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Really, Astarion should have expected the night would end like this: facedown in the grass, getting fucked within an inch of his life by the unlikely leader of their merry little band.
If he’s being honest with himself, Astarion has wanted this ever since he tried to hold a knife to the drow’s throat and ended up pinned down under that ridiculously broad body. Much could be said of Vin, but he is not small. No, Astarion thinks as he struggles not to bite his own forearm open, not small at all.
Astarion has had more than his share of bedpartners, and lots of them are chatty, but Vin doesn’t say anything to him as his cock sinks deep, again and again, his balls slapping against Astarion’s ass, his girth stretching Astarion’s rim almost to the point of pain; Astarion feels the tender burn of it every time Vin’s cock nearly leaves him, only to sheathe itself fully again.
The only sound, besides that of skin on skin and Astarion’s shaky moans and muffled curses, is Vin’s impossibly steady breathing, hot against the nape of Astarion’s neck. He doesn’t touch Astarion’s scars. He doesn’t ask about them. It’s one of the things Astarion likes about him.
He also doesn’t offer any warning when he reaches under Astarion and grabs his untouched cock in a too-tight fist, stroking him roughly in time with his punishing thrusts. Astarion bucks, barely managing to muffle his shout in the pillow, and Vin’s thumbnail presses hard into his slit, teasing at the leaking cockhead.
“Good boy,” Vin growls when Astarion tightens around him, squirming, cock twitching helplessly in his grip. Just like that, Astarion comes, wide-eyed, hardly believing himself, whimpering as Vin jerks him off through it, practically milking his cock with each slide of his calloused hand, even reaching down to squeeze at Astarion’s balls, which makes him yelp even as his cock spurts helplessly over Vin’s fingers.
Astarion doesn’t really expect Vin to stop, and he doesn’t. Instead, the drow seizes Astarion’s hips and Astarion realizes, through the prickling haze of oversensitive afterglow, that Vin was holding back before. His cock splits Astarion open in vicious thrusts, ignoring Astarion’s choked sounds and quivering body, and when Astarion’s knees give out, unable to hold himself up anymore, Vin wraps an arm around his waist, keeping him securely pinned, stuck on the drow’s insatiable cock.
Vin does not ask him if it’s too much, if he’s had enough, and if he did, Astarion has no idea how he’d answer, because — gods, it is too much, he feels on the verge of falling apart from the onslaught of sensation and the huge weight pressing down on him, filling him in a devastating rhythm that makes his guts ache, but it’s also exactly what he needs. Astarion can’t remember the last time anyone fucked him like this. He’s mastered the art of being quite numb and uncaring to such things, but this — there is no numbing this.
Then Vin huffs behind him and, to Astarion’s dismayed relief, he pulls out abruptly, leaving Astarion shockingly empty, the night air cold on his exposed, sore hole. Blearily, Astarion lifts his head. “What—”
“Not enough,” Vin snaps, and there’s a feverish gleam in his eyes, and he’s still kneeling behind Astarion, holding his own cock, which looks hard to the point of pain. It’s shiny with the meager amount of oil Vin poured over it before fucking into Astarion hard enough to make him howl. Astarion can see the purpled veins, rich with blood, the dark violet crown messy with Vin’s desperation, pearls of precum oozing down the thick length. His balls look heavy and swollen, flushed with need. Astarion wants to suck them. Wants to bite—
Astarion shudders and shakes himself, sitting up and regaining some measure of control. “What, am I not tight enough for you?” he drawls. “It does feel like you’ve, ah, left your mark, darling—”
Vin’s pupils dilate and his lips curl. “Yes,” he growls, “yes, want to leave marks on you. Make you bleed—”
Astarion studies him, considering. He’s seen this before, this alarming craving for violence overtaking Vin, almost possessing him. Astarion has seen Vin do any number of frankly wretched things, and later act as if he had no idea he was doing them. And Astarion would rather not be accidentally disemboweled. But…
“What if I made you bleed instead?” Astarion crawls towards him, eyes lowering from Vin’s face to his needy cock.
