Work Text:
You’ve never been more excited about a cake of soap.
It was expensive, certainly, but it was also for a very worthwhile cause. The vendor had touted it as a new recipe, rife with goat’s milk moisturizer and cold-processed oils and other niceties you didn’t wholly understand but enjoyed the thought of. Having spent the last several months bathing in creeks with a communal sponge and a chunk of unscented lye, anything was an upgrade.
You unwrap the brown paper packaging around the soap, and the scent of warm vanilla and wild raspberry wafts up to greet you. It’s rather pretty soap: an unimportant factor as far as you’re concerned, but something you think Astarion will delight in. This particular cake is marbled with swirls of red, black, and white. You rub your thumb idly against the waxy surface before setting it on the corner of the tub.
“Oh? What’s this?”
You jump so hard you nearly knock the soap into the steaming water. “Fucking hells—!”
“Apologies, darling,” Astarion says, sounding distinctly more amused than apologetic.
“Bastard,” you say, though there’s no venom in the word.
“Just for you.” Astarion slides onto his knees next to you on the tile, folding his arms over the rim of the tub and smirking at your reflection in the water. “Having a spa day, are we?”
“I was going to ask you to join me, but I might rather drown you instead.”
“A risk I’m willing to take, fortunately for you," he purrs. "It would be the nicest drowning I’ve had by far.”
It might be funny if he were joking.
You don’t think he’s joking.
“Certainly the best-smelling,” Astarion continues, twirling a hand in the hot water like he hasn’t just tossed you a token piece of his trauma. You accept the deflection for what it is, though a part of you always wants to push—to lance the wounds festering in him. But there is a time and a place for such things, and right now you don’t want to excavate him as much as you want to pamper him. So you hold your tongue, and allow him the indulgence of redirecting as he says, “What did you put in it?”
“Only a few bath oils. Some new soaps, too.”
“Well, let’s try it out, shall we?” Astarion sits back on his heels so he can shed his shirt, folding it into a neat square before setting it aside. His trousers and underthings quickly follow suit, though he pauses to quirk an eyebrow at you when he realizes you aren’t undressing. “Aren’t you joining me? Rather a large tub for only one person.”
“I thought I might simply help you wash,” you say, “but if you want me to join you, I will.”
Astarion hesitates. It’s only the briefest of pauses, but you know him well enough to read the uncertainty in it. You simply can’t tell which idea he’s uncertain about—the idea of you joining him, or the idea of you leaving him in the water on his own.
“Astarion,” you say, coaxing. “Tell me which you’d prefer.”
“Well.” Astarion sniffs haughtily, his gaze cutting away from you. “I think it’s rather unfair that only one of us is naked. If your plan is to spoil me, I ought to be allowed to look at you. I might get bored otherwise.”
While you doubt that’s the whole reason for Astarion’s request, you don’t press. He’s given you enough by simply telling you what he wants; you don’t need to know the particulars of why he wants it, if he’s not in the mood to tell you. So you shed your own clothes, and you ease into the water. It’s a hot slide against your skin, and you sigh in pleasure. You splash the water in front of you once you’ve settled, and Astarion slots himself between the sprawl of your legs—his back to your chest, close enough for you to feel the way his muscles loosen as he sinks into the water.
“Alright, I’ll admit it,” he says. “This was one of your better ideas.”
“I’m glad you approve. It would have been a pity to have to use all this soap by myself.”
“I’m sure Halsin would have agreed to share.”
“We don’t fit in the tub at the same time,” you say, rather mournfully.
“Oh?” Astarion sounds delighted by the revelation—or, perhaps, what it implies. “Have you tried? Why didn’t you invite me?”
“It was a spur of the moment decision, else I would have,” you say, reaching for the sponge. You soak it in the water, then begin lathering it against the soap cake. The scent of the soap strengthens as it froths, sweet and fragrant. “We need a bigger tub.”
“I’d offer to steal one for you, sweetling, but I fear it would be too noticeable a thing.”
“Ah, well, thanks for considering it anyway. You’re a real gentleman.” You pause, touching his shoulder lightly with your fingers. “Is it alright if I wash you?”
“I would be heartily disappointed if you didn’t.” Astarion stretches again, squashing you unrepentantly against the back of the tub. He’s a willowy thing, but he’s strong, and the wings of his shoulderblades are sharp where they dig against your chest.
