Chapter Text
The sun hangs low, practically a dwindling spark on the horizon as dusk falls. Valyrd’s mind kept drifting back to his encounter with Minthara, and further back to his time in House Alet’tar. He needs a distraction or something to keep him preoccupied.
As if fate knew, he spots an answer to his conundrum. Honestly, a few nights ago, he wouldn’t have expected the vampling to invite him to a forest clearing to fuck. Granted, being asked first at all was novel in of itself for him, much less getting to choose who gets to have him.
He concedes, the pale elf is lovely. His charms and beauty were unmistakable, and from how he carried himself and phrased his sweet words, the rogue clearly has experience in the art. If he were a drow, Val thought, he could think of at least one person who’d take interest in his particular talents. But no. He’s not in Menzoberranzan, and Lady Alet’tar is nowhere to be seen, to avail herself of her favorite toy.
That’s right. He thought to himself. She may be far from here, but you still have your role to fill. Just the usual service, be a thing to rut and ride for a night, then move on with your pathetic excuse of an existence. Besides, if he enjoys you enough, then perhaps he’d want to keep you around. Perhaps even want to protect you when your mistress comes for you. Just find a dark corner of your mind to sink into. He’ll get what he wants from you, and you can get something later. Easy.
Although he had belonged exclusively to Lady Alet’tar all these years, she'd certainly rein in his mind and body if she knew about him giving himself to someone else, especially a man. However, since the nautiloid, since being infected with that wriggling worm that now rests behind his eye, he noticed some unexpected changes. His thoughts were clearer, more clearly his own. He had more deliberate control of his body, and what’s more, his magic has grown exponentially more powerful than it ever had in the last 40 years.
Is the tadpole interfering with the Sussur brand similar to how Astarion’s allows him to walk in the sun? The slight changes to himself, and the not-so-small growth in power, seemed to indicate as much. But if he could just… fuck someone on his own terms, that would all but confirm the worm’s influence superseding his mistress.
The first night he spent with Astarion all but confirmed this. For the first time in decades, he chose to have sex with someone, and he… enjoyed it. A lot. That last outcome was unexpected, to be sure, but it’s not like anyone took time to explain what it was supposed to feel like.
Since that night, he’d noticed some things, subtle at first until he couldn’t ignore it. It started when Karlach woke him up to chat. She’s lovely, and a powerful ally to boot. However, when the conversation shifted to her forwardly coming onto him, he balked.
“Gods, I wanna ride you till you see stars.” As erm, flattered, as he should’ve been by her comment, something about it filled him to the core with a raw discomfort. He wasn’t sure if it was the phrasing or something else, but he couldn’t help but feel entirely averse to the idea of that kind of closeness to her. Thankfully, she took the declination very well. She even apologized the next morning for coming on too strong. Strange.
Similarly, Lae’zel also expressed interest in him at a different time, and much more forwardly. Odd word choices and obviously unique kinks aside, the same discomfort returned. She seemed more perturbed by the rejection, as if being “tasted” by her was too good to pass up on. However, Valyrd was as sure of his decision as he was with Karlach.
It gave him pause. He started pondering on why the thought of bedding, or rather being bedded by either of the two women, felt… unbearable to him. Meanwhile, a drifting thought of how Astarion practically pinned him against a tree with his embrace was enough to make his face and neck grow hot.
Perhaps it was simply because of traveling together. It’s easier to gauge his interest in each of them because he knows them a bit more personally. Surely.
However, that theory was promptly thrown out upon meeting the dream visitor. She was beautiful, or at least by Menzoberranzan standards. It was almost like every one of her features was made to be conventionally attractive. And while Valyrd certainly acknowledged her aesthetic, there was nothing more beyond that.
Meanwhile, he finds himself endeared quickly by Gale’s mannerisms, especially his dedication to walking him through channeling the Weave like a tutor teaching a child. Then Wyll was already easy on the eyes, but gods — those horns! A single thought of the things he could do while holding onto them like handles was enough to make him feel a need for a cold bath.
Nevertheless, a second night of passion with the pale elf felt appealing about now, but waiting around for a second invitation wouldn’t do. He’ll have to be the one to ask, a first time in his case. He can do this, and besides, what’s the worst that could happen besides him saying no? Why does the thought of being turned down fill him with dread?
Shaking away his doubts with little success, Valyrd strides to Astarion’s tent, finding the vampire lounging. The latter notices his approach and smirks.
“Well, there’s my little treat and with his cheeks all flushed,” Astarion tsks flirtatiously, “What can I do for you, darling?”
Val’s face reddens a bit more. “Glad you asked. You see, I recently spotted a pleasant part of the riverbank not too far from here, and… I was wondering i-if you want, we could –”
He stammers a second more before smacking his face in frustration and muttering, “Get it together, you damned wael .”
