suck the rot right out of my bloodstream (слэш)

Astarion moves his legs just slightly to press against Casmir’s broad shoulder, a teasing point of contact. The tiefling doesn’t shift away.
But his hands still haven’t moved to tend to Astarion’s wound. “Can I touch you?”
Astarion stares at them for a few moments, meeting that burning gaze, fanned by thick lashes. People don’t often ask him that—they just do. It didn’t matter whether he wanted them to or not, only that he was a pretty thing they wanted to get their hands on.
He shakes his head before he can fade away into bad memories, blinking several times. He smirks instead, slipping into flirtation easily, eyes lidded and something like revulsion at himself bubbling in his gut, “As much as you’d like, my dear.”
 
(Or, Astarion has had his consent revoked for over two centuries. Then he meets Casmir.)