“Hey, you, I’m not a recliner,” you grumble playfully, poking him in the side.
“Oh, but you would make such a very good one.”
You roll your eyes as you begin to scrub his shoulders with the sponge. He makes an appreciative sound low in his throat, leaning forward to give you more room—and to bare his back. It’s a show of trust that you don’t take lightly. You’re careful where you wash his scars, watching him for any discomfort. But he remains relaxed, lulled by the hot water and the sweetly-scented steam rising off of it.
“Tell me about your night?” you suggest, rinsing the suds from his back.
“It wasn’t anything exciting,” Astarion muses. “Halsin and I went into town once the sun fell, as we both had some shopping to do. But he shooed me away, after. It was really quite rude of him. There I was, sacrificing my precious time to look at—at druidic wildshape romance novels, and he tells me to go away!”
“He told you to go away?” you ask, eyebrows arching. Given how much as Halsin dotes on Astarion, you find this a little difficult to believe.
“Well, he said it with so many pretty words,” Astarion says, huffing, “but that was the jist.”
“Lay back,” you say. “Tell me what he said.”
Astarion settles back against you again, tipping his head against your shoulder to make sure you see his pouting. You love him in all ways, but especially like this: warm and spoiled, vermillion eyes half-lidded as you wash his chest and the concave plane of his belly. He’s put on weight since he’s started feeding regularly—either from you, Halsin, or the unfortunate local wildlife—but you still have a long ways to go. You run your palm down the prominent arches of his ribs, and he lets out a breathy sigh.
“Good?” you murmur, kissing the slope of his shoulder; he tastes like the bitter tang of soap.
“Very.”
“Hungry? You can drink, if you like.”
“Mm, perhaps later. There’s something to be said for bathing in blood, but I find I’m rather partial to this bath as is.”
“Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me.” You frame the front of his throat with your hand, lathering his skin with the soap cupped in your palm. Your touch is light and quick where it brushes against the scars his sire left him. Water pools in the divots of his collarbones, iridescent where the lamplight reflects off of it. “You were going to tell me what Halsin said.”
“Oh, you know how he is. It was all ‘my most brilliant and perfect star’ this, ‘precious little one’ that. He said he had some special shopping to do, and that it was to be a secret. I thought about sneaking after him, you know, but I didn’t, and I think that was very mature of me.”
You laugh, scooping more water into his hair to soak the snowy curls through before beginning to lather them. Your nails scrape gently across his scalp, and you press in small circles to soothe him. “Very mature. Though I have to admit, I’m curious as to what he was buying, too. I almost wish you would have followed him.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, at least we’re both ignorant, then.” Astarion whines when you stop your impromptu massage, butting his head up into your hands. “Why’d you stop?”
“Sorry, spoilt,” you say, huffing out a laugh. You resume your ministrations, trailing your nails across his scalp and scratching behind his ears. He murmurs in pleasure, tilting into the touch. You resist the urge—as you so often must—to compare him to a cat. “Well, with any luck Halsin ought to be home soon. We can ask him.”
“Oh, yes,” Astarion murmurs. “With our combined prowess, how could he refuse?”
Your lover is slowly going lax against you, his eyes closed and lashes dewy with steam. He stays that way as you cup a hand over his eyes to guard them as you rinse the suds from his hair with several palmfuls of water. The two of you lapse into a companionable silence, broken only by the soft trickle of water as you wash his hips and the concave curve of his abdomen. You pause before you delve into the sensitive spaces between his legs, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Hey, ‘star? Can I wash here, or do you want to do it yourself?”
“Be my guest,” Astarion says, his voice gone syrupy and soft. He spreads his legs, his knees knocking yours.
You prop your chin on his shoulder, pressing your cheek against his as you wash between his thighs. You wipe along the delicate creases of his groin and pet through the trail of soft curls leading down to his cock. Then you run the sponge along his balls and shaft, rolling back his foreskin so you can clean delicately beneath it. He hums low in his chest, rocking lazily into your touch. He’s half-hard already.
“Want me to get you off?” you offer, thumbing over the rosy head of his cock.
It’s not your most romantic proposition, but Astarion seems far too comfortable to mind the distinct lack of roses and finesse—and for a moment, it seems he might take you up on the offer. Then he shakes his head, relaxing back into the water.
“Okay.” You remove your hand, kissing the nape of his neck. “Gonna squish you for a minute, alright? I gotta reach your legs. Sit up for me.”
