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There are many things you've come to expect when you return to camp after a night of gallivanting through the mountains in search of a githyanki creche. Pork roast, if Gale's not out in the wilderness with you, is one of them. A weird, sexually charged fight between the gith and the cleric happens often enough. Occasionally, you even come back to somewhat of a melodrama if the resident vampire is in a snit.
Astarion, however, is nowhere to be found.
If you weren't regularly fucking him, you wouldn't care, but you've gotten used to coming back to camp with the intention of burying your cock in his very pretty, very tight body, so you're confused and a little disappointed.
Normally, he lounges around. He doesn't hunt this early—the sun has set, sure, but the stars are barely winking in the sky, which means it's too soon for the prey to start wandering about. For some reason, he's not lamenting about the day over a cheap bottle of wine, antagonizing Gale with comments about the wizard's aptitude for consuming food at a faster rate than he can defuse that Orb in his chest, or generally being a horny prick and deciding to be a bitch to everyone else about it.
And he is horny. He is very good at pretending he's not, but you've learned his tells. The moment he starts pissing on someone else's parade is the moment you need to discreetly lead him to a clearing and fuck him into the nearest soft patch of grass.
Karlach catches your eye and waves from where she's stretching out her legs by her tent. You wave back and perhaps it's obvious who you're looking for, because she snickers as you roam towards the other end of camp.
With a twinge of disappointment, you figure Astarion might just be busy with a bear he tracked into the pines and retire to your tent to dig out some wine and your sword. It could use a good sharpening.
As you approach your tent, there are a few things you realize.
The first is that the lights are on despite no one being home. If you'd forgotten to blow out the candles, they'd have burned out to little disks of wax by now.
The second is that there's a sound coming from your tent. A quiet, wet sound. A quiet, wet sound that somewhat reminds you of sex with that vampire spawn you so wish you were fucking right now.
Third, his boots are tucked neatly outside your tent flap on the decorative rug you keep at the entrance.
You add those variables together and come to a rather ridiculous conclusion, because if Astarion were going to masturbate anywhere, it most certainly wouldn't be in your tent.
Unless... no.
You pause outside and fold your arms.
But his boots are right there. They weren't there this morning. How many pairs of boots does that elf even own? Not many. He's kind of like a goblin in terms of self-care and possessions, just picks up whatever he can find and discards whatever he doesn't need. The only exception seems to be jars of blood, wine, and pillows. Utilitarian, that one, but you suppose it's a hard habit to kick after serving a master like Cazador.
With one hand on the hilt of your sword, you kneel on your rug and pull back the flap with your other hand.
What greets you is him.
Gods, that's an understatement. You're entirely struck dumb by the sight of Astarion because yes, you were right. He did sneak into your tent to masturbate. But that's not all he's doing. He's fucking himself on a mage hand he summoned, body stretched out in your bedroll, thighs spread, knees bent, hand fisting over his cock languidly and dear gods, was he waiting for you?
His heavily lidded eyes find yours.
"You're back." He's in that purring mood of his. His voice is all silky with it. Gods, he sounds so fucking hot. "I know I'm beautiful, but there's no need to let the whole camp see."
You immediately shuffle into the space, flap closing behind you, tongue thick and dry in your mouth.
He's fucking himself in your bedroll. On a shimmering, ice-blue mage hand. Which, despite being magic, is dripping oil down the backs of its knuckles because he's speared himself up to the knuckles and is working over his sweet spot ruthelessly.
Good gods. You can see inside of him, all pink and twitching around the pale blue fingers penetrating him.
You don't trust yourself to say a word.
His free hand is fisted in your pillow, elbow arched over his head, his cheek tilted so his nose is tucked into the case, and damn it he missed you. You're so hard you feel lightheaded.
He's got the gall to smile at you.
"Hello, darling," he says.
"Don't you dare ask me how my day was."
"I'd never say something so uninspired." He arches his back, those ghostly fingers driving into him, his hand squeezing over the head of his cock. The little gasp that leaves him makes you ache fiercely. "Be a dear and slip in behind me? I want to be held."
Yeah. Definitely. Sure. You don't need to be told twice. You drop your sword and shove off your boots. That's all you manage to do because he's giving you this look like he wants to suck your cock, eyes flicking down the length of your body to your groin, and if you don't get your ass over there right now you might die.
