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The first time Astarion really notices it, he’s been injured in a fight while traveling alone with Casmir. It’s nothing too severe, just a graze on his side that bleeds sluggishly, leaving his ribs sticky with cloying crimson. Perhaps it would need stitches if he weren’t a vampire, but if he finds something worthwhile in the woods to feed on tonight, it should close itself by morning.
He isn’t particularly concerned about it, especially when he’s so tolerant of the pain that he hardly even notices it. It’s uncomfortable more than anything, and certainly not the worst that Astarion has ever experienced. He would have paid it no mind, had he been on his own.
But Casmir checks up on everyone, after every fight, their burning eyes like hellfire but soft like a cool breeze. It hasn’t been long since they’ve begun to travel with each other, but Astarion has picked up on Casmir’s inherent kindness. Their need to do right by others.
They’re a wall of muscle that houses a gentle heart, a hulking figure silhouetted by large horns and a prickling gaze that holds intelligence and heat. Astarion can use that to his advantage, should be able to slink his way past their ribs and secure his usefulness. It’d be easy, to get Casmir to care about him, to protect him if everything were to go to shit.
And he doesn't pass over Astarion now, a frown tugging at his lips, a flicker of concern and care in their softened expression. It makes Astarion’s gut churn each time he sees it. A roil of disgust and confusion—he doesn’t know what to do with that kindness, especially not when it’s so sickeningly sincere.
“Are you all right, Astarion?” He asks, their bright golden gaze settling on the dark splotch that stains the vampire’s clothes.
Astarion slips into nonchalance despite the discomfort that sours on his tongue. “You needn’t concern yourself, darling. It’s just a scratch.”
Casmir looks disbelieving, something in his face holding all the patience of a doting parent. It makes Astarion want to scowl, though he keeps his expression carefully pleasant. His smirk twitches, but the mask stays firmly in place.
Casmir frowns at him, his full lips pursed into a slight pout, the expression tugging at the sprawling scar that lines his cheek. Astarion hates the way he finds his eyes watching the movement, “It’s bleeding a lot for a scratch, then. I could patch it up for you, if you’d let me. Something to stave it off until we get back to camp.”
Astarion’s lips press together tightly. If you’d let me. Does he ever have a choice, really?
He needs to get into Casmir’s good graces, needs to get him to trust him—to want him. It’d be easy to let them feel like they were taking care of something that needed it, and it would surely appeal to his apparent savior complex.
It’s not his usual seduction tactic, but the usual things don’t seem to work on Casmir. He can bat his lashes prettily all he wants, and it has hardly seemed to work. Casmir regards him with that same friendly smile he does everyone else, extends that same kindness to him so easily.
It’s infuriating.
Astarion sighs quietly, rolling his shoulders as gracefully as he can. “If it’d appease you darling, then do what you like.”
Casmir smiles, looking truly pleased, the golden jewelry on their horns twinkling with the movement of his head, “Only if you’re alright with it. You’d have to take your shirt off for me and let me touch you. Is that okay?”
Astarion nearly laughs, though something wriggles violently in his chest, something like unease and confusion. “I’m hardly embarrassed, dear. Now come on, let’s get this over with before it grows too dark. We wouldn’t want the others to worry about your precious well-being, now would we?”
He perches himself delicately on a large rock, crossing his legs and working at the fine buttons of his vest. He lays it out behind him before unbuttoning his undershirt, exposing the wound that spans over his ribs. It’s worse than he had first thought, but still hardly dangerous for him—but it must look awful to Casmir, who has a roll of bandages and ointment in their hands and a firm frown tugging at his lips.
They’re still unaware that he’s a vampire spawn. And he intends to keep it that way, at least for now, lest he get a stake driven into his heart. Casmir’s kindness surely must run out at some point. Astarion does not doubt it, and neither does he intend to test those limits when his safety is still so precarious.
Casmir kneels in front of him, a pensive look on their soft features.
“I’m sorry. I should have brought a health potion with us.” Their voice reeks of true sincerity and guilt. It makes Astarion twitch, jaw clenching.
He scoffs lightly, waving a dismissive hand in the air, “We hardly expected to be attacked on a simple hunting trip, darling.”
“Still.” Casmir hums, their hands hovering over the wound. Astarion can feel the heat they radiate this near, his body so close to brushing up against Astarion’s crossed legs but carefully avoiding it.
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.”
Casmir nods astutely at the response, their flushed face the only reaction that shows the words had affected them, but their touch is clinical in its dexterity. They only brush over his skin as much as they need to and not a second more, their fingers light and quick as they clean and dress the wound. Astarion feels slight twinges of pain spark over his nerves, but he’s silent as he watches them, something strange stirring behind his ribs.
He’s seen the way they look at him. He must find him pleasing to the eyes, as most people often do—even if Astarion can’t see his own face, he knows the reactions that it receives. He blushes and his gaze will dart away, his face pressed with a soft, open smile. Casmir is much the same in that regard—the way he can grow so flustered in his presence, bending under his pretty words.