He takes a deep breath before simply blurting out, “You. Me. There. Tonight.”
After a couple seconds, Astarion fully processes what his companion is getting at. “Oh! I see you must’ve enjoyed last time that much, eh? Very well. When everyone else is asleep,” he stands up, leaning close to the drow, “you know where to find me.”
“Oh gods, yes.” Valyrd blinks, realizing he just said that aloud. “I mean — of course. I’ll see you tonight.”
He turns on his heel, his ponytail swishing over his shoulder, before pausing to turn back slightly. “Although, I hope you can do better than ‘little treat’.”
Astarion hums in consideration. “Of course I could! Give me a moment.”
He takes a second, pondering which line to use before settling on his choice. “How about this one: accolades from the tieflings pale in comparison to my name, cried from your lips.”
A chill runs up Valyrd’s spine, but in a good way? Odd. Thankfully, he keeps composure as he smirks coyly. “Oh really? Aren’t you bold, considering I wasn’t the one crying the other’s name last time?”
“Ha! You cheeky little…” Astarion starts trailing off. “Aren’t you just…”
Valyrd glances to the side as silence hangs for a moment. The vampire’s eyes being locked on him brings another chill up his spine. “You alright, Astarion? You can stop staring, you know.”
“Hm? Was I?” Astarion sighs, as if snapping out of a trance. “I’m… going to get some air. See you later, darling.” With a nod, he saunters off.
Valyrd leads Astarion towards the spot he mentioned. This part of the riverbank was notably grassier, making a soft surface for the upcoming activity. As the vampling followed, he briefly considered taking the drow’s hand in his, but decided against it.
Val had brought a blanket he now carries slung over his shoulder. The chilling breeze sweeping over them from across the river made his unspoken reason apparent. Once the pair reaches a stopping point, Valyrd sets the blanket down and proceeds to unfasten the ties in the back of his corseted shirt.
Although the shirt in question had an open back, leaving only ties in the lower section of his back, his shoulders and chest start to throb due to stretching back there. Astarion notices and steps forward, placing his hands over Valyrd’s.
“I got this.” The drow mutters as the elf eases his hands back to a resting position.
“Mhm, sure you do.” Astarion gently turns him around, and struggles to not laugh, seeing the pout on his companion’s face. “How about this: I work on your clothes…” He slowly leads Val’s hands down his chest to waist. “... and you can work on mine afterwards.”
Valyrd wordlessly leans into him, wrapping his arms around Astarion’s waist. The vampire leans in as well, reaching around the drow’s back, and he begins untying the corset. Carefully, he grips the cords, untying them and easing the cinching more and more open.
Valyrd holds onto him a bit tighter and rests his head in the crook of his neck. Taking in a deep breath, his senses catch on notes of rosemary, bergamot, and a hint of brandy emanating from the elf. Whether specifically from his body or just his shirt, he couldn’t care less about the distinction. The scent is soothing, and he calmly breathes it in as he feels hands easing the corset fully open with gentle tugs.
Astarion slides his hands up the drow’s back before gripping the collar of Val’s shirt. Feeling this, Valyrd eases his head back so the collar can be pulled over it. The shirt slides off, pulled by Astarion’s hands as they drift down the sorcerer’s lithe arms. The garment falls in the grass with a soft thud, and the vampire whispers, “Your turn.”
Valyrd begins carefully untucking his shirt then bringing the hem up his torso. He raises the hem and collar along with Astarion’s arms still in the sleeves above their heads. As the fabric passes, Valyrd ducks under it to kiss Astarion. The vampire reciprocates while pulling his arms from his sleeves to pull Val in further. The shirt, now fully removed, falls lightly next to the other one.
Astarion moves his hands down to unclasp the drow’s trousers. As he does so, he also moves his head, planting a kiss on his neck. His lips part briefly, nipping gently at the skin as his hands push the waistband down, with help from Valyrd. The latter eases his pants, and smallclothes with it, off subtly while leaning into the bite with a soft moan.
Astarion can feel his pulse so close to his mouth. A bit further, and he could break the skin, flowing blood out. He refrains for now since Valyrd hasn’t invited him to do so like last time. Most of the drow smells like lavender and lichen. But here, at the left side of his neck where the cold blue tattoo rests, there is a hint of earthy bitterness, like ginger. As Astarion brushes his face across the neck, taking in the tantalizing warmth, the scent is stronger with closer proximity to the mark. Seems that the last scent is coming from the ink on his skin. Intriguing.