You fit yourself behind him with some shuffling, but by the way he gets right back to touching himself, you figure he doesn't mind at all. He rests in the valley of your thighs like he belongs there. His arm comes up over your shoulder to grab the pillow again, and his cheek gets buried in your chest. He grinds against the literal magic fingers inside him and fucks up into his fist, riding his lower back and ass against your painfully hard cock.
"I'm to hold you?" you ask, hoping he'll tell you what to do next.
He releases a shuddering sigh. "For now, pet."
"I'm not your pet."
"No? If you were, I'd let you come inside of me. I'm nice to my pets."
Any other night, you'd banter. You'd play-fight him, wrestle him down, get him on his back. But his eyelashes flutter, his eyes fall shut, and his lips part, and all you want to do is be good for him. You can't remember the last time you ever wanted to be good for anyone. The desire to be so takes you by surprise. Still, you stay behind him and simply wrap your arms around his middle, letting him ride out whatever mood he's fallen into tonight.
It's a very sensual mood, you determine as you watch the gentle undulation of his body down the length of yours. He's pale and pretty under your tan arms, rising and falling to the rhythm of his mage hand's shimmering blue fingers diligently rubbing against his sweet spot, and his dripping cock head slipping in and out of his hand. He's coated himself in a thin layer of oil, he smells like brandy poured from the top shelf and the first winter frost on the bay back home, and fuck, you want to be inside him so bad your teeth ache.
Instead, you watch him gasp. You watch those expressive eyes open blearily. You hiss a breath through your teeth as he drags his naked toes along the inside of your calf, then throws his leg over your knee, spreading himself more.
You kind of hate him because as much as you're hurting, you want to see him orgasm more than you want to bully your cock into his warm, tight ass.
He murmurs something so softly you miss it.
"What's that, love?" you ask.
"Here." He takes your hand in his free one, dragging it to his chest, sweeping your fingers down over his pebbled nipple. "I want you to play with me. You can manage that, can't you?"
"You're bossy tonight."
"Not bossy enough, apparently. Come on. Touch me."
You don't delay beyond that point, your brain so melted that you begin to grind up into him as he sinks down on your cock through your trousers, and you're helpless to his commands. You bring both hands to his chest. He sighs and shudders against you when you pinch his nipples. The rasping little moan he makes when you start rolling them between your fingers has you gritting your teeth and rutting harder into him.
You wish you didn't have sex enough to come in your pants, but you've built up a tolerance to that of all things, because even with his barely-there moaning and the frantic rut of his ass against your cock, your groin is just starting to burn instead of burst.
"Did you plan on torturing me this evening?" you ask.
"Hm? Me, torture you? I'd never."
"Sure you wouldn't." You bite his ear out of revenge, and he practically mewls like a kitten. "Bastard."
"You like it when I'm..." He gestures with his free hand vaguely.
"Yes, I do like it when you're a floppy hand motion. How did you know?"
He clicks his tongue off the back of his teeth and glares up at you. "Do shut up, darling."
You grin guiltily. "Shutting up."
You let your hands drift down from his chest just to watch him melt. His eyes go all glassy as you pet down his ribs to his belly, then drag back up again. He really likes heavy-handed petting, you discovered a few nights ago. Perhaps it's because he's naturally cold, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he likes feeling cherished.
You graze his sides with your fingertips, and he giggles, hand pausing its movement on his cock, and you consider not doing it again. But you did like that giggle. He's makes very sweet sounds when he's happy, so you drag your fingertips up his ribs to hear more of them.
For your efforts, you get a full-body shiver and a happy little whine. And you think to yourself, oh, this is going to be fun.
It takes a moment for him to realize what you're up to. When he does, he laughs into it, body twitching out of ticklishness as he picks up a steady, languorous pace with his hand on his cock. He's following the tickle of your fingers up and down his skin with his fist, and if that doesn't melt your brain nothing will.
The mage hand he's got going starts thrusting into him, the wet squelch so audible it makes your face feel hot. He laughs until he moans, then moans until he giggles again, helpless to do anything but twitch and gasp in your arms.
After a few more passes, his breathing stops, trapped in his chest. He gets like this sometimes—forgets to breathe when the pleasure is new or so good that he only wants to hang on to the feeling.
His mouth drops open, his eyes shut again, tight as if in pain, and he makes this weird clicking sound in his throat. On one hand, you can count all the times you've been unconditionally in love with someone's quirks, and not breathing through an orgasm is one of his that somehow endears you to him. You kiss his forehead through the soft curls that have fallen over his brow.