But they’re so wholly different in every other way.
He doesn’t take him up on his overt flirtation. Casmir makes no move to kiss him, to proposition him, he hardly even flirts back past a smile or a sweet compliment. He’s kind to him, they look out for Astarion in much the same way they do the rest of the party, but nothing more.
It makes Astarion anxious. Makes him wonder if he truly is unappealing in their eyes, that his desperate attempt at saving his own skin is going to fall through spectacularly because he can’t just get it right.
(Some part of his mind whispers that maybe this is enough—but that can’t be right, there’s so much more he can be used for.)
When Casmir is done they smile up at him brightly, a mouthful of white fangs, his deep indigo skin flushed darker. Their hands retreat, held away from him as soon as the job is finished, clawed fingers pushing onyx strands behind a pointed ear. “All done. How are you feeling? Not too tight?”
Astarion swallows, his fingers brushing lightly over the bandages. He won’t need them by morning if he feeds well. Casmir is still looking at him expectantly, their expression hopeful and patient. His eyes burn honey-gold like the sun.
Astarion feels sick. He feels—grateful. He resists the urge to scowl, to snap, to shake Casmir like the stupid, stupid man that he is. What are they doing, looking at him like he’s worth a damn?
Astarion is going to hurt them. He doesn’t quite know if he wants to.
“You did a good job, darling. Now let’s get back.” He clears his throat, and he does not look at them.
He redresses quickly, finding himself feeling secure once his body is once again concealed. His skin holds remnants of heat from being exposed to the sun, leaving him feeling warm from more than just Casmir’s eyes on him.
They walk back to camp together. The silence is filled only by Casmir’s nonsensical humming, whispered lyrics under his breath, their lute strummed softly in their hands. Their voice is deep, soft, gentle—contrasting with his hellish appearance, standing a full head taller than Astarion and built like a fortified wall.
Astarion hates that it settles him.
_______
Casmir does not kill him when he finds Astarion attempting to feed on them in the night.
It was a stupid thing to try, Astarion thinks the next morning. Casmir could have easily reacted on instinct. Could have killed him the moment they had woken up, whether he had realized it was Astarion or not.
Maybe some part of him had hoped that he would.
But they hadn’t. He had let him drink from them like it was easy, shivering when his fangs punctured their skin, his mouth open around a breathy gasp. Casmir had asked him if he had gotten enough when he pulled away, his golden eyes glittering in the firelight.
Astarion had felt like he was going to start shaking.
He doesn’t know why Casmir had accepted him so easily. He shouldn’t care—he gets what he wants, gets to feed on something that isn’t vermin or woodland prey for the first time in his undead life. Casmir’s blood had been sweet, had tasted richer than anything he had ever had before, sustained him even more than he had expected.
But he finds himself wondering regardless. What do they get out of it? The world does not offer him a sliver of kindness without a price. Casmir wants something, most surely.
Astarion just has no damn clue on what it is.
He hasn’t even fucked them—or been fucked—so they aren’t getting sex out of it. Astarion has no more coin than Casmir does, so they certainly have no monetary gain. Astarion doesn’t have power or influence either, he thinks bitterly. Casmir doesn’t get a single damn thing out of feeding him. Nothing at all.
It sets Astarion on edge.
He doesn’t know what to do with their supposed kindness. He has flirted and taunted and batted his lashes until his damn eyes ached and—nothing. Nothing at all. The tiefling hasn’t reciprocated, even if Astarion thinks that they surely want to.
He needs to figure something out soon if he wants to secure his place—secure his protection and safety—if he wants Casmir to be at his side when he needs it. He needs to give them something they want. He just needs to find out what that something is. He’s degraded himself so many times before, he thinks there’s very little he wouldn’t be willing to do.
Disgust roils low in his gut, tight in his throat, and he ignores it.
He finds them again only a few nights later, their clawed fingers plucking at the strings of their lute. He’s fixing it, Astarion thinks, retuning it and replacing some of the strings. He watches him work for a few moments, their legs folded on their bedroll and their bright eyes entirely focused on their task. Dark, thick hair falls like a curtain over his shoulders. His face pinches in concentration, brows furrowed slightly and their tongue poking out from behind their lips.
Cute.
Astarion slips down beside them and they startle, their head jerking up to find him. Casmir looks surprised for a moment before he quickly relaxes again, his expression softening into a pleased and fond smile. As if he had been waiting for Astarion to find him and is satisfied with his presence.
Astarion swallows thickly, lips pressing tightly together.
“Astarion.” He breathes gently, and his name sounds so soft from his lips, like a humming prayer. As if he savored saying it each time it left their mouth. “Did you need something?”
“Just checking up on you, darling.” He smiles, and it’s not entirely false. Casmir’s company is—relaxing, oftentimes. Even if they manage to throw him off regularly. “Must I need a reason?”
Casmir chuckles, “No, not at all. You can come to me whenever you need.”
