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For a single instant, Astarion thought he was dead.
Then, the contraption inside him jumped, the rumble loud enough to reach him before going quiet.
Alright, not dead.
Asleep.
“Sweet hells.”
Astarion allowed the flap to close behind him, confining them to the isolation of their own tent. Laurence's contraption stuttered once more, the sound quieter than the last one, confirming his worst fear.
What had he done in another life to offend Lady Fortune so badly? To be stuck with a creature that didn’t sleep or trance like any other honest creature in the whole realm?
And, as if the whole situation weren’t offensive enough, his stomach dared to clench and growl.
With the betrayal settling deep in his bones, Astarion muttered some nonsense about gods and constructs and unreliable sleeping schedules as he took off his leather vest and his boots. Then he muttered something else about uncaring and selfish partners as he slipped into more comfortable clothes. He finished his dissertation with something about Laurence picking the worst possible moment to suspend any vital function while slipping beside him on the bedroll, snuggling against the warm and motionless body.
What were the chances? The construct slept like this twice, maybe three times in a month. Sometimes, after a particularly demanding battle. Not after a day of polishing armour and helping Gale to cook.
Was his soldier toy growing soft or what?
Astarion moved the heavy arm to make space for himself and rest his head on Laurence’s chest. The weight of the limb and the solid muscle under the skin made him think better of it.
It didn’t matter; he tried to convince himself. He had gone longer without feeding. He would feed tomorrow.
Handsomely.
Draping himself over the sleeping golem, Astarion searched for the place just over the contraption. Not quite a heart, since the rhythm was all wrong, but better—if you asked him. Insistent, volatile, unique. He had learned to like the constant rumble.
“My sweet?” He tried once more, his hand sliding up from the hem of the shirt, tracing the plane of his abdomen and earning him…
Nothing. No change in the contraption's rhythm, no surprised gasp, no muscles coiling.
“What have I done to lose your love?” With a sob, Astarion gave up. He kept his hand over Laurence's warm skin and closed his eyes, hoping the trance would take the hunger away.
His tongue chased a bead of something.
Then the bead stretched into a thread, then a stream, flooding his mouth and tongue. There was so much that he had to swallow just to make room for the next mouthful, his throat working to let the fluid pass. Heat travelled down from his mouth to his throat and chest, in that space beneath the ribs. When Astarion thought it was going to end, the sensation sank deeply inside him.
He swallowed once more before hearing his own groan.
Sinking his fangs deeper, Astarion greedily sought to keep his mouth full of it. As the heat spread through his body, his limbs grew useless, and he collapsed onto whatever was beneath him. Who cared, though? He just wanted to keep drinking. More and more of it. Could he? As much as he wanted? It felt so unfair to give it up.
Then, the surface moved beneath him. It rippled around Astarion, his own body easily adjusting to the subtle changes in it. A tiny pressure disappeared, a bit more space to splay his legs as wide as he wanted. Like this, he could sink even more into the surface, pressing his chest flush against it. He moaned, a tiny sound that got drowned out by the liquid in his mouth.
He tried to name the thing in his mouth, but the thought drifted as soon as it was formed, floating away. Something solid emerged beneath his hands, and Astarion clung to it to lock himself there, not ready to give up the taste. But his head grew heavy, and his bite began to loosen. A sudden, ridiculous sense of abandonment crept over him, just to be stopped when something else settled on both sides of his waist, just below the ribs, as if encouraging him to stay there.
Should he be concerned?
The answer arrived with another mouthful: No. How could something that felt so good be dangerous? This was nice.
Even when ten fingers dug into his skin with bruising strength.
Astarion grunted instinctively, the first sound that came from his throat. But the effect was immediate, and the pressure regulated itself into a boring brush that Astarion couldn’t stand. He protested with a loud whine, and pressed himself against the surface, demanding that the touch return.
And when it did? Sweet hells. It was enough to make him moan, some of the liquid falling from his mouth.
The hands slid a few inches upwards before reversing course and moving down. There, they settled over his hips. Calloused and warm, they traced the line of his hips until they found the softer flesh beside the bone, their fingers digging into it. A whole-body shiver rattled Astarion’s frame, stealing a loud gasp that was followed by a rumble that grew louder beneath him.
Laurence answered with a soft, contented hum, pressing him down as he lazily rolled his hips against Astarion’s.
His mind finally began to catalogue some things he knew were there. The mint scent of his skin. The sweetness of his blood. The way his solid body was strangely comfortable, always adjusting around him. Knowing the source of that precious liquid wasn’t going anywhere gave Astarion enough confidence to pull away for a fraction of a second. “Well, hello,” he murmured, dazed, against Laurence’s neck.
The golem answered with an affectionate nuzzle and a long sigh.
Laurence’s body adjusted once more, and when Astarion thought they couldn’t be closer, the golem found a way to close that insignificant distance between them. His hand covered the back of Astarion’s neck, urging him to come back. “So insistent,” Astarion joked, letting himself be guided.
Another happy hum filled the tent, though Astarion wasn't sure which of them had made it. Laurence’s contraption rumbled again, a steady but faint vibration. As boring and weak as a heartbeat, it didn’t resonate against his own chest as it usually did. “Oh. So you are getting bored of me now?” Astarion teased, blindly searching for the spot where he had already sunk his fangs into. Laurence’s yelps were always loudest when he worried at the wounded skin.
