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Sharrans are used to denying themselves, which makes Shadowheart the obvious person to start with. She doesn’t care for Astarion much, really, but that hardly matters. What does matter is that he can worm his way into something other than her tadpole, and her pants (leggings, really) are a much easier target than her heart.
Obvious flirtation only results in mockery, more acerbic banter only hurts her feelings even when she’s the one who starts it, and any attempts at kindness wouldn’t work even if he managed to make them convincing. With all that in mind, he decides for a straightforward approach.
“Shadowheart,” Astarion says, approaching her one night at camp.
“Astarion,” she replies, openly suspicious.
“I’ve not come to attack you,” he scoffs. “I merely thought you might like to…blow off some steam.”
Shadowheart laughs. “With you? Really?”
“Is anyone else offering?” he says cheerfully. He knows, of course, that she’s been distracted by Karlach like the rest of camp. Thankfully, their resident hellion is as untouchable as ever. He’s relying on that frustration.
Shadowheart scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I’m not that desperate, Astarion.”
This would normally be the point where he leaves with his metaphorical tail between his legs, seeking someone else his master might be pleased with. But something stops him. The tadpole, he thinks, some indication deep in his mind that he could go further, if he wished to.
“I’d love to change that,” he says, and watches her cheeks go pink in record time. It’s not even one of his better lines; she must be very pent-up.
“Well,” Shadowheart says, voice tight. “That…could be arranged.”
They find some small clearing far enough from camp that her sweet little noises won’t carry. She smacks him when he says as much, hissing that she has more discipline than he might expect, that he’ll have to work if he wants her to say anything, let alone whatever it is he’s expecting.
As he was saying, Sharrans are used to denying themselves, so it really doesn’t take much. She’s wet even when all he’s done is peel her clothes off her skin and admired her for a moment, and embarrassed about this fact, and turned on by her own embarrassment. He makes it worse by laughing, low and mean and right at the apex of her thighs, before he ducks in.
Her hands tangle in his own hair in seconds, holding him close. Astarion hums in agreement but doesn’t speed up his pace any, bringing her to the edge slowly and gently like he would some blushing virgin before he pulls back.
“I hate you,” Shadowheart says.
“Of course, darling,” Astarion says, as condescending as he can make it just to see her hips twitch. “It’s a shame we’re in the middle of nowhere. I can certainly make you desperate with just my fingers and tongue, but I would relish the chance to have more tools at my disposal. Any preferences? You seem as though you’d appreciate a good flogging.”
“I wasn’t the one who let that Loviatan beat me bloody,” Shadowheart snaps.
“You only wished you were,” Astarion says, crawling up her body and ignoring her protest as he moves further from where she wants him. “These worms are fascinating, really. What information bleeds through even when you weren’t expecting it. You wanted it desperately, didn’t you? Is there something you need to repent for, Sharran?”
Shadowheart glares at him, face flushed. “I hate you.”
“So you’ve said,” Astarion says, and slides two fingers into her in one quick, too-rough movement. She gasps and slaps a hand to her mouth a moment later, hips rolling against his hand. He allows it for a few moments before he takes his free hand and holds her hips down. “Be patient. Aren’t you supposed to be good at this?”
The noises Shadowheart makes into her hand are not intelligible as speech, but Astarion gets the meaning clearly from her glare. He curls his fingers just to watch that loathing melt into wanton desire. “There you are,” he says, letting his voice go rough as if that was what he wanted, as if he wished to spoil her.
“Oh,” Shadowheart says, and is much more pliable for the rest of the night. She still says she hates him every time he denies her, with increasing fervor. And yet, the moment he goes to bare himself, her hands are scrabbling at the laces on his trousers, as desperate to get his pants off as he should be.
“You really are a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Astarion murmurs, quiet like a secret. Clerics and other holy fools love that sort of thing. She doesn’t respond except to blush further and spread her legs to make room for him. The slide is easy after so much preparation, and she comes in what must be less than a minute.
If Astarion were doing this simply because he wanted her, he would be selfish and chase his own end through the throes of her own. Instead, he slows, waits for her legs to stop shaking and for her gaze to meet his. She looks a little furious, still, but she nods.
He goes slow, knowing she’ll appreciate it, and hopes this will be enough for her to stop her incessant prying. Clerics.