Casmir’s kindness cuts into his skin like a barb, like prickles that draw out beads of welling blood. Crimson over porcelain white. There was a time when he was swayed by sweetness like this, where he would burn with guilt and self-hatred for tainting it. A time where he risked his life to preserve that—to disobey.
He learned his lesson early on that it gained him no favors.
“Well, aren’t you just a darling?” He laughs lightly to mask his discomfort and ignores that intelligent twitch around Casmir’s eyes—the way he seems to be able to read him so easily. Two centuries of a well crafted mask being dismantled by a kind gaze and plush lips.
Cazador would have relished in Astarion bringing such a sweet thing back. Would have enjoyed watching the light die in those kind eyes, prey falling into a carefully planned trap without realizing before it was too late. Casmir was the type of man Astarion would have disobeyed for, all those years ago.
The thought makes his throat close, his gut swirling and churning with sickness and revulsion.
“You looked rather focused on that. I could hear the turning in your horned little head all the way across camp.” Astarion says before they can hope to mention it, praying his voice does not sound as tense as he feels. He forces his face into something pleasant, something pretty and inviting.
He thinks Casmir knows what he’s doing, his infuriatingly intelligent gaze sparking with knowing, but they gracefully accept the change in subject anyway. Astarion’s brow twitches, unsure on whether he feels irritated or grateful.
“Not so focused as to ignore your presence.” Casmir smiles, putting the lute to the side, hellfire eyes sparkling with obvious affection.
What are you doing, looking at me like that?
His lips purse and he asks suddenly, “Are you feeling hungry again? It’s been a few days, hasn’t it?” He nearly sounds concerned, his voice deep but soft.
Astarion scoffs out a laugh in surprise, his shoulders nearly spasming with the force. “You’d offer yourself another time?” He challenges, and this is where he expects Casmir to come out with what they want—to finally ask Astarion for what everyone wants from him.
But they only brush their shirt to the side, a small smile playing on his lips. Astarion eyes the flexing tendons of their neck, the jut of their collarbone and the long column of their throat. He can’t help the stir of want that settles inside of him, the familiar throb of hunger. “If you need more, then I don’t mind.”
“My, my—one would think you were offering something less than your own blood.” He says it lightly though he means it. What Casmir is offering is no little thing. Mortals don’t often bare themselves to a hungry vampire, especially not with a spark of trust and fondness in their pretty eyes.
“Surely you—you want something from me in return. There’s only so much I can provide, but I’ll promise to make it worth your while, darling.” He hopes the small stutter wasn’t noticeable, his lashes flickering down as he watches Casmir expectantly.
They look at him for a few moments, a flush just barely visible on their deep skin. He thinks they’re finally going to accept, thinks that he’ll be filled with the sick satisfaction of being right—
But he only shakes his head with a small laugh. “I don’t need you to give me anything. If you’re hungry, then I can help. Easy as that, isn’t it?”
Astarion swallows thickly, jaw working for a few moments, “Is it?” He lilts, just on the side of disbelieving.
But Casmir only nods their assent easily, his neck still bared and his eyes like soft pricks of heat. “Come now, darling.” He laughs quietly, his voice curled just slightly to imitate the lilt of Astarion’s accent, “You can feed, if that’s what you want.”
“If you insist on playing with your life, then who am I to deny you?”
Astarion moves closer, sinuous like the stalk of a predator, like he’s accepting a challenge rather than the simple kindness that Casmir is apparently in abundance of. He doesn’t look afraid, doesn’t look nervous—not even for a moment. Only looks at Astarion with eyes that drip like honey, warm pools of easy affection.
Someone is going to take advantage of this, is going to leave him broken and hurt. Someone even worse than Astarion, if he doesn’t ruin him first.
“Wait.” Casmir breathes when Astarion hovers close, his face nearly buried in the crook of their neck. He’s nearly intoxicating, this close.
“Changed your mind, dear?” He taunts, mouth open with a grin that exposes his fangs.
Casmir smiles and his hands raise to just barely brush over Astarion, one hand behind his head and another near his shoulder. “Is it alright, if I hold you like this?” Their eyes shine in the moonlight, their touch so light that it’s barely there, waiting for permission.
Astarion swallows, nearly moving back with confusion. “Do what you like.” He eventually murmurs, and allows his mouth to touch their skin. Casmir flexes and shudders beneath him, a hand curling so ever gently into Astarion’s hair, the other resting on his upper arm.
Astarion’s tongue darts out over the flesh before his teeth sink in, his mouth quickly filled with a rush of blood. Casmir makes the softest sound but doesn’t flinch at the pain, staying loose and relaxed. His fingers card through Astarion’s hair gently, careful to never tug at his curls, claws kept away from his scalp.
Astarion hums quietly with pleased shock, unexpected pleasure slipping down his spine like warm water, Casmir’s hand rubbing soothingly over his arm. His head rests against Astarion’s own, and the gesture is achingly intimate, the hand in his hair brushing over his jaw, smoothing white curls back from his face.