Vin blinks at him. Some of the feverish, cruel gleam fades in favor of curiosity. “How?”
Astarion reaches out and runs a single finger along the drow’s cock. It jumps, and Vin rumbles with a helpless groan. “I’d like to bite you,” Astarion murmurs, “here.”
Vin stares at him. Then he shoves Astarion’s head down, giving the vampire a faceful of cock as he snarls, “Yes, yes, do it,” and when Astarion licks speculatively along the leaking tip, Vin sobs like he’s the one being fucked, and Astarion thinks this is the best idea he’s ever had.
He’s careful when he bites. It’s not hard to find a vein, and he doesn’t think Vin will mind the pain, but he has no wish to drain the drow dry — not tonight, anyway. Astarion also wants to bite him while sucking his cock, so he ends up sinking his fangs in about halfway along the thick length, his lips stretched wide and jaw aching, tasting his own musk, but it’s worth it when Vin’s blood fills his mouth, pouring over his tongue hot and sharp.
Vin grunts and Astarion feels his cock throb against the inside of his cheek, smells Vin’s growing arousal as Astarion gulps down his blood and swallows around the head of his cock. Vin’s fingers tangle in his hair, pushing Astarion’s head down, forcing his fangs deeper. It must be agonizing.
Astarion chances a glance up and is immediately dizzy with renewed arousal: Vin’s head is thrown back, bringing his torso into greater definition, his chest heaving, his neck on display, lines of sweat dripping down his throat and belly, darkening the silvery trail of hair there. His free hand is playing absently with his nipples, twisting them, nails digging in so hard that Astarion marvels at how he doesn’t make himself bleed.
“More,” Vin moans, his pulse leaping in the moonlight, a flicker just beneath lavender-gray skin. Astarion can hear the pained pleasure in his voice; can smell it, too, taste it, adrenaline tingling all down his throat. Astarion’s jaw aches, but he closes his eyes and makes himself obey, withdraws his fangs only to nip again at the base, which makes Vin’s hips buck, his cock sliding across Astarion’s cheek, smearing blood and precum.
But Astarion notices something interesting. Even as Vin begs for more, more hurt, more blood, he’s trembling, and the sound he makes when Astarion withdraws his fangs and laps gently at the punctures is a beautiful one: soft and breathy and almost confused in his bliss. There’s a twist to his mouth, a flush to his face and a light in his eyes that is both hungry and horrified. You poor thing, Astarion thinks, do you even know what you want?
Then Vin’s hands sink into Astarion’s hair and pull, hard, and Astarion snarls and gasps, the sting jerking him back as Vin forces Astarion back onto his cock, Astarion’s nose buried in sweaty, silvery curls, his mouth and throat stuffed so full he almost gags on it. Almost. He’s not a fucking amateur.
Vin’s nails dig into his scalp with startling savagery. Astarion feels them break skin, feels his own blood run down the sides of his skull, not as hot as it ought to be, more of a lukewarm trickle. Astarion growls and sucks Vin’s cock until more blood flows into his belly, until he can feel the tell-tale twitch and the heaviness of Vin’s balls as Astarion digs his own nails into them, and that’s all the warning he gets before Vin is groaning and coming, his cock pumping a veritable flood of cum down Astarion’s throat.
Astarion tries to relax and take it, humming, eyes half-lidded as he drinks it down, the familiar taste turned strange and thrilling by the metallic bite of blood. Vin doesn’t push him away, but sinks to his knees, whimpering as Astarion continues to lick and suckle, cleaning his cock in long, languid swipes of his tongue. There’s something meditative in it, soothing after – whatever it is they’ve just done. Vin’s hands in his hair have lost their brutal edge, and it’s when Vin gives him a tentative pet that Astarion finally pulls off with a huff.
Vin’s cock isn’t mangled – Astarion would never permanently ruin such a lovely thing – but the several puncture wounds, still oozing blood, are a bit alarming. Even more alarming, Vin is just staring at them, and at Astarion’s bloody mouth, his gaze unfocused. Astarion sits back on his heels and clears his throat while subtly wiping his utterly filthy mouth. “Darling, you should heal yourself. I suspect those would be, ah, quite uncomfortable, were you to let them heal naturally.”