Getting Lae’zel on her back is less of a seduction than it is a fight. To her credit, she doesn’t hide this whatsoever when she propositions him. Less to her credit, she doesn’t go easy on him at all, even knowing she is much, much stronger than he is even on his best day.
“For all your blustering, you show more prowess on the battlefield than you do here,” she says disdainfully.
“You say the sweetest things,” Astarion says, breathless and not in any of the fun ways. “Well? Aren’t you going to claim your prize?”
“Nothing worth claiming falls so easily,” Lae’zel snaps.
Astarion knows how to take a cue an obvious as that, so he lunges forward. She may be tough, but he’s quick, and he has more weapons than just his daggers at his disposal. He doesn’t quite manage to knock her prone but he does sink his teeth into the flesh of her shoulder, hoping the advantage of having fed — and from her — will get him enough of an edge that he can hold his own against her.
She ends up wrestling him off, roughly enough that a bit of flesh leaves with him. He laughs at the expression on her face, furious, impressed, and reluctantly turned on by it. “Underhanded,” she says, and it’s not quite a compliment or an insult.
“Better that than a poor challenge,” he retorts.
Her movements aren’t exactly sluggish now, but they’re slower, and he finds he has more energy to try and force her into submission when there isn’t a gnawing void in his stomach. It’s very nearly enough.
Not quite, though. Lae’zel manages to knock him down again, this time with one hand against the back of his skull pressing him into the dirt, her knee on his back both agonizing and entirely preventing any way he can struggle out of the hold. “You fought well,” she says, and that is a compliment.
“Well enough for you to take me now?” he asks, knowing the shakiness to his voice will come across as desperation and not as discomfort with the too-familiar position.
Cazador isn’t here. He’s over a hundred miles from Baldur’s Gate, and he chose this, he knew what this would be, this is the best way to get Lae’zel to fight by his side —
Lae’zel doesn’t skimp on preparation, but she isn’t kind. Astarion is relieved. He wouldn’t know what to do with kindness, but he knows how to move his hips into the rough, impatient movements of her fingers until he’s open enough that her toy can slide into him. The burn is as painful as it is pleasant, and he moans, low and performative and muffled by the ground.
“You are suited for this,” Lae’zel says, and she doesn’t even have the decency to sound ruffled even as she fucks him into utter breathlessness. He can move more than before, yes, but the hand on his skull keeps him down.
Where you belong, boy.
“Next time,” he says. “I’ll be claiming you.”
Lae’zel scoffs. “Much as I would enjoy your attempt, you should know your limitations.”
Astarion catches his breath before the next thrust knocks it out of his lungs again. His hands are too busy bracing himself to avoid his face scraping against the ground to get a hand on himself, but he isn’t sure he’ll need it, anyway. He’s hard enough to cut diamonds. Lae’zel’s not half-bad at this.
He meets her movements, and she lets out a pleased, approving hum that isn’t at all like anything he remembers. It’s enough for him to relax into it a bit more, to keep his mind in the here and now and not on things best left forgotten.
In an unexpected kindness, Lae’zel makes it easier for him by talking through it all. She’s no longer quite so unaffected, her voice a harsh snarl that belies her own hunger.
“In the Gate, they have — where you can feel,” Astarion says, letting the words slur more than they really need to. “Want you to.”
“The indulgence of this plane never ceases to disgust me,” Lae’zel says, but her hips snap harder into Astarion’s as he mentions it, so he thinks it bothers her less than she might play at. He starts squirming more under her touch, letting sweet, desperate nothings he only half-means spill from his lips to make her thrusts faster and harder. Enough for him to come untouched, eventually, spilling over himself and the dirt below him.
He has less than a moment to recover before Lae’zel is pulling free and rolling him over, only tugging the harness out of the way enough to touch herself. Astarion knows he needs this to be better than that, so he sits up despite the protest in his muscles to get his mouth on her, letting the barest hint of fang nick her.
Lae’zel comes with a sigh that’s somehow victorious. That should be more than enough for her to fight at his side in the future.
Unlike the others in their party, save perhaps Wyll, Gale is a romantic. He also doesn’t seem especially interested in Astarion’s attempts at flirtation at first, even when he keeps them sweet and toothless. It’s annoying that their wizard hits like a dragon, then, because Astarion doesn’t know how else he can possibly win him over.