While Valyrd starts unbuttoning his companion’s pants, Astarion runs a hand up the back of his neck till his fingers find purchase on the thin ribbon tying his silvery hair up. He quickly finds the correct strand and pulls, undoing the knot and releasing the ponytail as soft hair spills over Val’s shoulders. He eases his hand down to push some of the hair back, behind the drow’s ear and out of the way of his violet eyes.
The aforementioned eyes drift down as Valyrd kneels, easing the pants down and off Astarion’s supple legs. The elf crouches to his level, cupping the drow’s chin in his hand. “Your one rule from last time still applies, I presume?”
Valyrd nods. The first night they did this, he had set only one limitation: no penetration. Thankfully, there was no question of why then, and there isn’t one now. He leans back, stretching his legs forward, and pulling Astarion’s head with a hand, inviting him in.
Astarion leans forward, halfway prone, and as he nears Valyrd, he pulls his face towards him into a long kiss. As the pair eases back and down until one lies on top of the other, Astarion pins one of Val’s hands to the grassy turf with his own hand, fingers intertwining.
He then brings a leg forward, applying comfortable leverage as he hooks it under the drow’s own leg, parting it from the other. Valyrd’s free hand reaches around, grabbing onto Astarion’s ass, guiding his hips in before gliding up the small of his back. Following the motion, the vampling moves in until his cock nestles between the drow’s thighs.
He rocks his hips forward, gradually escalating into rhythmic bucking. Each new nudge elicits small grunts of effort from Astarion and moans from Valyrd, or at least the sounds that aren’t smothered whenever a kiss was included.
After a few minutes, Astarion has to adjust, brushing his lips down to the drow’s collarbone as he recalls a minor detail. Unlike himself, his lover needs to breathe. The newer gulps of air led to gasps from Valyrd and even a small cry, “Astarion–!” to the vampire’s smug satisfaction.
However, a moan is suddenly cut off by a wince, then cry — not in pleasure, but pain. Hearing this, Astarion promptly slows to a halt, gazing down at the drow. While both of their bodies are lightly coated in sweat at this point, an abnormal amount on Valyrd’s brow drip in rivulets. His face is twisted in a grimace, his hands do not hold Astarion as firmly as before. His chest heaves and spasms as each breath brings a new wave of agony that wracks his body.
After a moment, Astarion silently eases off, rolling gently on his back, settling by the drow who glances at him without moving.
“Why’d you stop?” He sounds stern yet confused, despite the pathetic whimper that escapes his lips.
“Because,” Astarion pants, “it’s quite obvious we’ve reached your limit for tonight.”
“... I could’ve lasted longer.” Valyrd protests unconvincingly.
The vampling snorts, bemused. “Like hells you could. We’re stopping to keep your damn ribs intact, and you can nurse your pride later.”
The drow rests a hand over his chest as his breathing calms. “Alright.” To Astarion’s surprise, his voice tinged with more relief than the disappointment he expected.
The pair lie beside each other in silence, staring up at the canopy of stars above them.
“What now?” Astarion breaks the quiet, a bit lost in where to take the night from here.
“I… I don’t know.” Valyrd answers with a shiver before whispering under his breath, “She usually just kept going until she grew bored. …Even if I was unconscious.”
The elf’s ears prick up, catching those last words. Thoughts of his own experiences cross his mind before shaking them away like cobwebs. Noticing the earlier shiver, he sits up, reaches for the blanket hanging halfway over the nearby rock, and pulls it over. He unfolds it, and with a quick flourish, he drapes it over Valyrd with more than enough room under the blanket to cover him.
With an appreciative hum, Valyrd pinches an edge of the blanket and draws it over Astarion as well. It turns out that the excess room is more than enough to cover two people amply. The vampling raises an eyebrow at Val, suspecting this was planned.
“I wasn’t sure if the river breeze would bother you,” Valyrd explains, “so I made sure it was big enough for both of us. Just in case.”
“I see.” Astarion hums. “Thank you.”
He eases his hand over the drow’s, which flinches before calming, pressing into his palm. He turns his head, glancing at his face, then his neck, thoughts drifting to the tattoo on the other side.
“It does more than mark someone’s ownership, doesn’t it?” He mutters.
Valyrd turns to Astarion, sees his knowing look, and in turn knows what he’s referring to — and how he’d know even that much. He sighs. “Of course you were eavesdropping.”
Astarion shrugs, as if it’s to be expected.
“Honestly,” the drow begins, “I’d rather not say any more about it. But it wouldn’t be fair to you considering what you’ve shared about Cazador… and that ‘poem’ you told me about the morning after last time.”
Astarion chuckles bitterly. “We do have the strangest pillow talk, don’t we?”