“Oh,” Vin says, and nods, reaching down to touch himself as his palm starts to glow the faint silver of the paladin’s magic. His brow furrows as the punctures close up. When he lifts his hand away, he studies his bloodied fingers with that same look of confused disappointment.
Then his gaze moves past his fingers, to Astarion, and his expression is one of such unhappiness that Astarion almost flinches back. Almost. Instead, he folds his arms and scowls. “Why are you looking at me like a kicked puppy?”
“Did –” Vin’s throat bobs in a hard swallow. “Did I hurt you?”
Astarion sniffs. “Please. Don’t be absurd. That was nothing. You were just – rough. I like rough.” It feels nearly true.
Vin looks at the grass, his ridiculously broad shoulders slumping. “Don’t lie,” he whispers. “If…if I hurt you, I want to know.”
Astarion’s lip curls. “Get off on that, do you? Sick little thing.”
He’d hoped to lighten the mood, but Vin bows his head, visibly trembling. “I – don’t mean to be. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
Astarion needs to salvage this, or he’s going to have to put up with a pouting paladin all day tomorrow, and he might lose his chance of ever getting to feed from him again. “Hush,” Astarion says, and moves closer, slow, careful, as one would approach a wounded creature. “Don’t be sorry.”
Vin looks at him uncertainly through dark lashes – shockingly dark, compared to the silver fall of his hair. The drow’s eyes are the color of a lunar eclipse: rusty red, several shades duller than Astarion’s own deep crimson. Old blood, congealed, half-healed and shrouded. Astarion once read that Lolth gave all of her children red eyes to mark them as monsters. But Astarion suspects that some other power, one beyond even the tadpole, lies in wait behind Vin’s dark gaze.
“I wanted to hurt you,” Vin whispers. “Or – it wanted to. The Urge.” Vin looks at Astarion with a terror too deep for words to contain. This Urge, whatever it is, unnerves Astarion, more than he can say. There is something viscerally wrong with this man. Something that makes even Astarion, predator that he is, want to run.
But he does not run. For there is another option: not to flee from the beast, but to chain it, to possess it. He cups Vin’s cheek and strokes the burn scar across the left side of his face, playing at gentleness, and says, “Darling, I am fine. Better than fine – I got fucked and fed. What more could a vampire ask for?”
Vin’s tension eases slightly. “You’re…you’re sure? I didn’t do anything…wrong?” He looks bashful now. “I wasn’t sure what to – I mean, that was the first time I, ah, remember doing…that.”
Astarion blinks at him, and his hand falls away. Hm. The delights of amnesia…and another vulnerability to seize upon. “Well,” Astarion drawls, letting an edge slip into his voice, “I didn’t entirely appreciate you failing to come inside me and saying I wasn’t enough for you.”
Vin’s eyes widen. “What – oh, shit, no, that’s not what I –” He flushes darkly violet. “You were incredible,” he says earnestly, so earnestly that even Astarion’s perpetually pale face feels warmer than usual. “You felt amazing – I swear. I just – it was my fault. Not yours.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Astarion says dryly, but he’s intrigued by the determination in the drow’s weirdly innocent face. No one should look so sweet after begging to get their dick bitten. And yet.
“I mean it,” Vin insists, and shuffles closer, holding up his hands in surrender when Astarion leans back, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t mean to be selfish. I just – got caught up. But – you were so good to me. I can be good to you. If you let me. I promise.”
Astarion eyes him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, darling.” He says it without ire, but with a warning.
Vin exhales. “The Urge is quiet, right now. I think – you managed to shut it up. You’re safe.”
“Hmph. Safe? I’m not afraid of you.” Anyway, Astarion is not safe. Can never be safe. Not so long as Cazador exists.
“So…will you let me?”
Astarion sighs. “What, exactly, is it that you want to do?”
“Whatever you want me to do,” Vin says, softer than Astarion thinks is necessary. “What do you want, Astarion?”