Astarion shivers, his mouth breaking away from Casmir’s necks, his tongue swiping over the puncture wounds. He kisses at the marks, staying close so that Casmir’s hand doesn’t leave his hair—his breath shudders out of him, his skin feeling warm, soaking in Casmir’s heat. Casmir quivers beneath his mouth, the patter of his heart just a little quicker, his breath coming out in a soft rasp.
Disgust doesn’t chase the bliss, bile doesn’t rise in his throat at the touch. He thinks he could melt, falling into Casmir’s arms like something pathetic and craving.
Instead, he draws away. Casmir’s hands slip into his lap, a stray bead of blood curving down his clavicle. Astarion resists the depraved urge to follow the line with his tongue, to greedily lap at his infernally warm skin until he’s basked in its heat for himself.
“Is that enough?” Casmir says, his voice just slightly breathless, his dull indigo skin going a deep midnight blue. He really is quite beautiful like this, firelight reflecting in his honey eyes, playing off the dark hue of his face.
It’s not—Astarion could drain him again and again and he would always crave more, that centuries old hunger gnawing and gnawing at him with no end.
Astarion presses at his lips with the tips of his fingers, tongue darting out to catch stray remnants of blood, “Quite, darling.” He rises, feeling strangely shaken, his fingers curling into his palms. “Sweet dreams.”
He refuses to run off with his tail between his legs—but it’s a near thing.
_______
All he sees is red eyes.
Dark hair and clawed, reaching hands—a lilted voice in his ear and breath on his skin, both cool and reserved and hot panting. He feels cold, feels like shattered glass, flesh ripping and tearing and the hard ground is painted red with his own suffering.
When he screams it’s met with sickening laughter, like fire over his skin as it’s torn and flayed open, reaching deeper until it draws out pathetic tears. He feels lips on him and reaching fingers, tangled in his hair and between his thighs. There’s the blood of vermin on his tongue, like writhing maggots beneath his skin, the sticky and salty tang of someone else’s release on his tongue. He feels sick, feels dirty, feels broken. His eyes ache to close and his chest feels vacant—bloody viscera falling from behind his ribs, urged out with uncaring fingers.
He’s going to die here—used and destroyed and dirty, and he will have no other choice but to let it happen.
“Did you think you’d ever escape this, boy?”
No—no he hadn’t. He always knew that there was no escape, that he was going to die just as pitiful as he had lived, a putrid and pathetic thing. And at times it was the only thing he truly craved, if only it would finally end—
“Astarion?”
He gasps awake, rolling onto his side, feeling as if he were soon to be sick, his throat tight and his eyes stinging. His breath comes out as a rapid wheeze, eyes darting across the ground as he attempts to figure out where he is, pale fingers grasping at the fine silk of his tent’s pillows.
He smells dirt and old blood and something sweet—different from his own flowery scent and more like honeys and teas and cakes—
His gaze jerks to the side at the sound of movement to find Casmir standing at the entrance, their tail swishing nervously and their face set with gentle concern. Astarion sits straight immediately, feeling tension wrack through him and something like anger—knowing that Casmir was not at fault for witnessing such vulnerability, but finding himself feeling so horrendously exposed anyway.
His jaw clenches, teeth scraping together as vitriol sits on his tongue, poison in his throat. “What is it that you want? Or have you only come to gawk dumbly at my expense?” He sniffs delicately, shifting into a longing position and just barely forcing an irritated scowl from his face. He reminds himself to sit pretty, to be pleasant, to look and act appealing—he’s not sure how well it works.
Casmir’s lips purse, but his face holds no reaction to Astarion’s ire, no irritation or anger crossing his features when it ought to be. “Are you alright?”
Astarion’s jaw flexes, brow twitching, “No, dear, I just normally wake up screaming. Just another day, isn’t it?”
Casmir nods as if in understanding, a good natured laugh leaving his lips. “Ah. I suppose that’s fair, my apologies. Stupid question, hm?” His eyes twinkle, hands folded behind his back as he takes Astarion’s scathing tone in stride.
“Would you like for me to leave you be?” They ask the question softly, as if he truly valued the answer, as if he would accept anything that left Astarion’s lips.
Astarion stares at him for a few moments, assessing. He tongues over a fang in thought, considering the tiefling that’s still smiling at him softly, sickeningly kind in the candlelight of Astarion’s tent. He can see white fangs in his smile, Casmir’s clothing sleep mussed and his eyes soft and bleary from exhaustion. His tail swishes one more, clawed fingers pushing dark strands of hair behind his pointed ear.
Astarion doesn’t want to be alone.
He waves Casmir off, “Find some other poor thing to look after for the night, alright darling? I’m sure you’ll manage just fine with all the whelps that surely yap at your feet for attention.”
Casmir’s face falls just slightly, dark brows growing heavy, but he smiles at Astarion regardless. His good nature seems to make him impossible to rile, only staying soft and gentle and infuriatingly kind.
