anticipation

[deerna]

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/mob, cazador/astarion
Tags: Astarion Backstory (Baldur's Gate), Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Exploitation, Sybian, Fucking Machines, Fade to Black, Public Scene, Jewelry, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Restraints, Cazador Trash Party, Mentioned Cazador Szarr, Implied Sexual Content, the actual scenario happens off screen sorry about that
Wordcount: 452 / 444 on AO3
Notes: so yeah, the context here is that astarion is chained to a magic sybian fucking machine thingie and doesn't know what to expect. no sex onscreen.

Summary:
Astarion distracting himself from the dread of anticipation.

Excerpt:

It was a game of play pretend. The rules were very simple, but not always easy to follow.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

Sometimes, in the middle of parties, Astarion would play a game.

It was a game of play pretend. The rules were very simple, but not always easy to follow.

Sometimes it was no effort at all. He could imagine the hands in his hair as loving and warm, rather than rough and cold; he could imagine them scratching his scalp just the way he liked, instead of pulling roughly at his roots. It wasn’t hard losing himself in the taste of sex, his nose and mouth filled with fluids and smells—he could easily justify partners for being rough in the throes of passion; and it was easy to pretend that—well. Some things were impossible to play off as pleasant, admittedly; but then the more hopeless they were to turn into fantasies, the easier it became for Astarion to slip away, and send his mind to another realm.

The game was easy that night. He wasn’t in pain, he wasn’t cold; he wasn’t too hungry, even if the putrid blood of the rotten rat he’d had earlier sat heavily in his stomach; he wasn’t uncomfortable, even if the leather of the strange saddle-like appliance he was straddling felt a little rough and stiff against his skin; he was chained to it by cuffs that circled his wrists and ankles, but they weren’t forcing him to stay twisted in some unnatural position. Only the jewelry was a little distracting—thin chains whispering over his collarbones, down his chest and hips, and the light throb where his ears were freshly pierced to accommodate a whole row of small rings, the gentle tinkling sound of metal against metal startling him whenever he tilted his head. It was so far from the usual amount of suffering he was used to—no part of his body was flayed open, forced apart, pinched or burned—he felt his focus slip, senses catching into reality.

He was too aware of Cazador’s guests milling around him, gossiping and laughing and drinking, occasionally coming closer to gawk at him, to touch the odd contraption with curious fingers, to tease at the glittery chains draped on him. He was too aware of the sense of anticipation building around him as the night grew darker. He was too aware that he was starting to hope that something would happen sooner rather than later, because waiting was driving him insane. He closed his eyes, frustrated at himself, dread eating him from the inside. He was usually better at playing.

It was a game of play pretend. The rules were very simple, but not always easy to follow.

The game finished when Astarion was too afraid.