At least, until he’s dying.
Gale seems to hate the pity from the other members of their party but neither does he enjoy the brash refusal of Mystra’s demands. Astarion offers an alternative in sympathetic, companionable silence. He doubts it will take much more than that.
Sure enough, by the time they reach Moonrise, Astarion is the one Gale turns to to sit in silence under a magically starry sky. He’s even a bit snide about it, having no other choice, which Astarion graciously and kindly chooses to ignore.
This isn’t enough, though. First of all, if Gale kills himself, the explosion would certainly be enough to kill Astarion, too. All their travelling companions, too, though Astarion’s most obviously concerned for himself. Who wouldn’t be? The cult, he could take or leave — much as he’d enjoy such unbridled power, he’s starting to have some doubts about his ability to keep such things under control, and he knows better than most how a slave yearns to rebel against its masters — but he would never allow himself to be collateral damage if he can avoid it.
So he puts his hand on Gale’s, and tries not to be too obviously annoyed by how quickly he moves it.
“Astarion, I fear you’ve gotten the wrong idea,” Gale says.
“I’m not in love with you,” Astarion says, just to get out in front of it.
“Oh,” Gale says, and he manages to sound upset as though he wasn’t rejecting Astarion first. “Then why…?”
“You don’t have to be in love to have a little fun, Gale,” Astarion says. “Have you been with anyone since your goddess?”
“No,” Gale says. “Not all of us get on our back as easily as you.”
“Both Shadowheart and Lae’zel were happy to,” Astarion says calmly, resisting the urge to reply that there are far better positions than that, not that a prude like him would know that. He needs a subtler hand here. “And I’m not proposing anything so dour as a romantic relationship. I thought…well, if you’re dying soon, that you might want to forget that rather than stewing in it for another night.”
“Oh,” Gale says again, more quietly.
Astarion turns to look at him, sees the wizard’s expression is thoughtful rather than disgusted. “If not, I’ll sit with you. Or leave you to it, if you wish to be alone.” Gale flinches, minutely, and Astarion has to bite back a smirk. He knew that would do it. “Whatever you wish.”
It’s easy from there. Gale doesn’t do anything so blunt as talk about it, but he pulls Astarion in. Not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind or get in his own head about how he’s lowering himself to the likes of Astarion, Astarion doesn’t give him a chance to think. Kisses him like a lover would, hungry and desirous, only nipping at his bottom lip enough to tease and not to bleed. Kisses from his mouth down the line of his jaw down the line of his throat — doesn’t bite, even as the thirst inside him insists upon it — and pauses where the line of his tunic covers him.
“Good?” Astarion asks, making the look he gives Gale as sweetly seductive as he can.
Gale nods, jerky, and helps Astarion pull the rest of his clothes off. Astarion originally intends to drain him dry, and not in the vampiric sense, but Gale surprises him. Almost shyly, he spreads his legs further. “There’s…much I haven’t had the chance to try, not on this plane.”
Real interest, brief but hot, pools inside Astarion’s stomach. “That, I can do.”
He gets Gale’s legs on his shoulders and holds his body weight up, no matter the scream of protest in his back. (For all he’s grown over the course of their journey, his muscles have not improved much, if at all.) When he eats him out to prepare him, it’s slow, indulgent. He’s too busy holding himself up to get a hand around Gale’s cock himself, but the wizard’s clever enough to manage that, it seems.
Astarion tries not to linger in the odd feeling of coldness in his stomach. He knows what this is; Gale does too. There’s no use being precious about it, no matter that —
Gale insists he’s ready before Astarion thinks he is, but he’s not a good man, so he takes him at his word and slides his way home. Sure enough, there’s a pinch of pain on Gale’s face. Astarion kisses it away, muttering meaningless little platitudes that make Gale’s hips jerk every time. That he looks beautiful, that all Astarion wants is for him to enjoy himself, that he matters. Neither of them are fool enough to believe it, but it’ll stick in his mind. So long as he doesn’t kill himself first, Astarion thinks he’s endeared himself enough that he’ll have yet another ally in the fight to come.
