are being celebrated as heroes. It should be the happiest you’ve been in weeks. You should be celebrating with them.
But, instead, you are here - away from the party and hiding amongst the trees, alone, with nothing but your drink and your guitar to keep you company.
Your drink, your guitar, and the incessant dreads of embarrassment.
You reach for your drink.
“Surely the wizard can’t have upset you this much?”
Your movements freeze, the bottle held still now against your lips.
Astarion leans against a tree near the edge of the clearing, arms folded as he watches you with guarded interest.
You swallow, and suddenly the wine you’ve been drinking all night has left your mouth very dry.
You lower the bottle and will your next words to come out steady. “You saw that?”
His lips curl up into a grin at the question, and you feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You wonder briefly if any of the others witnessed your blunder.
Astarion slips away from his perch, coming to sit beside you on the fallen log. He places himself closer to you than usual, but you're so caught up in drink and self-pity that you find yourself unable to think on it for much longer.
Astarion offers what appears to be a sympathetic smile. “Don’t look so down, darling. It’s just Gale.”
You don't quite want to express the aching heart, so you instead just ask, "did any of the others see?"
He gives a low hum, and you find yourself contemplating if he would even tell you the truth.
"I don't believe so," he answers. "Your little secret is safe with me. Cheer up, won't you?"
You move your guitar off your lap in favour of slumping forwards. You had hoped, briefly, that you would be able to talk to one of the girls about this. But you can't really imagine that Shadowheart and Lae'zel would be thrilled with the topic, and Karlach - bless her hellish heart - has the subtlety of, well, Karlach.
They are also, undeniably, not here.
"I thought he liked me," you admit, thankful that the drink seems to dull you to the patheticness of the statement.
Beside you, Astarion scoffs. "Gale is an idiot. Really, I don’t even know why you’re wasting your time on him.”
“I like him,” you mumble, the confession surfacing your embarrassment with it.
You peak your head back up, expecting to find some sly grin and witty remark awaiting you. But, instead, the look he gives you is one full of affection and sympathy.
He reaches forward, gently tucking back a loose strand of hair. “You,” he starts, voice uncharacteristically gentle, “have barely known the man a tenday.”
You try to steady your breathing, but the feeling of his fingers on your face makes it difficult to focus on anything. “I like him,” you repeat.
“So sweet,” he whispers. Your breath catches in your throat as he leans towards you. “Perhaps a distraction would serve you well, hm?”
A strangled sound escapes you as his lips find your neck, soft kisses pressing slowly against the bite marks from just a few nights prior. He chuckles against your skin, the sensation sending a wave of dizziness through you.
Oh, yes, you have drunk far too much.
It is all too easy to lose yourself in his touch. His hands make their way across your body, his lips meeting yours. He pulls back just long enough to remove his shirt, leaving your vision hazy as you stumble your hands across from his chest, to his shoulders, to his back. Despite the coldness of his skin, you find yourself unable to stop touching him.
Unable, it seems, until his fingers start dexterously working on the removal of your own clothes.
You lurch back, a sudden wave of nausea coursing through you. You try to steady yourself, but something pulls at your chest - a deep, sinking feeling that leaves you dizzy. It is an effort to focus your attention on the man in front of you.
Astarion quirks a brow, the mildest hint of what you think is concern gracing itself onto his features. “What is it?”
“I…” You trail off. What is it?
“Gods, don’t tell me you’re thinking about the wizard again.”
“No, it’s not that.” You speak before you can really even think the answer through, and it leaves you uncertain of the honesty of it.
No. Or, at least, it's not just that.
Astarion's flash of concern goes just as quick as it came, his features settling into how they were before. His eyes soften, his lips curling up into that practiced grin on his. Something about it unsettles you.
His fingers find a delicate hold on your check. “Well, then, darling, what’s the problem?” He leans forward again, lips hovering over yours. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”
Your head stirs a little. You’ve definitely drank too much.
Something about that crafted expression of his infuriates you, and you find your next words tumbling out with more venom than intended.