Astarion wants to take that and twist until it breaks—he wants to bask in it, to have it on him like he was vying for the attention of the sun itself.
Casmir hesitates, though, looks as if he were tempted to stay, and Astarion finds that he wants—
But he only tilts his head to the side after a moment, eyes glimmering as they find Astarion’s ruby gaze. He never does a single thing against what Astarion asks of him, perhaps he should have learned as much by now. “Come find me if you need me, then. I’ll be up until morning, should you find yourself in need of company. Good night, Astarion.”
Astarion watches him go, a tangle of roots in his chest, twisting and writhing and knotted. He doesn’t call out, though he nearly wants to. He sinks back into his pillows instead, rubbing at his temple, nervously plucking at his own curls.
Casmir is ridiculous. He’s infuriating. He’s an idiot except in all the ways in which he very much isn’t. He’s something Astarion still can’t quite understand, built like a soldier but determined to be a peacekeeper. Overflowing with that sickening kindness of his, promising to help every sorry sod that looks their way, filling them with hope. Casmir’s going to fail one day, leading these poor souls on, letting them think they’re fucking saved.
But he is apparently dedicated to showing Astarion that kindness too—that care that he only manages to throw back in the tiefling’s face. Hardly any grounds for a proper seduction, but Astarion’s usual methods did little to affect Casmir.
Ridiculous, ridiculous man.
Astarion curses to himself and chases after him, just barely an hour later.
He eventually finds Casmir near the river, writing in a journal, that adorably focused expression on his features again. His ebony locks fall into his face but he hardly seems to mind, the gold chains on his horns swishing with the slight movement of his head. Astarion’s eyes trace the scar that spans his left cheek, tapering off around his chin, and another slashed across his nose. It does nothing to distract from his otherworldly beauty.
Astarion slips down to sit on the log next to him and burning gold eyes flit up to find him. With a flash of white fangs Casmir is smiling at him, the journal left open in his lap.
“What are you writing so late at night?” He asks, peering at the inked pages but finding himself barely able to read Casmir’s sprawling script. But amongst the words are drawings; a curly headed elf, the camp’s dog Scratch, the owlbear cub, and an assortment of symbols.
Casmir chuckles, shifting in a way that makes him look awfully sheepish. “It’s just to keep track of the days and the people in them, I suppose.” He closes it, fingers running over the leather cover, “Nothing you’d find particularly interesting, I’d wager.” Casmir looks up at him again, honey-gold eyes crinkled in the corners.
“And what do you think I would find most interesting?” He purrs in teasing, leaning close enough so that their legs brush.
Casmir taps at his lips with his quill, smiling gently but barely acknowledging Astarion’s overt flirtation. Though he doesn’t move away, their knees pressed together, Casmir’s warmth nearly addicting this close.
“You needn’t do that, you know.” Casmir says enigmatically, staring up into the sky, his eyes tracing the lines of constellations. His mouth is just slightly parted, fangs peeking out from behind his full lips.
“Do what?” Astarion murmurs, watching the twitch of Casmir’s profile, the moonlight playing off the deep blue of his skin. His eyes shine in the light, like molten honey,
“Pretend.” Casmir says simply, and when he looks at Astarion it feels as if he’s been pinned to the spot. “Your eyes always give you away. Did you know that?”
Astarion shifts suddenly, procuring a certain amount of distance between them. He refuses to nervously shift, but it’s a near thing.
“I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about, darling.” He says lightly, venom laced in his tone like a warning. They’re a good ways away from camp. Casmir would be smart to watch that candid tongue of his.
Except Casmir is an idiot in all the ways that matter too.
“We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. I would never force you to do anything.” He says, giving Astarion enough grace to spare him that piercing hellfire gaze. He stares out into the water instead. “But you don’t have to do anything else for me to like you. I already do. I’m with you as you are, right now. Do you understand that?”
Astarion feels like a child. He feels scalded, feels hot with humiliation and anger. He wants to leap across this log and rip Casmir’s throat out, leave him to bleed out and gurgle on his own blood, face down in the dirt.
He wants to cry and know that Casmir would care.
He only sniffs delicately, hands folded in his lap and fangs biting at his gums so hard that he bleeds, “Then you’re a lot dumber than I thought you were.”
He gets up and leaves without another word.
_______
They don’t talk about it.
Astarion is just fine with that, to pretend as if the night had never happened, returning to the regular push and pull of their strange companionship. If it could truly even be called that.
Casmir hardly acts any differently towards him. Astarion has already grown used to that lingering golden gaze, Casmir’s eyes finding him in crowds and on the slow days, seeking the vampire out whenever he can. He carefully does not overstay his welcome, but he checks with him often, smiles at Astarion just the same as he had before. He maintains that same kindness, that same dedication to asking Astarion about bloody everything.
Can I touch you? Can I do this? Are you comfortable? Is this alright?
Astarion is going to kill him, he thinks, if he doesn’t get himself killed first.