Three allies is good, but not enough, which is why he’s relieved when Karlach comes to him. He’d been meaning to himself, of course, seeing how she’d melted into Wyll’s hug when her engine was fixed. She hadn’t exactly been shy about her intentions, either.
“So,” Karlach says.
“Sure,” Astarion says before she can get to it.
Karlach grins at him. Astarion can’t help but grin back. “Sure?”
“Why not?” he says. “Find a quiet place and you can tell me where you want me.”
A quiet place is a good deal harder to find in the Shadow-Cursed Lands than it was in the wilderness near the grove. They end up finding a booby-trapped graveyard behind Last Light Inn, and only blow themselves up once while doing so. Karlach had thankfully taken the brunt of it, something Astarion is genuinely grateful for.
“So,” Astarion says, slow enough to tease, and Karlach yanks him in before he can move onto the next words.
She’s impatient. He can’t blame her, exactly, but it’s a lot to keep up with, the frenetic pace more in line with how he’d acted after his year of imprisonment than with any of his would-be lovers. It’s all he can do to hide his hesitation and match her movements as they figure out a position.
On his back again. He supposes he should be surprised it took even this long. It’s hard to stay too entrenched in his own foul mood with Karlach’s excitement, almost girlish in the sheer openness of it. Less girlish is the way she stares down at him and says she wants to ride him until he sees stars, but…well, he’s had worse ideas.
The heat of her is — intense. Even with her engine fixed, it burns. She seems taken aback by the cold of him, too. “A shame you’re still too hot to bite,” he pants out, only barely able to manage that with the frenetic pace she’s set for them both. “The best way to warm myself up for a bit.”
“Could get one of the others here,” Karlach says, half-joking, half-deadly serious. “Lae’zel let you bite her, didn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t say let,” Astarion says. “But I don’t think she minded much.”
“Gods, I shouldn’t be curious,” she says, though she is, clearly, the desperate grinding of her hips meeting his giving her away. “I — gods, it’s been no time at all, how am I already close —”
“This is normally the part where I’d brag, but I’ve not had much of a chance to impress,” he says. “If you’ll let me…?”
“Sure, whatever you want, just don’t leave,” Karlach says, startling to look a little overwhelmed.
Astarion doesn’t mention the tears at the corner of her eyes as he pushes her down, switching their positions. True to her word, she comes around him not a few moments later, loud enough that Bex and Danis and probably every Harper, tiefling, gnome, and accursed shadow hear them both. The idea makes Astarion’s skin itch, and he speeds up his own pace.
Unlike Shadowheart, he thinks Karlach might enjoy that, the too-much of it all. She’ll want him here all night, at the very least, until one or both of them pass out from exhaustion. He’d thought as much. He’d braced himself for it.
His own orgasm takes him by surprise, actually. Quicker than he might’ve thought, but Karlach sighs happily as he spills inside her. He’s concerned about that for just a moment before he remembers that even if there were the slightest chance of his seed catching, she wouldn’t live long enough for that to be a problem.
Normally, remembering how the people he shares his bed with have less time than him is a comfort, albeit a grim one. This one sits in a different place in his chest, concern and worry and something almost like fondness thrumming underneath his skin.
“Holy shit, soldier,” Karlach says. “I thought Shadowheart was pulling my tail.”
He can’t help but preen. “Did she tell you about our time together? My, what a surprise. She swore me to secrecy afterward.”
Karlach laughs, big and boisterous. “Neither of you are very good liars.”
Astarion grins down at her, knowing he’d never have done this if he didn’t think it was the best way to keep her from baulking when they see the depths of depravity in the Szarr palace and feeling nearly guilty about that. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“I’m not planning on hiding it,” Karlach says. “Why? Were you?”
Astarion shrugs. “Oh, what a burden for the camp to know I’ve bedded the finest tiefling this side of Elturel —”
She laughs and tugs him in for a kiss. It’s not chaste, but it’s not especially sensual, either. Light, comfortable. He finds himself returning it less out of calculated instinct or red-hot desire but out of a simple desire to be in the moment with her.
It only lasts for that moment, but perhaps that’s enough.
It has been a very, very long time since Astarion felt genuinely overwhelmed during sex. He’s normally retreated from himself before it gets to that point, or had expected the brutality of it, or was in control the whole time no matter how little he wanted to be there.
