Jaelin

“Really now, darling,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low until it’s little more than a hush between you. The rest of the camp falls away in these moments, leaving just the two of you to soak in the warmth of the fire. He watches the glow sink into your skin and wonders if you would taste of the flames, if only he dared to ask for a bite. “I know it may not seem so, but I can assure you that the earth will continue turning even without your watchful eye to guard it.” 

You huff a laugh, and though it’s barely more than a breath and heavy with fatigue, Astarion finds himself leaning in, wanting to chase it. 

“Doubtful,” you say, and this time it’s his turn to laugh.

“And yet you must try,” he returns, watching the glide of his thumb along your lip, the way your breath ruffles his sleeve. “The rest of us will endure, if only for the night.” 

You smile then, and he feels it, the slow curl of your lips against his thumb, the twitch of your jaw against his palm. He’s so enamored by the curve of your lips that he misses your eyes, lids parting to seek out the planes of his face. 

“You worry too much.” 

“Hmm?” Astarion catches your gaze, only to find you reaching for him, rubbing the pad of your thumb lightly between his brows.

“There’s always a furrow here,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. Your thumb glides along one brow, smoothing the hairs there, and your lips quirk. “Strong brows, silver in the moonlight, and always dancing.”

He huffs a laugh, though his chest has grown tight - with realization, with adoration. 

“Your eyes crinkle when you laugh,” you continue, thumbing along the delicate skin beneath his eye. “Piercing eyes, they are. Ringed by thick lashes. Red as rubies, or blood.”

Astarion’s fangs ache within the cavern of his mouth, though it isn’t quite a meal he hungers for. He feels flayed open, suddenly, dreadfully exposed, and yet he does nothing to stall your words or to escape your gaze, even as it swallows him whole. 

“High cheekbones,” you murmur, the tips of your fingers tracing his cheek. The delicacy of the gesture is so at odds with your fierceness in battle that it nearly upends him. “They pinken after you feed, did you know?”

Astarion’s lips part to speak, though it takes a clearing of his throat to free the words glued to his tongue. “Hadn’t the foggiest.” 

Your nails drag along the edge of his jaw, digging softly into the skin there. It gives beneath your fingertips as though his skin has been molded for your touch, and his mouth parts on an exhalation of your name. 

“Darling - “

“Soft, here.” Your voice grows hushed, contemplative as you trace the bow of his lips, his breath warm against your wrist. “Always, even when you’re sneering.”

“I don’t sneer,” Astarion protests, but the words carry little weight. Your skin is too soft against his, your smile too warm, his thoughts too muddled by the sharp bite of affection he feels for you. 

“Liar.” The accusation comes without heat. Astarion bares his fangs regardless, more tease than threat, but you’re well-prepared, your thumb slipping along his tongue and grazing the sharp points of his incisors. 

He freezes. Some part of him wonders what he must look like, what the others might see, were their eyes to drift beyond the flames to your bedrolls - his mouth parted around your thumb, your skin wet with his saliva, his eyes blazing through the darkness like rubies, like blood. 

“Minx.” It comes out garbled, without bite. An inferno roars within his chest, sinks into his limbs, his belly, burning him from the inside out. What a wicked, wonderful thing you are.

Your lips curl into a warm, loving smile. The swell of your thumb presses against his fang, the soft pop of pierced flesh roaring through his ears like a dragon’s screech. The scent of your blood - sharp, sweet - fills the air. 

Astarion releases a sound he’ll be haunted by later - needy, desperate, hungry - and pushes his brow against yours, his curls tickling your face, your breath warm against his lips. 

“Rest,” he commands you, his fingers knotting in the fabric at the small of your back. “Lest you tempt me further, and we both lose sleep this night.”

You laugh, a soft sound laden with approaching slumber, and press your fingers to the strip of flesh bared by the collar of his tunic. 

“As you wish,” you murmur sleepily. You say it so easily, so readily, succumbing to his whims without thought, and Astarion squeezes his eyes shut and tucks you close, feeling the depth of the power he wields filling him to the brim, cracking him open, and spilling over.