His mask breaks a moment, his brows furrowing into a frustrated confusion. His recovery is less smooth than before, but he recovers nonetheless. “What’s not to want? You’re gorgeous.”
His honey words stick in your throat, and you feel like you’re choking on them.
It’s too much. The alcohol, everything with Gale, this last tenday. Gods, you’re one bit of bad luck away from turning into a bloody mind flayer.
And then that face - the look in his eyes.
It makes you wonder if there has ever been a moment in his life where he’s told the truth.
Maybe Gale had the right idea. This journey of yours is no time to be fooling around.
“I can’t do this,” you murmur, this time pulling all the way back from him. You try to ignore the sinking in your chest as you fix your shirt.
His voice is incredulous. “What? Why not?”
The world swims at your peripheral as you look up at him, your thoughts dancing in your head. It's probably best not to voice them, anyway. “I think I’d rather just be together, if it’s all the same to you.”
He scoffs, standing up. “And do what? Talk about our feelings and sing and hold hands?”
You shrug, your fingers itching for your guitar. You keep your eyes on Astarion. “Does that sound so bad?”
He gives a short, humourless laugh. “Do I look like someone who would enjoy that?” His words bite, and he gives his a head a shake in exasperation. “I’d sooner go back to the so-called party.”
You nod once. “Well,” you say, voice steady, “you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
He huffs out a breath and snatches his shirt from the floor. You expect some sort of retort, but he says nothing as he turns to stalk off.
A pang of loneliness settles in your bones, and you find yourself instinctively reaching for you instrument to soothe it. Gentle chords settle into the air, keeping your mind steady. You’re just finishing one of your favourite pieces when you hear a twig snap, finding Astarion hovering on the edge of the clearing.
He speaks before you can even open your mouth.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he snaps, strolling over. “I just don’t want to be in camp tonight. Everyone is so loud and happy.”
You hadn’t realised you were smiling. “Okay.”
“And no singing,” he demands. “And no talking about feelings.”
You nod, your lips refusing to settle down. “Okay,” you repeat, fingers gently going over chords again. He didn't say you couldn't play.
Astarion gives a satisfied nod and settles down nearby, sitting back against a tree. A moment later, your bedroll lands by your feet. When you look up, he is busying himself with setting up his own.
He shrugs, and silence settles over you again. You play your music for as long as you can bear to keep your eyes open, trying not to think about Gale or the tadpoles or the way that Astarion is watching you in quiet.
The next thing you know, you’re waking up to the feeling of sun on your face. The bedroll beside you is a lot closer than you remembered it being, and there’s a moment of sadness as you find that it’s empty.
The moment doesn’t last, though, as you sit up and find Astarion standing only ten paces away. He’s shirtless, again, his arms stretched out as he literally basks in the sunlight. You stay still, not wanting to disturb him.
It’s the first time you’re seeing the back of him without his shirt, and you find yourself struggling to tear your eyes from him. His back is covered in scars - forming circles of script that cover the whole canvas. You wonder how you had not felt them last night.
His comment snaps you back to reality, and you find he hasn’t even looked back at you. You stay quiet a moment, wondering which questions you could get away with.
“I thought you might have gone back to camp by now,” is what you settle on.
“Gods, no. I wanted some actual peace and quiet for once.”
You nod, but he still isn’t looking at you. “Must be nice to have the sun back.”
“That’s certainly one word for it.” He turns his head back slightly, finally glancing back at you. “Is that really what you wanted to ask me?”
You don't hesitate on asking this time.
"What are the scars from?"
He returns his gaze upward again, settling into the same position as before. You tuck your knees into your chest while you listen.
“Cazador,” he begins slowly, the name beating out with a note of disgust, “fancied himself quite the poet. He spent hours on this little… artwork.”
You nod, trying not to think about all the pain - the kind of person you’d have to be to inflict this on someone else. Astarion wouldn’t want your pity, and you know it would serve no good to give it.
So, instead, you simply ask, “He writes his poetry in hellspeak?”
There’s a moment where he says nothing, and even from where you sit you can see the tension in his muscles. Then, he turns to face you, arms lowered and face intentionally neutral.