Valyrd hums in agreement before continuing. “Many Houses in Menzoberranzan, especially the lower ones, tend to specialize in some field as a means to secure unique power. For example, House Oblodra experimented on mind flayers and blood before their decline. House Alet’tar is no exception. They specialized in magic, or more specifically, means to manipulate and negate it. Because of that, they had taken especial interest in the nullifying effects of the Sussur tree. Its blooms passively absorb surrounding Weave, and the bark and roots can interfere with the Weave in living beings should it enter the bloodstream. I wasn’t part of their study, but I was marked with a result of it.”
He faintly rubs the tattoo on his neck. “Extract from Sussur petals and powdered roots were key ingredients in the ink. It gives its distinct hue as well as its additional effects. It kept me weak, unable to grow in power. The most magic I could’ve casted was some dancing lights whenever extra flair to my performance was wanted.”
“Interesting. Were you the only one with that special treatment?” Astarion turns his head to watch Valyrd as he listens.
“No, I was not. Anyone kept in House Alet’tar to serve was given a similar mark. Kept us weak as well as docile.” He pauses. “I trust you’re aware how elves can resist charms and being forced to sleep by magic. Well, an extra effect that ears of experiments uncovered was it could allow one to bypass that mental defense. So if I refused, resisted, or simply protested whatever demands were made of me, she could simply… overrule my mind and will with her own. Sometimes she made me more agreeable to what she wanted, sometimes she made me do things, and sometimes…”
His breath hitches at memories of those nights when Lady Alet’tar would want her personal, private, intimate entertainment. Those nights that if he squirmed a bit too much or spoke out of turn, she’d… “Sometimes, she’d make me numb. Force my mind to shut down, reducing me to a catatonic doll for her to play with.”
Astarion gives him an understanding look, his hand gently squeezing Valyrd’s. Seems they have more in common than he anticipated, although not entirely alike. He would search his darling’s face for how he’s feeling, but it’s turned away by now. Not that he should care. Why does he?
Just barely out of sight, Valyrd takes a shaky breath as a few tears escape his attempts to hold them back. His hand grips Astarion’s in response to the squeeze, as if to ground himself with the touch of the present. His memories of past exploitations ought to be blanketed in new ones of intimacy he’s chosen, he reasons. Although, the tightening feeling in his chest seems… new, and unrelated to his healing injuries protesting.
Astarion gives him a moment of silence, then gently kisses the drow’s shoulder. “I… Thank you for trusting me with this.” He pauses, unsure of where to take this. He’s certainly not ready to add to the honestly depressing pillow talk. “What now?”
Valyrd discreetly dries his eyes before turning back to face the vampling. “I’m tired. And I think I’ve bored you with plenty of my sordid tale already.” He chuckles, deflecting from his own distress from uncovering the surface of his trauma. He slowly drapes his free arm over and across Astarion’s chest before closing his eyes.
Within under a minute, he’s out like a light, a soft snore emanating from him between his slow, even breaths.
Astarion would’ve laughed at the sight, a fellow elf forgoing meditation for sleep, but he simply brushes a bit of Valyrd’s hair away from his face before closing his own eyes.
“Good night, Valyrd.” Astarion whispers as he drifts to sleep, forgoing meditation himself.
Astarion’s eyes blink open to glaring sunlight peeking through leaves. Morning. He thinks to sit up and take in his surroundings, but he stops when he feels and notices a certain obstacle.
The drow he had slept beside has his arms wrapped around him with one leg hook around his. His head is nestled in the crook of his neck, but the vampire can still see in his peripheral tears dried on Valyrd’s cheeks — more than there were when he fell asleep. With his free hand, Astarion reaches over to catch a newly formed tear and brushes it away with his thumb as his hand cups the face.
Astarion feels a lump in his throat, then a drop in his stomach as the drow’s arms tighten around him, and his face inches closer, further into his hand. It must just be the usual loathing that he’d felt when seducing anything with a pulse for Cazador. After all, it seems his own plan with Valyrd is working.
Step one was effortless. Seduce him. The drow reciprocated his interest with flirting of his own.
Step two was practically like breathing. Sleep with him. Honestly, it was actually a bit more enjoyable than he expected, despite his mind being elsewhere on their first night. Seems he was lucky, picking someone with apparent experience being fucked. He can’t explain why that last thought makes his stomach churn.
Step three is evidently underway, if last night was any indication. Manipulate his feelings so he’ll never turn on him. If Valyrd trusts him enough to open up about his past more than he did with Wyll, that must mean… something.
Astarion sighs. His plan is working, but he just has to only do one more thing. Don’t fall for him. This is all transactional, and besides, Valyrd must feel the same. Right?
He stays there, held by the drow under the blanket as his thoughts wander. If his plan is working so well, then why does a part of him feel… awful?
Almost as if something beneath his mask of honeyed words and pretty faces wished, yearned for this to be something more, something real.