Gods. What Astarion wants is to go back to his tent, clean up, drink some wine, lay down, and be dead to the world until dawn and possibly several hours past it. He does not particularly want a round two — though Vin’s blood helped with the exhaustion, he’s still so very sore and his head aches where Vin’s nails dug into it, and he’s nearing his limit of touching and being touched for the evening, if he hasn’t passed that limit already.
But …if he turns Vin down, Vin will surely take it as a rejection, and this will all be for naught. Astarion is here to wrap Vin around his finger, not give him a cold shoulder. Is this what he wants? Not particularly. But he might as well try to enjoy it, to let Vin feel like a little hero, if it means that it gives Astarion a tighter hold on his leash and heart.
So Astarion grits his teeth into a smile and says, “You want to be good to me? Then worship me, like a good pet.” And he leans back, letting his legs part just enough for Vin to see where Astarion is still stretched, still wet with oil.
Vin does not fall upon him like a man possessed, as Astarion suspected he might. Instead, he cautiously nudges Astarion’s thighs apart as he moves between them, his fingers hesitant as they rest gently over Astarion’s hip. “You’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t like?” Vin asks, halting.
“Don’t bite my cock,” Astarion drawls. Then, after a hesitation, “And I think I’ve had enough, ah, rough-housing , for the evening.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Vin says earnestly. “Can I kiss you?”
“You can stop asking me questions and get on with – mmm.” Astarion lets his eyes fall shut as Vin kisses him, not at all fazed by Astarion’s blood-smeared mouth. The drow kisses with clumsy tenderness, cupping Astarion’s jaw and pulling back to breathe too soon, his eyes half-lidded.
He blinks down at Astarion, smiles, and ducks down to trail kisses along Astarion’s throat and collarbones. They’re chaste, fleeting things, mere brushes of his lips, but Astarion shivers and indulges in wrapping an arm around Vin’s waist when Vin lingers at the join of neck to shoulder, sucking and nipping gently at the skin until it bruises. The drow’s hands smooth down his sides, aimless in their soft strokes, not heavy with intent at all. Just – sweet . Curious, exploring and careful.
Astarion stares past him, up at the swaying treetops above, and the starry sky beyond. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good. It’s that it does, and – Astarion doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He is accustomed to drunken tumbles, to heavy hands and urgency. This is none of that, and it makes his skin crawl.
It feels more familiar when Vin moves down his body and kisses at the rosy nubs of Astarion’s nipples, teasing them to hardness. He’s tentative about it, and barely uses his teeth, mostly kissing and licking at them, and Astarion rewards Vin with an approving hum and a hand in his hair, carding his fingers absently through silken silver strands. It’s boring, this dull, utterly vanilla pleasure, and yet – Astarion can feel his body responding, even as his mind remains vaguely annoyed and a bit baffled by it all.
Vin’s kisses wander over his ribs, down his taut stomach, hot breaths feathering over his thighs and the plump curve of his cock as it rises again. “I won’t bite,” Vin whispers, and before Astarion can say a word, he gives Astarion’s cock the filthiest of kisses, dragging the flat of his tongue along the tip. He’s seemingly fascinated by how the repeated licking coaxes droplets of precum from it, which he laps up eagerly, right before trying to swallow down Astarion’s cock in its entirety. Astarion moans, and Vin does too, rumbling all along sensitive, swollen flesh, before he apparently decides he’s not sucking Astarion’s cock and pulls back, Astarion’s cock twitching forlornly in the absence of that warm, wet heat. Vin nuzzles at it, then at Astarion’s balls, and then, lower, and Astarion feels more than hears him say, “Spread your legs wider.”
Astarion huffs and complies. He expects Vin to slick up his cock again – which Astarion can see is hanging heavy and thick once more – and simply fuck him on his back this time. Astarion closes his eyes, bracing himself for that…when he feels Vin’s tongue press against his hole instead. Astarion’s eyes open. “Darling –”
“Wanna taste you,” Vin murmurs, and the vibrations make Astarion shiver. “Yes?”