And he watches Casmir mill about the party now, smiling with the happy tieflings, eyes crinkling and shining with good-natured mirth. He’s easy on the eyes, he must admit, handsome and standing a good one or two heads taller amongst the crowd. With well-defined muscle and an easy confidence, it’s no wonder he’s trailed by a ring of hopeless admirers.
Astarion twirls his glass between his fingers, the liquid sloshing. It tastes earthy and damp, piss poor wine that would leave Astarion gagging if he had any less of a tolerance. As of now, he dumps it out and makes his way to Casmir.
If he has something to prove, then tonight is it. Astarion has already caught sight of all the eyes that follow Casmir as if he were a steak and they were starving. It seems their little leader is incredibly popular, and Astarion intends to get a bite first.
No matter what Casmir says, Astarion can offer more. He needs him on his side, and what would be an easier way to do it other than his body? Just another tool in his arsenal. Casmir surely isn’t as virtuous as they let on, and Astarion has noticed his little reactions when he has his teeth in the tiefling’s neck. There’s a want there, surely, and all Astarion needs to do is play on that.
He reminds himself that Casmir should be the easiest to fork over onto his side compared to the rest of the group.
“Are you purposefully obtuse, or have you truly not noticed the amount of sad saps who hope to be your bed warmer by the end of the night?” Astarion says once he’s saddled up to the man’s side, peering up at him with a small smirk.
Casmir turns towards him, a pleased grin overtaking his features. His wine goes untouched in his hands, and Astarion finds himself strangely relieved to see he has enough of a refined taste to not drink the vile shit.
“I noticed them well enough.” Casmir’s eyes twinkle, his mouth pressed into a soft line. He looks at Astarion like he’s the only thing he sees. Something twists low in Astarion’s gut, fangs catching on the inside of his mouth.
“And have none of them caught your eye?” He teases, finding some part of himself oddly, genuinely curious. Casmir could have anyone, truly—they certainly have the looks and charisma and a heart positively ripe for devouring.
Casmir turns his wine over in his glass, though he makes no attempt to drink it. “I’m thinking of someone. I just haven’t quite figured out how to tell him what I want to say.”
“Oh?” Astarion allows, raising a playful brow, “Who is the lucky man, then? And what do I have to do to get you to leave him wanting?”
They look up at Astarion with a soft smile, small crinkles around his eyes as he gives Astarion an indulgent tilt of their head and—
“Ah. I see.” Astarion murmurs, feeling just slightly wrong-footed, as if he could tumble to the side listlessly. Casmir was intending to search him out. Perhaps this will be easier than he had expected.
He recovers quickly with a short laugh, slipping into easy but false confidence, “Well, I could certainly think of other things we can get up to that don't require many words.”
Casmir laughs breathily, their eyes like the drizzle of warm honey. He looks out amongst the dancing tieflings, the celebrations, music and ringing laughter. “Should we move somewhere quieter?”
Astarion’s breath hitches with something he doesn’t quite know how to name—a strange mixture of want and a paralyzing fear. His mind already feels nearly clouded, slipping away into that role he’s donned so often, flirtatious and open and pleasing—a mask as fragile as porcelain but gone untouched.
“Be my guest, dear.” Astarion plucks Casmir’s glass from a clawed hand, unceremoniously dumping the contents and leaving it on a nearby wooden table. Casmir laughs at the action, and Astarion can admit that it’s a pleasant sound.
“Shall we, then?”
Casmir looks at him fondly and leads the way back towards camp, “We could talk in my tent, if you’d like.” He looks back towards Astarion expectantly, eyes like the glitter of burning stars.
“It’s all the same to me, my dear. The others should be too busy getting drunk and finding a night of fun to give us a bother.” Astarion hums thoughtfully, putting a finger to his bottom lip, “Except you’ll leave all your other supposed suitors rather disappointed, you know. Seduced and lured by a nasty vampire—my, my darling, whatever would they think?”
“You’re not nasty, Astarion.” Casmir huffs softly, the golden jewelry on his horns twinkling gently with his laugh, “And I find myself rather unconcerned by their opinions. Let them ponder. It’ll give them something to do, hm?”
He lifts the flap of his tent and Astarion realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever seen the inside properly. It’s decorated with navy blues and glittering golds, bathed in reaching candlelight. A small table holds a vase of flowers, a journal, and a painting of a young girl that Astarion does not recognize. They hold an unmistakable resemblance to Casmir though, her skin a similar deep hue and her eyes a bright orange. The picture is worn by time but obviously well-cared for by careful and loving hands.
Astarion does not ponder long, welcoming himself to Casmir’s bed roll as the man relights one of the extra candles. His scent is nearly overbearing here, intoxicating, clinging to his pillows and blankets—like jasmine and tea and something sweet. Astarion breathes it in, watching as Casmir sinks down next to him, a purposeful distance kept between them.
That just won't do.
Astarion twists and easily lands himself in the man’s lap, straddling him and wrapping lean arms around his broad shoulders. He can hear Casmir’s breath hitch as he nearly tumbles backwards, quickly regaining his balance and looking up at Astarion with those spun-gold eyes of his.