You lean forward, and Astarion folds willingly at the waist. He draws his knees up to his chest, draping his arms around them. You scrub his legs as best you can from this angle, leaning heavily against his back to reach around him. He tolerates the position for a few moments before he starts to squirm, cuing you to sit back and let him sprawl again. He stretches his legs back out, toes curling in contentment.
While Astarion soaks in the hot water, you give yourself a quick scrub of your own. He starts to sit up when he notices, reaching for the sponge, but you grasp his hand and give it a squeeze. Gently, you lower it back to the water. He subsides, watching with lazy interest as you finish washing yourself. Once you’re finished, you pull the plug that allows the water to drain. Astarion grumbles weakly, and you’re quick to soothe him with kisses peppered liberally across his face.
“Gonna get you dry,” you tell him, “before you get all pruney.”
This seems to placate him, at least, and he allows himself to be shuffled onto his feet and out of the tub. You pat him down with your fluffiest towel and wrap him up in it, using another to tousel his curls dry. He remains huddled in his towel even after you’ve finished, blinking blearily at you. Gods, he looks tired.
“Go lay down,” you say, cupping his face in your hand. “I’ll bring some lotion, and some of those hair oils you like.”
As Astarion settles in on your bed, you gather your supplies. When you step into the bedroom, you find him sprawled inelegantly across the mattress. His face is buried amidst the pillows, arms hugging them close. You kneel beside him, touching his shoulder. He’s still warm from the bath, his skin flushed a pretty pink. He turns his head to peek out at you, damp curls fanning across his forehead.
“Hi, honey,” you coo. You love coddling him when he’s this loose and sweet, and you know he likes it, too; you wouldn’t do it otherwise. “I’m gonna put some lotion on for you. Does that sound okay?”
Astarion nods before twisting to nuzzle into the pillows again, breathing in the scent of your linens—a heady combination of Astarion’s perfume oils, Halsin’s earthy musk, and your own unique smell. You swing a leg over his hips, perching on his lower back. When he stays loose and content, you warm the lotion between your palms and smooth it up his spine. You let your thumbs trace the edges of his vertebrae, following the lines of the long muscles there.
Astarion groans appreciatively, and you take that as your cue to continue. You rub up his back, letting the heels of your hands dig into the taut muscle as you go. When you reach his shoulders you pause, pressing your thumbs in. You knead small circles into his shoulders and neck, seeking out the knots of tension he carries. He hisses when you find a particularly sore one beneath his left shoulder blade, and you take your time working it out—firm but gentle, unwilling to cause him any true pain.
Once you feel that particular knot release, you slide a hand back up into his hair to reward his relaxation. You scratch idly behind his ear, smiling when it twitches at the sensation. Your other hand rubs along the back of his neck, warming the small muscles that run along his spine. After a moment of this, you curl your fingers around to rub the side of his jaw. You feel it unclench beneath your touch, and Astarion exhales in relief.
“Good boy,” you say softly, feeling him shiver beneath you. “Still doing okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” Astarion manages, rubbing his face against the silk pillowcases. “More petting, less fretting. Please.”
You huff out a laugh, but resume your petting. You weave both hands into his hair, using your fingers to part the strands. Once you’ve untangled what you can without a comb, you reach for the hair oil Astarion is so fond of. It’s a blend of sweet almond and rosehip oil, the scent of it musky and fragrant as you work it into his curls. You wipe the excess off on his towel before scratching his back in idle patterns, your nails tracing between his scars and careful not to brush against them.
Then, downstairs, you hear the door to your cottage creak open.
Astarion jolts, tension returning to him at once. He lifts his head, twisting to look at the bedroom door. You can almost see the knots of stress returning, and you sigh wistfully.
“It’s alright,” you soothe. “It’s only Halsin.”
You recognize the heavy footsteps below—and, evidently, so does Astarion. He relaxes gradually, although there’s still a sullen frown on his face. You reach forward, swiping your thumb across his plush lower lip and clucking your tongue at him.
“Why are you grumpy?”
“I’m not grumpy,” Astarion says, grumpily. “I was almost—I—hmph.”
“Come on. You can tell me.”
His tongue darts out, tasting the tip of your thumb. “I want to know what he bought.”
“I’ll ask him. You don’t have to get up.”