When he comes, he buries his scream in your throat. Before you can prepare yourself, his fangs sink into your neck.
"Fucking Hells!" You shudder, body going numb in the grip he's got on you. "Warn me, would you?"
He hums, the little shit, and sucks the life out of your arteries. You start seeing black spots by the time he pulls away, lips stained red. A drop drips from his bottom lip onto the dip of a prominent collarbone. You don't even want to know what you or the bedroll look like.
He swipes his tongue over the blood coating his lips, sucking in air only to sigh. He does it again. Gods, he's so cute. You actually love the way blood makes his stark white hair all the prettier. It brings out his eyes, too, which are looking up at you, the haze of intense arousal clearing to allow that spark he carries to shine through.
The bite softened your cock slightly, but looking at him now reminds you how desperate you've been to get off. You've been aching ever since you found him in your tent.
"Astarion," you say, letting your voice go all low and gravelly.
His pretty red eyes go blood-dark, and he purrs, "Yes, my treasure?"
"I am in a great deal of pain."
"Mm, pity."
"Because you've been a cocktease."
"Have I?"
You pinch his side, and he hisses. Actually hisses. Again with that unconditional love thing. It's frustrating that you find his vampiric ire so adorable because you kind of want to be pissed at him for hissing like a gods-damned creature.
"Astarion," you try, on the cusp of begging.
He sniggers a laugh that's actually irritating. Good, you haven't lost your sense. He rolls away from you, onto his back again beside the bedroll.
"Well, I doubt it will take longer than twenty seconds," he says, throwing his arms above his head in surrender.
You drag him back onto the bedroll beneath him, undo the ties of your trousers, and have your way with him. He's so slick, and his body grips your cock so perfectly that it does not take longer than twenty seconds. You quickly peak and shatter, in spite of the shame creeping up your neck at the prospect of coming so fast, or even because you were humiliated—perhaps you have a yet-undiscovered kink, oh joy. He doesn't say a word about it, though. He simply burrows into you from below afterward, crushing you to him like he's afraid you might disappear.
"You're a fucking weirdo," you mumble into the dip of his shoulder.
"Me? I've hardly done anything weird all evening."
You want to comment about the mage hand but determine his unabashed rediscovery of self-pleasure is more important than your spiteful ire, and it's not worth damaging that enjoyment with an unwieldy comment. Instead, you just say,
"Of course not. You're wonderful, Astarion. I wouldn't want to find anyone else jerking off in my tent but you."
He preens. You can practically feel him vibrating with pride. Gods, he's insufferable, and you love that about him, too. "Wyll's pretty enough, isn't he?"
"Not prettier than you."
"Ah, you're right."
You pull him with you as you roll onto your back, letting his body cover yours. He doesn't sweat, but you do, so both of you are sticky with the mess he made of his cock and ass with oil, and the twenty seconds of back-breaking exertion you put yourself through.
"So dirty," Astarion mumbles, though it's less of a complaint and more of a sordid little thing he finds amusing.
"You started it," you yawn, shutting your eyes to the candles.
"You very much finished it."
"I did, hm." You press a kiss to his hair. It tickles your lips. "Stay? I'll get us cleaned up and under some blankets. With magic. You won't even have to move."
He hums, and that's all you get out of him until he's prestidigitation-cleaned and tucked in against you, furs pulled up to his shoulders, surrounded by softness and your body heat. You really enjoy sleeping with him, considering you usually struggle to stay cool under furs without him.
"Goodnight, darling," he mumbles.
You don't expect more from him. He's very conservative with his affections outside of sex, considering all of his past experiences with being romantically inclined to anything resulted in excruciating pain. He approached you once about intimacy, apologized vaguely for not being very forthcoming with any kind of feelings, and asked to hold your hand.
It was a vulnerable moment, you determined after a tenday of not having sex right up until he found you bathing naked in a waterfall and plastered himself to your back.
He shifts atop you, pushing himself up on an elbow. You look up at him, confused and slightly concerned.
He leans down and gives you a chaste, soft little kiss.
"Goodnight," he says again as he pulls away. "Sweet dreams."
You can't help but smile up at him. Catching his cheek in the palm of your hand makes him go all mushy-soft, the weird rigid terror that overtakes him when he does something that speaks to his care for you bleeding away within a second.
You brush the apple of his cheek with your thumb.
He smiles, too. It's fragile, and it's real. He's yours.
"Goodnight, Astarion."