We live for a clingy Astarion.
One that can't keep his hands off of you once he's finally got you all to himself.
How he curls his pointer fingers into the waistband of your trousers and yanks until you're flush against him. Grabs a cheeky handful of your ass when you lean in for a kiss, cups your face with his free hand just to feel as it grows hotter, guides you until your mouths are slotting together in that languid push and pull that never fails to have goosebumps rising along the skin of your arms.
It's absolutely perfect. The warmth of you. The little sounds you keep making into his mouth when he swirls his tongue around yours just so. The steady rise and fall of your chest against his own, unmoving one. He's so spellbound that he's forgotten to breathe again. A moan gets trapped in his throat–comes out like an eerie creak when you tangle your fingers in his hair to drag him impossibly closer. He finally hiccups in a breath when you give a teasing nip at his bottom lip. Full on groans this time.
It never gets old, he thinks, being with you. It's rather funny.
Astarion's been as close to you as one can feasibly get, more times than he can count at this point.
Body to body. Flesh to flesh. He's been tangled up in you–has buried parts of himself so deep inside so many different ways that he often forgets where he ends and you begin. He's kissed you until his lips have gone numb from it. Held his ear close to your panting mouth to hear the sounds you make for him and only him. Committed every whine, and groan, and whimper to memory as if he'll be deaf by morning.
He's sank his fangs into the soft skin at your neck, wrists, chest, thighs–mapped out every major artery until he could find them with his eyes closed if he had to. He's swallowed down your lifeblood in greedy mouthfuls until your warmth overtook that ever-present ache in his bones. Your life becoming his own. Every time he feels his skin flush with heat, he thinks of you and the gift you continuously choose to give him.
You make him feel more alive than he's felt in over two hundred years.
But, he's an awful, greedy man. You give, and give, and give again, and he can't help but want more. Need more.
So Astarion pulls you close again, kisses you over and over, presses his bare skin to yours and basks in your warmth, and explores every curve and dip and imperfection in your perfect skin with his mouth, and tongue, and teeth. He counts the number of times he can make you say his name and how many different ways you can say it. He trusts you with everything, just as you have trusted him. He lets himself get lost in you in ways he'd never thought he'd have.
And when it's over, he lies close to you. Presses a pointed ear to the spot on your ribs where your heart beats the loudest and listens as it slows. You're tangled up in one another– parts of him buried so deep inside that neither of you are sure where he ends and you begin. You fall asleep rather quick, lulled by the lazy trail of his fingers along your goosebumped skin, wherever he can reach.
It never gets old, you think, being with him. It's rather funny.