“Is there a reason for the coy act, darling, or do you sincerely need it spelt out for you?” Astarion raises a brow, fixing Casmir’s collar absently, pointedly aware of Casmir’s floundering hands. They hover behind Astarion’s back, but they don’t touch him. He nearly feels a spark of irritation, his fingers tensing, and he so violently wishes to shake Casmir until he stops treating Astarion like fucking glass.
“I came here for you to fuck me, not to watch you hem and haw for an hour beforehand.”
“Astarion—”
“Do you want me?” He purrs on a breath, his hands sliding down to cup Casmir’s face between his palms. He traces over the large scar across his cheek, the skin slightly indented, and his thumb rests on their full bottom lip. He’s beautiful and so warm this close, that infernal heat already sinking into Astarion’s undead skin.
Casmir’s eyes slip closed with a shudder, dark lashes flickering, his brows pinching as if he were nearly pained. “I do.” He sighs, a breathy rasp that has Astarion humming.
It’s all he needs to hear before he’s capturing Casmir’s mouth with his own. The kiss is searing, Casmir’s skin impossibly warm against his own as he makes a small, shocked noise. Their chests press together, one heart dead and the other thundering a heavy beat. Casmir gasps, his lips falling open, and Astarion presses his tongue inside. He catches on Casmir’s fangs and he shudders, moaning softly—partially for a pretty show and partially because the sensation burns low in his gut. This kiss is warm and wet and Casmir responds easily, pressing into Astarion greedily, meeting his tongue with his own.
But Casmir’s hands are still hovering anxiously behind Astarion, as if he were afraid to touch. Astarion grunts in irritation, blindly reaching back and urging Casmir to hold him. Large hands wrap tentatively around his lean waist, warmth sizzling down Astarion’s spine as he squeezes just slightly. His hands nearly wrap entirely around him.
Casmir is so much bigger than him—it’d be easy for him to throw him around, to grab him and force him—
Astarion pulls away with a sharp gasp, fingers tangled in Casmir’s shirt as he mouths at his throat instead to cover the way his breath shakes. Casmir’s skin is warm under his lips and his pulse thumps a rapid flutter under Astarion’s tongue. He can almost taste the sweetness of his blood, rich and thick and enough to make his fangs ache in hunger. He nips lightly at the skin, delighting in the jump of Casmir’s heart rate, the slight hitch of his breath.
Those large hands rub a soothing line down Astarion’s spine, shivers wracking through the vampire’s lean frame. Astarion pushes the tiefling back into the cradle of navy pillows, straddling the man’s pelvis, catching the pure adoration on Casmir’s face as he gazes up at him.
It makes his chest ache, feeling too tight for a heart that does not beat.
He tugs at Casmir’s shirt, his hips shifting in the man’s lap, rolling shallowly forward. He can feel the hardening of Casmir’s cock through his trousers, his length brushing up against him. Astarion’s mind suddenly slips, tumbling and quivering, his eyes going unfocused. He blinks, already feeling that heady, cloudy feeling clogging his brain. Like cotton over his senses, only comforting in the escape that it provides.
Astarion breathes out and pushes Casmir’s shirt up, hands running over his toned abdomen, thick muscle flexing beneath his touch. Casmir shivers, his fingers light where they rest on Astarion’s slim thighs. Astarion can feel himself disappearing. He tugs at the drawstrings of Casmir’s trousers, breathing slowly and quietly even if he doesn't require it—
Large hands wrap gently around his own, halting his movements.
“Astarion?” Casmir calls, and the fear in his voice is what slices through the fog the most.
Astarion peers up at him, meeting wide golden eyes, Casmir’s face still flushed but completely absent of pleasure. He searches Astarion’s expression carefully, his features slipping into something pained and soft.
“Yes, darling?” Astarion says, almost as if out of instinct, like the intonation of a doll—flat in its careful and neutral pleasantness.
Casmir breathes out and it shudders, “You don’t want this.” He says firmly and his tone is one that brooks no argument. Astarion wants to argue anyway.
His face twitches, like a crack in a mask, the tremors of old porcelain, “Of course I do.”
Casmir frowns, his face pinched with concern, “Astarion, you’re trembling.”
Is he? He hadn’t noticed. He laughs and it's like the shattering of glass, “Perhaps I’m just excited, darling—”
“Astarion.” Casmir says and his voice is low, soft and patient despite the furrow to his brow, “Do you want this? Truthfully?”
Something in Astarion’s chest gives a violent lurch, his throat tight with the rise of bile, his head swimming so violently he feels dizzy with it—
Astarion wants to lash out and scratch their kind face bloody, wants to rip and tear and make it hurt. He wants to leave right then and there and never see that damn face ever again, whether it means falling into Cazador’s clutches or not. He wants to fall forward and bury his face in Casmir’s shoulder and hide in that infernal warmth for the rest of eternity.
Instead, he does nothing.