You hesitate a moment, the implication of his words dawning on you.
He has not seen his scars.
The realisation makes your answer feel all the more disappointing.
“No. I can just tell the language.”
His expression slips into despair for a moment before hardening, his shoulders slouched. You feel an inappropriate guilt for causing it.
“But,” you add quickly, “I can draw it for you. If you want to see it.”
He regards you a moment, and you feel a warmth in your chest at the look in his eyes - hope, you think.
He nods, and turns around again while you scramble to find your journal. There’s a moment before you begin where you debate what page to use.
You decide, and are quick to get to work.
The drawing is accurate enough - days spent doodling in your journal when you couldn’t think of the right lyrics finally paying off. It only takes a few minutes to finish.
Astarion is snapped back to reality as you appear by his side, holding out the page in front of him. He takes it, brows drawn tight together as he looks it over. You try not to watch his reaction too intently.
“This is gibberish,” he says eventually.
You shrug and wander back to your bedroll. “I’m sure Karlach could read it for you, if-,”
“No,” he snaps, cutting you off. He takes a breath,collecting himself. “No. I think I’d rather keep this between us,” he says calmly. “If it’s all the same to you”
You are thankful to be facing away from him as your lips form into a smile. “If that’s what you want.”
He nods once and returns his gaze to the paper. “It’s… good to finally be able to see it. I suppose.”
It’s not exactly a thank you, but you take it as one anyway. “You’re welcome.”
Another drift of silence. You busy yourself with tidying up your bedroll. The silence doesn't last long.
Your movements falter as he holds up the backside of the page to you, a tightness settling in your chest. Perhaps you have overstepped.
“It’s you.” A pretty good drawing of you, too, you think. You don’t want him to freak out, though, so you add, “I’ve got to pass the time in camp, somehow. Don’t flatter yourself - I’ve drawn everyone.”
He doesn’t answer, eyes fixed on the paper.
You find a flurry of apologies and explanations sticking in your throat. I’m sorry if it’s too much. I’m sorry it’s not in colour. I just thought you may as well have it - that it might be nice.
Instead, you say nothing. You watch from your peripheral as he stares at the page, eventually folding it neatly and tucking it away in his pocket.
“I suppose we should head back to camp,” he says eventually, drawing out the words. A smirk finds its way onto his face as you meet his eyes. "I'm sure you're dying to return to your beloved."
"Don't," you warn, but you know your threats are harmless.
This only seems to humour him. "What's the problem, darling? It's not as though it was completely embarrassing or anything."
"It was humiliating," you whine, and it's already too late to keep your composure. "I wouldn't even have minded so much but I,- Gods. I mean, I was so sure. Did I really read him so wrong?"
Astarion is packing up his own bedroll now, the amusement gone from his expression. "You know, you're awfully whingy this morning. Need I remind you that you're not the only one who got rejected last night?"
It takes a moment for you to understand what he's saying, and your brows draw tight together when you realise. "I didn't reject you."
"No?" He's standing now, bedroll tucked under his arm. "What would you call it then?"
"I-," you cut yourself off, not really sure how to answer. "It's not the same."
"It's not." He turns from you, so you rush to speak again - frustration cutting through your words. "Sorry I didn't want to fuck you when I was sad and drunk and thinking of another man."
"That's the exact best scenario to fuck someone," he snaps, spinning to look at you. The anger dissipates just as quick as it came, his charming expression settling onto his features. "Oh," he says, smoothly breaking the distance between you. His free hand brushes against your cheek, and you find yourself instinctively leaning into the touch. "So you're happy to give this another go, then? On a night when you're less sad and drunk."
"I-," the word cuts off. You can't trust yourself when he's touching you like this, so you gently move his hand from your face. There is a moment, while your thoughts are still catching up to you, that you just hold it. You try to search his eyes for that same look of deception you noticed the night before, but you don't find it. You're not even sure you saw it in the first place.
You let go of his hand and turn to pick up your belongings. "We should get back to camp," you say simply, and make your way to leave. You don't risk looking back.
