Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/halsin/staeve
Tags: accidental voyeurism, rough sex, hair-pulling, masturbation, implied tadpole influence
Wordcount: 718
Notes: staeve belongs to maf

Summary:
the one where astarion comes back from the hunt, and finds halsin and staeve going at it (he cannot bring himself to interrupt)

Excerpt:

Astarion slowly, quietly, pulled the flap at the entrance of the tent, just enough so he could peek inside; he felt like a fool for sneaking around his own tent, but at the same time there was a tightness in his chest, a tremble in his limbs that stopped him from just going in, interrupting the moment.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

No moonlight illuminated Astarion’s steps: just a million stars overhead, embroidered in the sky like knotted silver thread. The sight of celestial bodies gently pulsing against the dark belly of the universe had filled Astarion with wonder since he had been taken from Baldur’s Gate — almost as much as sunlight had.

He set to returning to camp in a wonderful mood, feeling stronger and healthier. He always hated to admit when Halsin was right, but indulging in his hunting instincts from time to time, like the druid had suggested, not only gave Staeve the chance to recover naturally without having to resort to magical means, but it also gave Astarion as much vigour as drinking the blood of the preys themselves did.

It didn’t make him any less undead, but it sure as Hells made him feel more alive.

His senses were sharper, his hunger less pressing, the control on his body more accurate; he truly could discern every sound and every scent now; his mind was more focused; he was entirely soundless as he stepped through the undergrowth.

He started getting a sense of everyone’s heartbeat well before he walked within sight of the camp; Karlach’s, too loud and too regular, Lae’zel’s, quicker and quieter, and Gale’s, half muffled by a strange buzz, were so easy to pick out among the rest, in their oddities, even from that distance. The owlbear cub’s as well, who was asleep somewhere in Wyll’s tent; it was somewhat comforting, to be lead home by the familiar rhythm of sleeping hearts—

Ah. Except not everyone at camp seemed to be quite at rest.

Just outside the tent he shared with Halsin and Staeve, Astarion found himself lingering, captured and distracted by the richness of the sounds coming from inside; the whispery rustling of the surface of the bedroll, the quick pace of his lovers’ heartbeats, the noise of skin against skin, sweat and fluids making it slick and sonorous; their breathing, so heavy and loud, choked in their throats and punched from their chests in turns.

“Fuck. Halsin.“ Staeve’s moan sent a shiver down Astarion’s spine, freezing him in place.

Had Staeve always sounded that sweet, that desperate, when he was with Astarion?

“I have you, dear heart,” he heard Halsin answer, low and strained. “You’re doing so well. You’re doing so well. Just a bit longer.”

“Please,” Staeve begged, his voice breaking in the middle. The plea had an insensate quality to it, like he didn’t even know what he was saying. “Please.”

Astarion slowly, quietly, pulled the flap at the entrance of the tent, just enough so he could peek inside; he felt like a fool for sneaking around his own tent, but at the same time there was a tightness in his chest, a tremble in his limbs that stopped him from just going in, interrupting the moment.

If he had been alive, his heart would’ve been hammering out of his ribcage.

Staeve was on his knees, ass in the air, bent so far forward his shoulders were leaning against the bedroll; his fingers were white-knuckled as he gripped the covers, cheek pillowed at the crook of his elbow, and his eyes had gone entirely unfocused, glossed over with pleasure. Halsin mounted him from behind, his hips working against Staeve slow and deep; half his weight was pressing the half-drow into the floor, his hand splayed between Staeve’s freckled shoulder blades, the other knotted in his hair. Halsin pulled on it, and Staeve let out a whimper that went straight to Astarion’s dick.

His mouth was so dry he couldn’t even swallow. Every nerve of his undead body was like hit by lightning; all his senses were attuned to the bodies moving in front of him; his muscles tensed up, like he was getting ready to run; and yet, he was rooted in place. After the hyper-focused state from before, his mind was like enshrouded in fog, as if something in the back of his consciousness had been forcibly taking over all the synapses in his brain.

He could only watch, as Staeve and Halsin got themselves more and more lost in each other; he could only watch, one hand slipping under his clothes, desperately, clumsily, uncertainly looking for release, as he got more and more lost in them.