Astarion keeps his voice steady, but it’s a near thing. “Filthy pet. What is there to taste, hm? You left me empty.”
Vin makes a low sound. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and licks at Astarion’s hole again, lingering, longing. “But you still – taste good.” His tongue presses inside without resistance, a hot wet flicker past Astarion’s rim, easing him open anew. Astarion shudders, letting him, letting Vin lift one of Astarion’s legs and hook it up over Vin’s shoulder, the drow’s deltoid flexing under Astarion’s tensed thigh. Vin lifts his head, but only so he can spit directly over Astarion’s hole before diving back in again, getting everything wet, and Astarion can feel him drooling, feel it drip down, feel the messy swipes over his rim and past it, along the curve of his balls, as Vin holds him open, spread wide.
Despite his hundreds of so-called conquests, Astarion can count on one hand the number of times he’s been eaten out. It’s not that he dislikes it. Far from it. It’s just – well, it’s a lot, isn’t it? More than actually being fucked, somehow. It’s so much that Astarion throws an arm over his face in a useless attempt to smother the sounds he’s making. Not loud sounds, just – helpless ones, tiny, punched-out whines and huffs of breath. His cock aches, throbbing in time with the slick thrusts of Vin’s tongue, and when Vin mumbles, “Can I use my fingers?” Astarion just flaps a hand at him in assent.
When Vin doesn’t do anything, Astarion lifts his arm, bares his teeth, and hisses, “Yes,” and then he’s gasping as Vin immediately slides two fingers inside him, licking between them as Astarion tries not to squirm, his cock leaking a puddle of precum on his belly. The sensation is just starting to dip into discomfort, his hole still tender from before, when Vin’s fingers curl and warm with the distinct tingle of healing magic just as they crook against Astarion’s prostate.
Astarion moans, back arching up from the mossy earth, and he feels Vin’s answering moan against his inner thigh as thick fingers press deeper, curling slowly, spreading warmth everywhere they touch. Vin seems to notice the places that make Astarion’s toes curl and hips buck, and to Astarion’s despair, the drow happily exploits them, the gentle rub of his fingers relentless, coupled by the soft laps of his tongue around where his fingers stretch Astarion wide, absurdly wide, just from his ridiculous fingers.
Astarion gives up on trying not to squirm, curling in on himself with a defeated groan as he rocks back against Vin’s hand. He suddenly hates how spread-open and exposed he is, and he feels all at once monumentally foolish, on his back for this – this man he barely knows, this man who might at any moment impale Astarion on his quite literal sword, this man who Astarion thought to seduce but who, perhaps, does not reason like other men, and is instead governed by viciously capricious urges that would find equal pleasure in fucking Astarion as in gutting him –
“Astarion?” Vin is leaning down, face very close to his own, and Astarion flinches, heart in his throat. Vin looks apologetic, unsure, but his face is still flushed and he still reeks of arousal, his blood pumping loud, hot, close. “You seemed…elsewhere, just now.”
“I’m fine,” Astarion croaks, and glares as Vin wraps an arm around his waist and guides him up, so they’re both sitting upright. “Oh, what now –”
He falls silent as Vin lifts him up into his lap. Astarion blinks dumbly; the drow is embracing him, their chests pressed together, Astarion’s legs tangled with Vin’s, and he can feel Vin’s fingers still inside him, though curling and stroking more slowly than before, his hand resting gently on the curve of Astarion’s ass. “Let me take care of you,” Vin whispers, words hidden in Astarion’s hair as he nuzzles into it.
Astarion scoffs, but he is unmoored, off-balance. Pleasure thuds through him like a second heartbeat, and there is no urgency to its pulse. He doesn’t understand it. Astarion’s cock is trapped between their bellies, and neither of them make any move to touch it.
Instead, Vin strokes Astarion’s hair out of his face and Astarion feels more of the tingling warmth of healing hands upon his scalp as Vin traces the marks his nails left there. “I did hurt you,” he sighs, and it is hard to say if he is proud or remorseful, but the marks heal, either way.
Astarion closes his eyes.
