Chapter Text
You continue through crumbling stone passageways half-covered in moss. An acrid stench lingers in the air; it is thick like fog. The only sounds, beyond Astarion’s small breaths and graceful steps, is the inkling of a murmur that is many, many rooms away.
When you turn the corner, you spot an ankle level wire that spans from wall to wall. Astarion stops behind you–either taking your lead, or catching the trap himself. “They’ve really gone all out just for us, haven’t they? It’s just a map. Not like it’s anything important to them, they are dead after all, he pauses. “Well, deader than I am.”
You step over the wire and almost step onto a loose plate trigger. Your toes pivot and you gracefully dodge the second trap. “This seems a bit too easy.”
“Because it is. Nothing gets past my ears. The little drip drip back around the corner. Disgusting little rats scurrying in the shadows. Undead lurking a few rooms down. Your adorable little heart racing.”
Of course your heart is racing–one wrong sound and every guard in the manor above will hunt you down. “Undead? You could have kept me looped in.”
Astarion scoffs, leaping ahead of you. “Oh darling, it’s not my fault you have those shoddy little human ears. At least we didn’t drag Gale along–he wouldn’t notice a bugbear looking him straight in the face.”
Could he not be a dick for like, two minutes? At least he knows a thing or two about murder–or remurder, when it comes to the undead. “So we sneak by them?”
“We? I know I can, but I’m sure you’ll do your best. This map better be worth it, this ambiance is positively dreadful.” Astarion huffs. “What’s on it, anyway?”
“Don’t know, but the lead was good.”
“You don’t even know what’s on the map? If we don’t die here, I swear I’ll kill you later. Unless it leads us to some mythical something-or-other that unlocks a power beyond our imaginations. Or, well, I’ll settle for some gold.”
You clench your teeth. Why did you have to sneak past the guards upstairs instead of leaving them disemboweled or smoldering–probably both when it comes to Lae’Zel and Gale. Sure there would be more bodies, but at least then you’d have two more people to tell Astarion when to shut up.
“Mmm, here. Turn here.” His voice was practically soothing when he wasn’t being so pompous.
You both enter a new room at the same time. Again, something’s off. You both roll forward into the room out of instinct as six spears erupt from the walls. . What a pedestrian trap–another tripwire. Could the person hiding this map have been any more cliche?
But the door is locked. Very locked. In that it does not have a lock. It’s a wall now. It must have sealed behind you. You’re both seemingly trapped together in the benign looking room–an old storage area with ancient potatoes and some loose tools scattered across some shelves. It’s spacious at least.
A tinge of pain surges through your lower tricep as you stand yourself up. In the hurry, you hadn’t noticed a spear had grazed you. Your arm is covered in thin webs of blood.
Astarion, already pissy, knocks at the surrounding walls. You join him and realize there’s no way out. He sniffs once, and snaps to you. Hunger grows in his eyes, but he restrains himself as he always does. He’s a vampire, not a monster. “Darling, you’re injured. ”
“And? Like we haven’t all gone through worse.”
He rolls his eyes and waves his hands about. “Fine, fine. I won’t tend to your wounds then.”
You choke down some air. All this time it had been magic, or potions, or bandaging yourself. You’d never actually had someone patch you up. “That’s not like you.”
“A rare moment of sharpness from our dull leader. Yes, there is a cost, obviously,” He traces a fingertip along your hand, taking a single bead of blood and pressing it to his tongue.
The injury wasn’t serious, but your head feels light and your limbs weak. He was right about your heart racing before, and it’s only gotten worse. You stumble backwards into the wall. It’s warm to the touch, strangely, and feels different–thinner–than the other walls.
Astarion plants one hand beside your head. He grasps your wrist with his other. “So?”
You take a moment to consider. Enough bravery and stoicism. The words reluctantly escape your throat. “Please.”
“Sometimes you do know what’s best.” Astarion lifts your hand to his mouth. His lips press just above your knuckle. The tip of his tongue slips out and he laps up along your wrist. It’s gentle. You become terribly aware of your skin, warm and electrified with a whisper of pleasure. Then your skin becomes cold even in the humid air. Is it his lingering saliva against the cold air? Or does your skin already miss being touched?
You fall a little, slumping against the wall, as Astarion continues to clean your arm. He finally reaches the small wound on your upper arm. It feels almost as if it fully heals with a kiss.
“Tempting not to bite you and draw a full meal, but I do need you alive. For now, anyway.”
He could do it, his fangs are so very close to your neck. One little lash outward and you’d be resisting a slow and chilling demise. But you see through the arrogance in his eyes. He doesn’t need you to find traps or lead you through treachery. He doesn’t need you to find a cure to your shared mindflayer predicament. No, he doesn’t need you for anything. In his eyes that hunger persists, and you realize he simply needs you.
You cradle his neck with your fingers and kiss him on his chin. His response is another kiss back. Your lips are almost touching now–less than a parchment’s thickness apart. You can taste the iron tinge of your own blood on his breath. You hold each other, briefly, locked in stasis, before his hand reaches down. Slowly. Slower. Pausing as his fingers slide underneath your belt and into your pants. Two fingertips press against you and slide further, each on the side of your pussy. They don’t move, but you feel their slenderness, that roguish dexterity, and as he tamps down further. You feel the callousness of his knuckles press against your clit.
His fingers circle, slowly, without any sense of worry. Nothing about Astarion’s attitude is gentle, but his fingers are. As you become slicker, more accepting, his two fingers hook, sliding slowly into you.
Air escapes your throat. You twitch. Your body sinks further. Astarion’s hand grasps your neck and pins you back into place against the wall, the abrasive bricks scraping against your scalp. The air is thicker than ever, almost boiling between you. You can’t help but show your weakness to him. A little grumble. A little whimper. You bite into your lip so hard it bleeds. His lips meet yours again, savoring a second appetizer.
His fingers slip deeper inside you, curling even more. You can feel them rubbing against the front of your inner walls.
“It pains me to say this, but as an aficionado of the finer things: Art, wine, and performance… You do have a certain charm to you.” He presses his forehead to yours. “And best of all, you’re delicious.”
Your hand reaches out instinctively. You need more, his fingers are not enough. The arrogant little prick is, shockingly, anything but. There’s a thickness against your own fingertips as you graze lower against him. It’s firm in his trousers, straining them outward.
Astarion cackles. “Oh, is that what you want?”
You can only nod. Words are too difficult for you. Your eyes say yes. The aching need below says yes. You pantomime the word: Yes. Intrinsically, you two are linked through fate and what’s burrowing inside your minds. You didn’t even need to imply it. Through your psychic bond, the electricity between you is in total rhythm, a complete and utter agreement.
Finally, you speak: “Fuck me.”
“Darling, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”