Work Text:
The first time Astarion touches you is a night in the woods. The druid Halsin is missing but you'll never find him if you kill yourselves traveling first. So you sit around the campfire and Astarion says he knows a place and you're both beautiful people and why not take pleasure where you can find it? His fingers are cold lightning and you think it's strange that he doesn't undress but it's hard to protest with the way his cock fills you perfectly. Heat pools in your abdomen and your heart races and he's even better at this than he is at killing. And he's good at killing. It doesn't matter what you do; he matches your every move and then some until you spiral into a void of pleasure. It's a place with no tadpole, no quest, no obligation. "Isn't that what you want?" he'd asked. "To lose yourself in me?" And you do. He has you underneath him and you lose yourself entirely, and when you wake, he's gone.
The second time Astarion touches you is a stolen moment in the grove. When you ask why he ran off the night before, he deflects with his fingers. "You thought that I'd stay?" You're pressed against a rock wall with harpy corpses in the water below. Stone digs into your skull, your back, your ass, but what do you care? You're embarrassingly wet before his fingers even slip inside you, and when you come for him this time, he doesn't let you return the favor. And that's what this is, isn't it? It's hardly charity. You know Astarion hardly at all, but you know him better than that. Everything's a currency to him; you just aren't sure what he's paying for.
The third time Astarion touches you, it's to stop you touching him first. He hits the ground hard, coughing up blood, and after you fell the final goblin, you reach out a hand to help him up. He slaps it away as quickly as you offer it. "My survival does not hinge on the whims of your mercy," he spits, and you blink, and he stands, turning his back to you and stalking away.
The fourth time Astarion touches you, you've had too much wine. He pulls you away to a clearing in the woods much like the one from the first night, the tieflings still reveling in the distance. "I don't understand you," you say, but your clothes are already on the ground and when you try to set the pace, he only laughs. It's hard to complain, though, when your back is up against a tree and you're so beautifully full that fear is nothing but a distant memory. Once you're full with something else, you ask, "Will you stay this time?" His response is a crooked grin, and he all but melts away before your eyes.
The fifth time Astarion touches you is to save your life. The hag's lair is riddled with traps, and you're careless. A single misstep would be enough for this journey to end, and that's nearly what happens. A centimeter more and noxious gas would have swallowed you and the would have been the end. It's only Astarion's intervention that saves you, a hand on your forearm pulling you back from the brink of disaster. "Thank you," you say. He looks surprised that he helped, but he hasn't looked himself lately, anyway. He's paler than usual and black rings his eyes and you want to ask why but there's a hag at the bottom of this cave, so it'll just have to wait.
The first time you touch Astarion is different.
He's all but starving the night before you descend into the Underdark, and it makes him clumsy. At his best, you would never have heard him coming. But when he explains it, all the pieces slot together. A vampire. Of course.
"How long have you been hungry?" you ask, and Astarion laughs.
"As long as I can remember." He runs a hand through his hair. "You'll be staking me now, I imagine?"
It's understandable that he thinks you would, but no. He's nervous, but he's also desperate, and he's scared, too.
So you say, "Come here," and he tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow, not coming closer in the slightest. You huff, and this time when you move to touch him, Astarion lets you. You press his mouth to your neck, and you say, "Drink."
He wastes no time, acting as though your singular word is an enchanted command. The pierce of his fangs is icy but the fire keeps you warm, and heat spreads to his fingertips as he drains it from your throat. One of his hands is at the back of your head and the other is on your hip, both holding you steady, and when you finally push him away, lightheaded and dizzy, his pupils are wide.
"You're a fool, you know," he says.
"Maybe." When you press a hand to your neck to wick away stray drops of blood, he watches reverently as they disappear into the grass.