“I think I have hurt many, many people,” Vin whispers. “But I don’t want to hurt you, Astarion.”
“I am not made of glass,” Astarion hisses, but there is no venom in it, and he does feel, in that moment, as if he is made of something more fragile than flesh, as if he might fracture at the seams.
“No,” Vin agrees quietly. His fingers still work inside of Astarion, circling around his prostate, teasing, infuriating, replacing the ache of soreness with the ache of – Astarion doesn’t know what it is. Trying to drown out the feeling, he buries his face in the drow’s chest, panting, and when he sinks his teeth into Vin’s pectoral he doesn’t entirely mean to do it, it’s just – his heart is so loud here, so impossibly enticing, and – and for the first time, Astarion is allowed to take, no one can stop him.
Vin doesn’t even try to. Vin strokes his hair and strokes deep within him, not teasing anymore, and then his hand slides down Astarion’s neck, thumb tracing the bob of his throat as he swallows, applying just enough pressure to make Astarion growl and bite him harder.
Vin laughs, soft and dark, and then his hand is on Astarion’s cock, jerking it roughly as his fingers thrust hard, and Astarion chokes on hot blood, letting go, his head falling back, blood running down his chin and chest as he comes and comes. It is a weird, rippling wave of yesyesyes, one that does not fade but blooms hotter, brighter when Vin keeps touching him, stroking him inside and out, coaxing his cock to spill and his body to shudder and shake until there is nothing left, nothing but warmth, an almost-burning kiss everywhere, like sunshine.
Astarion is slumped in Vin’s lap, face tucked into the drow’s throat, which is the texture and color of a night orchid’s petals, and would crumple just as easily. But Astarion feels no desire to bite, to feed. For the first time in – centuries, he fears – he is sated. Oh, the hunger will return. It always does. But for now he is full, pleased…happy.
Absently, Astarion reaches for Vin’s cock, which he can feel nestled against his hip, thick with desire again. But Vin catches his wrist. “This is about you, Astarion,” he says.
Astarion doesn’t argue. After all, he does enjoy when things are about him.
They’re both a bit covered in blood. Astarion runs a fingertip along the ragged edge of the punctures on Vin’s chest. “Are you going to heal that?” he murmurs, the words formed with difficulty.
“I don’t want to,” Vin says. “I like having your marks on me.”
Astarion smiles against his throat and it takes a few moments before he realizes he’s making a strange sound, one he’s quite sure he’s never made before: a low, gentle thrumming in the back of his throat, rumbling through both of them.
Vin says it first. “Are you… purring?”
“Shut up,” Astarion warns, his hands balled up into fists, bewildered by himself.
“I like it. It’s –”
“If you say cute, I will eviscerate you,” Astarion snaps, and he should remove himself from Vin’s lap at once, he absolutely should, but the mere idea of it makes him miserable.
Vin blinks down at him, wide-eyed and genuinely alarmed.
“I’m kidding, obviously,” Astarion grumbles. “I think we are slightly past the evisceration stage. But don’t say a word about it. In fact, if you just didn’t speak right now, I’d prefer it.”
He can’t stop purring. Gods, what is happening to him? Is purring a symptom of ceremorphosis?
But the tadpole is silent, still. He knows that’s not it. This is him, all him.
“...Can I say one thing?”
Astarion scowls at Vin’s collarbones. “What.”
“I like seeing you like this.”
He rolls his eyes. “Nude and covered in unseemly fluids? I’m flattered.”
“No,” Vin says, and adds, “well, yes, that, but – happy, I meant. I like seeing you happy.”
Slowly, Astarion relaxes against him. The drow does have a conveniently pillowy bosom. “Oh.”
“And I’d like to make you happy again,” Vin says.
And there it is. One last purr catches painfully in Astarion’s throat, then fades entirely. “You’d like to fuck me again, you mean.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean, darling.”
Vin is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “In Menzoberranzan, there are courtship rituals that last for years. Sometimes couples don’t so much as look at each other for decades. But they send each other gifts.”
Astarion frowns. “What, like severed heads?”