Astarion squirms, his frown deepening.
“Unless you want to,” you add, moving to leverage yourself off of him. He snakes a hand back, gripping your hip before you can. “Astarion?”
“Stay,” he says. “Please? I don’t want to get up. It felt—feels—nice.”
“Okay. I’m not moving. Lay back down, love.” You run your hands up his back again, from the small of his spine to the tops of his shoulders—gently pushing him back down. He goes willingly, flopping back into the pillows with a huff of breath. “Good job telling me what you want.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” You kiss the tip of his ear, sweeping your nails over his naked sides. He sighs beneath you, melting into the touch. “Do you want Halsin to join us?”
“Yes,” Astarion says. “Very much yes.”
The stairs creak as Halsin makes his way upstairs. He raps his knuckles against the door, and you call out a warm greeting. His eyebrows arch as he steps inside, taking in the sight of you both. There are heavy paper bags in his hands, and Astarion strains to look at them.
“Halsin,” greets Astarion, perfunctorily.
“Please tell him what you bought,” you say, looking fondly between your partners. “I don’t think he’ll rest otherwise.”
Halsin smiles, his eyes twinkling warmly. He crosses the room in two strides, greeting you both with a kiss and a gentle rumble of your names. “My heart. My star. How good it is to see you again, and in such a—natural state.”
“Yes, yes, we’re pretty when we’re naked, we know,” Astarion whines. “Now tell me what you bought.”
“It’s a surprise,” Halsin says, unsurprisingly.
Astarion pins his ears, eyes narrowing. “A surprise.”
Ah. So that’s why he’s been brooding on this all morning. You probably should have considered that. Given his history, it’s no surprise that a—well, that a surprise would make him more anxious than excited. Though, with Astarion, the two emotions often go together. Whether one outweighs the other seems to be a matter of luck and mood.
Halsin seems to realize this same thing, a look of regret darkening his brow. “Forgive me, little one,” he says. “I did not think of how it might distress you to be left in the dark.”
Astarion shrugs, looking away—as though it’s of no matter to him, when you know he feels quite the opposite. A mask over a mask over a mask, your love. “Well, it’s not like I care that much. You don’t have to look so sad about it. You’re allowed to have your secrets, but you did talk it up quite a bit in town. I was simply curious.”
“It’s a gift,” Halsin explains, setting the bags down, “for you.”
“Oh?” Astarion leans forward as much as he can with you still sitting on him. “Do show me.”
“The vendor in town had a new recipe for soap,” Halsin explains, pawing through the paper bags; you feel a laugh bubbling up already. When he pulls out a cake of the very same soap you had bought, it spills over. “I saw it and thought of you, and—what? Is it truly so amusing?”
“No, no, it’s not that.” You shake your head, grinning; you can feel Astarion giggling beneath you. “It’s only that I had the same idea, yesterday. I bought the very same kind.”
Halsin’s face flushes with embarrassment. “Oh. I—had not considered that.”
“It’s a perfect gift,” you assure him, reaching out to grasp his large hand in both of yours. “I’m sure we’ll use both cakes in no time, given this one’s propensity for baths.”
“Are my tastes truly so predictable?” Astarion says, eyes bright with glee. “I’ll have to be more mysterious, from now on. It’s no fun being so obvious.”
“Oh, no,” you say wryly. “Communication and clear expectations, how terrible.”
“Yes, well.” Astarion sniffs, taking the soap from Halsin. “Healthy relationships aside, this is quite nice. Thank you, my dear. Truly.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Halsin reaches out, running his free hand over Astarion’s hair. “Let me put it up for you. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Hardly,” Astarion scoffs. “I was waiting for you. Come join us.”
“As you wish. Give me only a moment.”
Halsin takes the paper bags into the bathroom, and you run one hand idly up and down Astarion’s flank. He yawns widely, nestling back into the sheets.
“Alright,” he says, magnanimously. “You may go back to petting me, now.”
So you do, digging a little deeper into his muscles—trying to ease out the tension that has returned in him. He settles more quickly, this time. Whether that’s because the lingering anxiety of a suprise has gone, or because Halsin is home, you couldn’t say. You’d wager it might be both.
When Halsin returns, he sets a pair of decanters on the side table before touching the small of your back. “Would you like me to take over for a moment? I’m certain your arms must be tired.”