Halsin is — well, Astarion had been kind of joking, about the bear thing, until it became clear how much Halsin actually would enjoy that. The whole point of sleeping with Halsin is to give him a reason to stick in this city that he hates and kill a godsdamned vampire lord. The Absolute, too, sure, but Astarion’s started to believe they really might have that one on lock. Cazador is weaker than an Elder Brain, certainly, but that doesn’t quite click in Astarion’s mind.
Nothing could be more of a threat than Cazador.
So he’d said yes. He’d feigned interest, he’d teased, he’d been playful as he implied this was something he’d been thinking about since the first moment they’d saved him from the goblin camp, as though Astarion hadn’t been disappointed that the rest of the party had stopped the goblin brats from stoning the poor thing to death.
Astarion had been prepared for big, both in that he’d spent an awkward ten minutes or so fingering himself open in case Halsin wasn’t overly fond of preparations before approaching him and that he’d braced to be towered over. Still, as large as Halsin is as an elf, as a bear it’s —
The bear — Halsin — huffs. He has no tadpole to communicate in words, but the gentle headbutt of his snout on Astarion’s bare flank somehow gets a thought across nonetheless. Are you good to keep going?
“Fine,” Astarion says, but it comes out all pinched and breathless. “You’re — I want this. Keep going.”
Halsin exhales again, and his breath is too-hot, too-much against Astarion’s skin, as cool as ever. He should have asked to bite him first, be drunk enough on blood that he could forget the rest of it. Actually, would drinking a wildshaped bear feel the same as that bear back near the Grove? Worth testing.
He’s lost enough in his own head that it takes him a moment to realize Halsin isn’t moving. When he turns to look over his shoulder, the bear’s just sitting there. Still visibly interested, and gods, Astarion doesn’t think he’s taken anything that large, ever. He swallows, hopes the look comes across as desire and not sheer dread.
“What’s the hold up?” he asks, pleased that the words come out impatient, not shaking at all.
The bear just sort of looks at him. Its — Halsin’s reticence is clear.
Astarion groans and takes a deep breath, pressing his forehead against the cool earth beneath him. He needs to play this right or he’ll lose this. Halsin needs to think Astarion is on the same wavelength as he is, that’s the only way this works.
“Okay, yes, I’m nervous,” he admits, not looking at him. “I’ve wanted this for — gods above, months now. We’ve both taken many lovers, and I’d rather not embarrass myself and end up low on this list.”
Halsin snorts. Astarion can hear him lumber closer, makes a conscious effort not to tense but to relax under it.
“If you don’t want it, or if you don’t want it this way, that’s fine,” he says. “I don’t want to pressure you, or put expectations on — oh.”
That was enough, apparently. Astarion tries to focus on the relief of a plan come to fruition and not the sheer pressure at his entrance. Halsin mounts him as though he’s nothing more than — than someone who asked for this, all but begged for it. He can’t blame Halsin for the churning in his gut, no matter how much he might wish to.
Of course, that means the only one left to blame is —
To his credit, Halsin’s movements are gentle. Astarion can feel himself more genuinely relaxing as nothing tears, nothing hurts aside from the sheer size of him. Even that is…tolerable. More than tolerable after he gets used to it, slowly starts matching Halsin’s steady rhythm. He even finds himself moaning for something other than show at the way Halsin’s cock jerks inside him when Astarion clenches down, something he can only manage once, twice before he’s too overwhelmed to keep going.
Astarion doesn’t come on Halsin’s cock, but he does come when Halsin cleans him out later, back in his elf form and apparently very talented with his tongue. He doesn’t even protest when Halsin moves to hold him.
It’s…nice. Being cared for. Nicer still to have an archdruid who won’t leave his side the moment things get difficult.
If asked which party member he wanted help fighting Cazador with the most, Astarion would have said Wyll right at the start. Now that they’ve been traveling together for months, now that they’ve fought cultists and hags and Chosen and gods…it’s still Wyll.
He’s the Blade of Frontiers, for gods’ sake! He’s a career monster hunter! Perhaps he’s not as powerful as he was before the tadpole, but he’s still a threat to a vampire lord, surely. The infernal powers are only a bonus. Just one hold person — or hold monster, Astarion doesn’t know or care about the arcane logistics there — and Astarion can tear in with his daggers. Cazador deserves it. Cazador deserves worse.