“I guess some of them might like severed heads.” Vin bites his lip. “But mostly, they send each other beautiful things. Jewelry, clothing, paintings, sculptures, spices, rare plants and creatures, entire houses, songs composed just for each other…” He peers down at Astarion. “I want to give you gifts like that, if you’ll let me.”
Astarion stares at him. “Are you saying you want to court me?”
“And if I was?”
Astarion laughs. Vin doesn’t. Astarion leans back, arms folded. “Darling, why? People court each other so they can fuck each other. We’ve already –”
“No.” There’s a stubborn edge to Vin’s voice. “People court each other so they can be together. It doesn’t – have to be about sex.”
Astarion’s lip curls. “No? What would we do then, together? Picnic in the goblin-filled woods? I can’t eat, so perhaps I could just drink copious amounts of wine. Or drink from you. Though I highly doubt that feeding from you could ever be platonic, given your bloody proclivities.” He says it with amusement, but his gut twists at the truth in it: he’s secured a food source, with a catch. A bite for his body.
“It doesn’t have to be about blood, either,” Vin says quietly. “I am yours whenever you want me, however you want me.”
Astarion’s blinks up at the drow, uncomprehending. “And if I don’t want you at all?” The words come to his tongue in instinctual defense: he feels cornered, and his impulse is to snap.
Vin’s brows furrow, but he bows his head and says, “Then I am sorry for whatever I did to make you stop wanting me.” His breath hitches audibly. “You – you did want me, tonight, right?”
This is foreign territory and Astarion is floundering. “I – yes. Clearly. And you didn’t –” He scowls. “You didn’t do anything wrong, darling.”
Vin searches his eyes, and Astarion fights the urge to look away, to slink off, far from this infuriating man and his strange suggestions about gifts and courtship. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Vin asks softly. “If I had? If there was ever anything you didn’t want?”
“Ugh,” Astarion mutters, “why do you care so much?”
Vin tilts his head. “Because I have never wanted to be gentle with anyone, except you.”
And, gods , that’s – Astarion needs a moment. Furiously, he shoves his face into the crook of Vin’s neck again. He can think, there, surrounded by the scent of him, the sound of his pulse – fuck.
Vin makes a low sound but does not touch him. “Are you upset?”
“What if I’m not the insatiable lover you want?” Astarion demands, the words biting, his entire body quivering.
Vin sighs. “Astarion,” he says, “I don’t want that. I just want you.”
“You don’t know me,” Astarion warns.
“Maybe that’s why people court each other,” Vin says. “To get to know each other.”
“You wouldn’t like me.”
“Can you let me decide that for myself?”
Astarion closes his eyes and lets himself nestle just a little closer. “You’re going to be terribly disappointed, darling.”
“With you? Never.”
Astarion pinches the drow’s nipple spitefully, and Vin just laughs. “You’re a wretched man,” Astarion mutters, “and if you even think about writing a song for me, I will be forced to take drastic measures.” He sniffs. “But…other gifts could be…nice. Within reason , of course. Don’t make a scene, or the others will never let us hear the end of it. They’ll think I’ve bewitched you.”
Vin hand tightens on his hip. “You have not bewitched me,” he says, low and certain. “The Urge – that, that is bewitching. But my mind, my body, feels the most my own, when I am with you.”
Astarion lets himself be held. It is not such a bad thing, when he feels something other than disdainful apathy or centuries of wounded fury for the one who holds him. Maybe it is this unexpected, strange comfort that leads him to say, “I know something of being bewitched, too.”
Vin makes a soft sound, and for the first time, his fingertips ghost over the scars on Astarion’s back, and Astarion does not stop him, though they both feel him tense. Vin rumbles against him, not with approval this time, but with rage. Astarion tastes it, an acrid rise in the smell of his sweat, in the roar of his blood. He presses his lips to Vin’s skin and breathes it in.
“It is the worst thing in the world,” Astarion whispers.
“Someday, we will never need to fear it again,” Vin whispers back, and in the morning this may change, suns may rise and flesh may burn anew, but in that moment, Astarion dares to believe that he might just be right.