You shuffle off of Astarion’s back, allowing Halsin to take your spot. Astarion wheezes a little beneath the sudden weight, and Halsin chuckles. Then he lifts up some, so he’s kneeling over Astarion rather than perching on him, and Astarion huffs out an exasperated breath once he can breathe again.
“Terrible brutes,” he says, “the both of you.”
“Just for you,” you say, patting his ass affectionately.
“Alright, Astarion?” Halsin asks, resting his palms on Astarion’s shoulders. “Shall I rub your back for you?”
“I suppose that would begin to make up for it, yes.”
With a contented hum, Halsin begins to massage Astarion. His hands are broad and strong, making easy work of the smaller elf’s muscles. You sprawl beside Astarion, running your fingers idly through his hair. He peeks out at you with one slitted eye, his pupil swollen with satisfaction. You lean over for a sweet, lazy kiss and he sighs into your mouth. When you lean back, his eye has closed entirely, and his mouth has gone slack.
“Sleepy,” you murmur, “aren’t you.”
As Halsin continues to knead Astarion like so much pale, lanky taffy, you sit up and reach for the decanters. One is full of cold water, while the other is full of blood—still warm and unclotted, so fresh you have to wonder if Halsin had bled it from himself while he was in the bathroom. When you ask, he only smiles and tells you that he hunted his dinner shortly before he returned from town and thought to bring back the blood for your resident vampire.
You pour Astarion a glass, but when you turn to hand it to him you find him asleep already. You’ve never seen him sleep before, and so you do your very best to sear the image into your mind. His lips are parted around slow breaths, the lines of his face smoothed out. It makes him look young—much younger than his two centuries of age. You set the glass of blood aside, brushing his curls off of his forehead.
“Halsin,” you whisper, resting a hand on his forearm; you feel the corded muscles flex as he massages Astarion’s hips and lower back. “Look. He’s asleep.”
“Is he?”
Halsin looks startled by the revelation—moreso than you thought he would. You know elves prefer to trance rather to sleep, but it isn’t unheard of for them to doze when the mood strikes them. That's what you've heard, anyhow; you're not an elf yourself. Gingerly, Halsin leverages himself off of Astarion and comes around to look at his face. There’s something simmering, warm and bright, in his hazel eyes.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” he confesses lowly, reaching out to brush the backs of his fingers against Astarion’s cheek. “I had not thought he would sleep ever again.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke with him, some moons ago,” Halsin explains. “He was separated from his kind—from our kind—at far too early an age. Ordinarily, elves don’t learn to trance until they’re a decade old. After that we fluctuate between trancing and sleeping until we come of age at a century’s time. Beyond that age we tend to rely primarily on trances for our rest. But Astarion stopped sleeping when he was only four decades old, and has not done so since.”
“But that was—that was centuries ago.”
“Yes. For an elf, sleep is a dangerous thing—it leaves us unguarded and vulnerable in ways that a trance does not. It is why we don’t often indulge. It is why, I am sure, Astarion could not afford to indulge. But when we are surrounded by family, when we feel safest, we can occasionally sleep the way we did as children. It can be pleasant, and thoroughly relaxing, if all goes well. But given Astarion’s history, I presumed he had lost the ability to relax to such an extent.”
“That’s—then he’s—” You feel a surge of sudden protectiveness, and you tuck closer to Astarion’s side. You won’t leave him. Not now. You can’t let his first time sleeping in two hundred years go wrong. “Should we let him stay asleep?”
“I don’t see why not.” Halsin lays down on Astarion’s other side, draping an arm across Astarion’s waist and resting his hand on your hip. “You can sleep too, if you would like. I’ll keep watch this day.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, my heart.” Halsin pets your hip gently, his callouses catching on your skin. “In any case, I doubt he will sleep long, and he will need to be entertained when he wakes.”
“And you’ll entertain him, will you?”
“In whatever way he wants me too, yes,” Halsin says, smiling and drawing the blankets up over you. “Now close your eyes. It’s time for you to get some sleep, too.”
“Well,” you say, yawning widely, “if you insist.”
You close your eyes, tucking your nose into the crook of Astarion’s jaw. Your breath puffs against his skin in warm bursts, but he doesn’t so much as twitch—deeply asleep, safe and surrounded by his family in a way he hasn't been for centuries. Your heart feels full to bursting. You want to squeeze him until he squeaks, but you resist the urge.
Tomorrow, maybe.