Annoyingly, Wyll seems more resistant to Astarion’s seductions than anyone. It’s not “insufferably randy” to want to enjoy the company of another consenting adult, or several, or several and a wildshaped bear. It’s not as though Astarion can defend himself by saying he didn’t want them much at all, he just wanted their help, which means he just has to laugh and pretend the words don’t bother him, pretend that he doesn’t watch Wyll more than he’d watched the others from the start.
He knows why. Astarion might not be the planner of their group, but he knows himself well. He’d spent a year with nothing else to distract him from his own mind, after all, and centuries after that to learn even more. Sure, he’d moved on from dreaming of heroes after barely a few days in isolation, just as he’d given up on the gods when no prayer got an answer whether whispered or screamed or ruminated on as his back was carved open.
Naturally, Wyll is every bit the hero he’d once have hoped for. Dashing and genuinely kind and tough. He’s held his own against devils, even when they held his leash tight. Astarion knows he certainly wouldn’t have had the strength to do the same. He wouldn’t have even considered trying. What was Karlach’s life to his own?
Wyll’s a better man than he is. Astarion’s wondered what he tastes like for several tendays now. Not just his blood, either.
But flirting hadn’t done anything, and heated eye contact across the battlefield as Astarion bit into some hapless bandit had exactly the opposite effect from what he’d hoped, and the mortifying experience of being honest about who Cazador was to him had…well, it had worked, in that Wyll had said he would help kill him, but how could Astarion believe that? What, just out of the goodness of his heart? Sure, he might say that, might even believe it, but he’d see the kennel, see the blood and the bodies, realize what kind of monster he was helping and leave him to it. And if Wyll left, the rest would too, no matter what he’d done to win their loyalty.
Enough to drive a man to madness. He’s so relieved to see Wyll approaching him one night at their camp near the docks that he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Ah, my favorite traveling companion. Do you need something?”
“Are you alright?” Wyll asks.
Astarion blinks. He can’t remember the last time someone asked him that. “I’m… just standing here?”
Wyll rolls his eyes. “We’re back in the city now. I heard what you said earlier, about how different it looks in the sunlight. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“How sweet,” Astarion says, and it comes out dismissive no matter how much he doesn’t want it to. “I’m fine, really. Not thrilled about the prospect of facing Cazador again, but needs must as the devil drives, and all that.”
Wyll nods, somber. “Well, you’ll have us with you.”
“Thank you,” Astarion says. “And you’ll have me.” After a beat, enough time for Wyll to wonder what he means, he adds, “For any battle yet to come.”
Wyll holds his gaze for a moment before he grins. “You’re a rake, Astarion.”
“Who, me?” Astarion says, faux offended, holding a hand up to his chest in mock outrage. “Why, I never! Have I not been right by your side through all our heroic deeds, Wyll?”
He means it as more banter, playful and meaningless, so it takes him aback when Wyll looks…hurt. By that? No, not hurt. Regretful. Apologetic. “You’re right,” Wyll says. “I think I may have misjudged you, Astarion. You’re a better man than we gave you credit for.”
Astarion laughs. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would,” Wyll says, and takes his hand. It’s not a romantic grip. Really, it’s more his wrist than his hand, an archaic sign of faith that Astarion remembers being outdated even when he was still alive. He finds himself returning it, grabbing Wyll’s wrist right back, before he can think twice. “I do mean it, you know. It would be my pleasure to help you kill Cazador.” After a pause, he adds, “I mean that even if you leave the very same night. Don’t, please, but. I still wouldn’t regret it.”
Astarion’s grip tightens on Wyll without meaning for it to. “Oh.”
They stay that way for…a moment. Two moments. However long it takes for Volo to notice and start jotting something down with an impractically large quill. “Well,” Wyll says with a little cough, dropping Astarion’s hand. “Long day tomorrow. Sleep well, Astarion.”
“You too,” Astarion says, and watches Wyll as he leaves.
Perhaps he doesn’t have to seduce him, Astarion concedes. If there’s any man who would stand by such words without a single suggestion of reward, Wyll Ravengard is one.
Still…he’s already gotten this far. It’s not like it can hurt.