His throat closes around a swallow, his quivering hands held gently between Casmir’s own. They’re warm and gentle and hold no force, none at all. He can’t say it. He can’t. They wouldn't have listened and he would not have been able to, even if he had tried. It didn’t matter what he wanted, how he felt. It never mattered.
A lie sits on his tongue like poison, like venom in his veins—
He looks down at Casmir’s face, soft and open and waiting in silence. Casmir’s thumb twitches over Astarion’s knuckles, and it is the only movement they allow themself.
Astarion has not experienced kindness in over two centuries.
He feels strangely empty, still floating somewhere that isn’t here. He’s not quite sure how to get back. He stares down at their joined hands again, Astarion’s legs still straddling Casmir’s pelvis. They’re no longer hard—Astarion never was.
He can’t say it.
Slowly, Astarion shakes his head, lips falling open around words that will never come.
But it's enough.
The change is instant. Casmir quickly rises, only touching Astarion to gently urge him off of him, sitting him back down over the pillows piled on his bed roll. Casmir’s hands leave him immediately and Astarion snaps out to grab his wrist, something inside of him aching for it. He holds it silently, wondering when his chest began heaving. Astarion cannot breathe—he does not need to and hasn’t for over two centuries. He cannot breathe.
“Astarion?” Casmir questions, his voice lilted with concern, but warm and carefully calm in the torrential wash of Astarion’s mind. He blinks, his tongue feeling leaden in his mouth, thick and swollen and useless. “Astarion, can you tell me what you need right now?”
Astarion closes his eyes with a shuddering breath, his fingers still wrapped tightly around Casmir’s wrist, lips pressed together firmly. They’re warm and grounding and their scent is familiar in a way Astarion had not realized he has grown fond of. He can just barely hear the whip of the candle flames and the deep steady rhythm of Casmir’s breath, his pulse thumping beneath Astarion’s fingers. His pillows are a surprisingly fine satin, his blankets made of white and brown furs that are soft and well-made beneath him.
He breathes in, his eyes slowly flickering open, “What were you going to say?”
Casmir’s expression stays soft and patient, though a twitch of confusion makes his brows forrow slightly. “What do you mean?” He asks, and the gentleness of his tone would grate like nails over Astarion’s nerves if he did not so desperately need it.
“You said you wanted to tell me something—you just hadn’t figured out how to say it.” He swallows, and his voice rasps, “What was it?”
Casmir shifts quitely, a small purse to his lips, “Astarion, I’m not quite sure—”
“Say it.” He nearly croaks, “Please.”
Casmir’s head drops for a moment, his tongue nervously darting out to swipe over his bottom lip. He looks up at the dropping curtains of his tent before he finally allows his gaze to find Astarion again. “I wanted to tell you that I wanted to—to court you. Properly. With the gifts and the sweetness, because I’ve come to care about you, and I wanted to do right by you.”
Astarion swallows and it nearly chokes him, that dead thing in his chest squeezing. He looks at Casmir, his face open and sincere and sickeningly kind. His honey eyes are adoring and fond, and Astarion has no idea what he had done to deserve such a thing.
“You are a very stupid man.” His voice is soft, nearly gentle.
Casmir smiles, their dull eyes brightening, crinkling in the corners with true amusement and fondness. “Perhaps. Have I falsely led you to believe otherwise?”
Astarion breathes out a soft laugh, the noise rattling and spasming in his chest.
Astarion’s fingers move from Casmir’s wrist to run over the back of his hand, tracing his knuckles and veins. “Lay down.” He murmurs and Casmir follows without question, sinking into the pillows with a honey-gold glimmer to his eyes.
Astarion follows, laying across from him, their hands joined together between them. His jaw clenches and unclenches, Casmir’s words turning over in his head.
A courtship. What a ridiculous, ridiculous notion. A stupid, achingly sweet idea for men who were not Astarion.
It nearly sounds—lovely.
Casmir watches him carefully, lips parted in thought, “You needn’t give me an answer tonight, if you are unsure.”
Astarion still feels seared under that kindness, that warmth. He doesn’t know what to do with it, even now. Casmir could have anyone else he wanted—someone uncomplicated, who could return his affections, who could kiss him with honey on their lips and a beating heart in their chest.
“I don’t know if I can give you what you want. Even if I wanted to.”
Casmir’s hand turns in Astarion’s hold, opening to Astarion’s wandering fingers, mapping lines across their large palm. “You needn’t give me anything. If you wish to stay companions, then I am grateful to have you as my friend. If you wish to be more, then I will be here for you. And should you wish to part—then you are free to make your own decision.”
Astarion shudders, curling up over Casmir’s furs, head turned into a satin pillow. He doesn’t know what he wants. But Casmir is warm and his palm is callused from working and fighting. His gaze holds a light Astarion could never hope to touch.
“Stay with me. Like this.” He whispers, fingers finally lacing with Casmir’s.
Casmir thumbs over his knuckle, “If that’s what you want.”
Casmir smiles and Astarion begins to breathe again.