Ichor was still weeping from it in a steady stream. What a waste, he thought bitterly, while his lips remained curled in a grin. “And I thought you enjoyed my presence.”
He breathed over the wound before biting him again.
And…
Nothing happened.
No yelp, no gasp. No scandalised reaction for Astarion to treasure forever.
Just a low rumble and a soft squeeze on his hips.
Astarion opened one eye.
“Laurence?”
Another squeeze, weaker this time. Laurence’s hand travelled downwards, brushing the curve of Astarion’s ass with a confidence that made no fucking sense.
He gasped, propping himself up on his palms. Laurence’s hands roamed upwards, adjusting to the new position until they settled at Astarion’s waist in a choreography that seemed too precise for a sleeping creature.
“Laurence?” he repeated, louder now. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he found himself comfortably straddling the golem. The left side of Laurence’s neck was stained with blood and saliva, some of it ruining the bedroll beneath them.
This was either too good or too horrible to be true.
“Stop playing around, darling,” he scolded him, although he knew the whole situation made no sense. Laurence still needed at least three verbal confirmations and a nod to do something as indecent as brushing their fingers together when walking. Rocking their hips together? No way. Grabbing his ass? No fucking way.
Which was a bit sad, Astarion realized.
“Are you real?” he asked with a quiet laugh, brushing one finger along Laurence’s jawline. His slack face, shut eyes, and complete lack of breathing greeted him with placid defiance. “Of course you are.” Astarion rolled his eyes, peeking at the wound once more.
He had pierced the skin several times in a messy pattern. So deep that some of the silvery ichor that ran deeper than blood was leaking too.
“You have no sense of self-preservation, my darling.” Astarion shook his head, ignoring the fact that there was a tiny chance, almost nonexistent if you asked him, that he was responsible for putting them in such an uncanny situation.
He didn’t care, and Laurence seemed to agree with him. Or at least his body did, judging by the muffled, contented sound he made and the way his hips rolled again when Astarion kissed the fresh wounds.
Oh.
His lips curled upwards as he rutted back against him. So depraved, so much debauchery. Imagine the scandal if someone found out about this. What would the cleric say about this? Or the wizard? Or–
Laurence rumbled, a satisfied noise.
Gods, how responsive would he be in this state?
There was only one way to find out.
Astarion moaned beside Laurence’s ear, just to see what would happen.
A big hand splayed between his shoulder blades, dragging him down with more strength than necessary. Laurence followed the sound, nuzzling against Astarion’s jaw, trying and failing to plant a kiss, gods knew where. “Here, love,” Astarion murmured, delighted, helping him find a spot between his hairline and cheekbone to land his lips.
A better-positioned kiss landed on the edge of his cheek. Trying to find a better angle, Astarion shifted his weight to sit up, only to be immediately stopped by the golem’s body. Laurence’s sleeping body seemed to have very strong opinions about allowing Astarion to move an inch away from him.
Those two big arms closed around his ribcage, locking him there. When Astarion collapsed once more against him, one hand drifted to Astarion’s thigh, gripping the flesh far too hard for a playful exchange.
“Imagine what you would do to me if you weren’t so pious when you’re awake,” Astarion chuckled, deeply pleased.
Draped over him, a strange sense of calm settled over Astarion. It was nice, he concluded, just being there. No goblins, no cultists, no masters.
Only them.
Astarion licked the wound once more. The blood was still leaking and he was still hungry. “What do you want from me, sweetheart?” he asked without really knowing what it meant. It felt natural. Theirs, like this whole mess.
Should he rut once more? Moan? Gasp? That didn’t seem like the real answer.
He was about to try to wake him up again when one of those big arms around his waist grew heavy and still. Before Astarion could formulate another question, the limb fell over the bedroll with an audible thud.
He jolted once more, dropping the act. “Laurence?” he asked, voice growing stern.
The arm seemed normal. Not at all like a dead man’s arm.
“Fucking hells, Laurence!?” He gripped the limb, shaking it as if that would be enough to bring it back to life.
But it didn’t make any sense. The other arm was still over Astarion’s thigh–
Laurence complained at the sudden distance.
“It’s fine.” At least he wasn’t useless enough to let himself be drained to death in his sleep. What a ‘war machine’ he was. “Fine…by morning.”
What a truly appalling introduction to moderation that was.
“You are lucky that I find you handsome,” he spat with no real venom in his words. Alright, moderation. Decorum. Self-control.
He had them all in abundance.
He used Laurence’s shirt to wipe away the worst of the blood around the wound. Yes, it was messy, but nothing to worry about. It would heal, even if Shadowheart decided that she was above all the nonsense that happened inside their tent.
Astarion looked down. Laurence’s jaw had unclenched and his mouth was slightly open. A bead of saliva gathered at the corner of his lips.
With a sigh, he decided it was over for tonight. Trusting the golem’s words, he collapsed onto him. The other arm, the one that was still resting over him, followed the movement, burying its fingers in Astarion’s curls.
“See? Nothing happened. I’m not made of crystal,” he said to no one, closing his eyes.