Chapter Text
Camp was quiet. A Tranquil, pleasant night. The sky cloaked with a dense celestial blanket, with such clarity of the stars only witnessed in the wilderness of Faerûn, untouched by pollution. Nothing but the sound of the winds gentle breeze whistling through the canopy of trees of all sizes and species. The occasional rustling of nearby bushes from nocturnal animals that had just awoken, hungry and eager to hunt. Everyone in their rag-tag group of mindflayer tadpole wielders were all but asleep, slumbering peacefully in their bedrolls.
Everyone that is, but Astarion. Who was sat on the outskirts of camp, one hand playing with the curls on the back of his head whilst the fingers on his other idly played with the handle of his dagger, clasped around his waist. Completely lost in thought. Consumed by overwhelming emotions and fears that were beginning to cripple him. Too afraid to rest lest someone drive a stake into his heart. Too worried that yet another vivid trance make him remember another horrible punishment he lived through. Too anxious to allow someone else to hold any sort of power over him again, even in that be in the form of nightly lookouts.
So Astarion had volunteered once again to be on guard duty whilst the others slept. Though it’s safe to say they were more hesitant with that offering than they used to be and were cautious to even agree to it. The recent revelation of his undead nature to the group only seemed to amplify pre-existing tensions and mistrust between them all. A vampire that obviously needed blood to sustain themselves was a great taboo.
Perhaps it was a mistake to tell them…Although truthfully it wasn’t really a conscious decision so much as it was getting caught in the literal blood feeding act itself. It was a close enough call with the less-than-subtle boar carcass he had fed on gluttonously during his first real hunt. Draining it dry and all but satiating himself for the very first time in his entire vampiric existence with substantial blood. But with that came a cost, engorged on the delicious blood and completely blissed out body and mind to the sensation of being sated that he didn’t even bother to hide the evidence of his voracious hunger. So when they stumbled across it the next day, and Cicero was asking far too many questions, he had no choice but to point out that a vampire was responsible. In hindsight that merely opened the floodgates to more vampire questions from him, ones that Astarion answered with clear clarity and knowledge that was suspiciously detailed.
But it wasn’t until last night that he had truly fucked up. When he had allowed himself to stupidly rest and was instead met with a horrific nightmare of Cazador. Disgustingly real, down to the very sense of dread and submissive panic that twisted in the pit of his stomach at even looking at the false image of him that his brain conjured. Reminding him of the tenants he was forced to follow in fear of receiving heinous punishment, reminding him that he was nothing more than a worthless spawn, a slave to be toyed with and humiliated.
He awoke in a state, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, eyes wide and scanning frantically at his surroundings for any indication of his presence. Like he was going to intrude their camp and whisk him away screaming and begging. But that was not the case, he told himself, and he tried to settle his nerves as he slowly came to grips with that.
That was when a thought came to his mind, could he defy Cazador’s teachings? Could he drink from a thinking creature? He had to prove it to himself, his stomach now rumbling at the very concept of the idea. The freedom, the control, the power to make his own choices, to use his bite to feed substantially.
So he chose his target and Cicero just so happened to be closest one to him. But he was caught just before his fangs dove into his flesh and judging by the unimpressed, confused look across the clerics face, he awaited the stake. But that never came, and in fact the half-elf surprised him by offering his neck instead. So of course Astarion indulged oh and indulge he did. The taste was exquisite, addictive, an all-encompassing sensation of pure bliss that he was never permitted to experience in two hundred years. Cicero was delicious, his blood as divine as his magic, the adorable way he leaned further to allow Astarion latch on further, the subtle shiver running along his spine that caused it to arch ever so slightly.
Every part of this was experience was more gratifying than the two centuries worth of coerced, almost-daily, sexual proclivities with strangers he sentenced to death the minute he caressed their skin. He continued to swallow it down, the blood rushing down his throat with hearty moans running up and out. His tongue lapping up every last drop with not a single thought in his mind but to feed…feed…feed. More and more, to ease the always-present ache in the pit of his stomach. Sate and be sated. And it was all perfect.
That was until he accidentally got carried away and drained him dry. The half-elf’s lifeless eyes glazed over, now unfortunately understanding of how easy it was to get lost in the crimson nectar. Why Cazador forbid his starved spawn from drinking from such splendour. Shit. He made sure to rectify his mistake hastily with a revivify scroll, a shaky apology and a half-arsed excuse. But Cicero took it rather well all things considered… though not without getting intimately acquainted with his strong right hook.
They all agreed to his stay in camp, as part of their group, but he was aware of their disapproving side glances. The petty little comments about his diet and the repetitive drivel of their outright refusal to feed from any of them. Every time he opened his mouth with a laugh he noticed the way their eyes pinned to his enlarged canines, unable or perhaps unwilling to hide their disgusted looks.
As if Astarion wanted this in the first place, as if immortality wasn’t a burden forced upon him in the hazed stupor of death that gripped painfully onto him reluctant to let go. He didn’t idolise it, he didn’t revere it, had he known what was in store beforehand, he most certainly would have chosen death. Throughout his two-century long torture all he begged for was death to bless him. He didn’t even care how bloody, how painful, how wretched the execution. He tried so many times to find a method capable of slaying his superior vampiric body. Stabbing himself, slicing himself, poisoning himself, asphyxiating himself with a frayed rope. All failed. He did just about anything to try and escape the throbbing pain morphed into extreme hollow numbness that was his existence.
But each attempt was met with a harsher punishment than the last. Unspeakable things were done to him that his mind, try as it might, could never forget. He was violated, he was publicly ridiculed and humiliated, he was laughed at while Cazador ordered others to use him like a toy for their own pleasure. Unable to do anything but cry silently and take it as graciously as he could before Cazadors watching eye. After each torture session, when he was beaten, bruised and bleeding, when every orifice leaked with foreign fluids and he was kneeling before Cazador completely bare and vulnerable, he was forced to say one thing.
“Thank you for my punishment master.”
Depending on how well he “performed” in said punishment, sometimes Cazador was merciful and allowed him to clean up. Other times, a more usual circumstance than the former, he brought the other spawn in to witness his shameful state. Just to twist the knife of his humiliation even further, unable to meet the sorrowful stares as Cazador continued to berate and degrade him before them. Sometimes inviting them to join in. After all, he was his personal favourite spawn to torment.
He grit his teeth and closed his eyes as his arms wrapped around himself, fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt. Trying to ground himself and pull himself from the memories that only seemed to replay in his mind when he was alone at night, awake or trancing.
He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want for this. And yet others judged him for being what he was. Who in the right mind would wish for an eternity of confinement to the dark, to be a slave to sanguine hunger, to be a husk of one’s old self? He lost everything that he should own, his body, his mind, his fucking soul, all of it was in the hands of another. He was a pet with a chain carted around with a lead around his neck both physically and metaphorically. None of them knew the extent of his torture he had lived through that much was true and he wanted to keep it that way. For the first time in two centuries, he was free, and he was damned sure he was going to do whatever the hells he wanted.
So needless to say, he was feeling even more vulnerable than what he was before. It was vile.
Astarion needed protection. Such a thing was essential if he had any chance of navigating the uncharted territory of his newfound freedom. He hadn’t been allowed such a luxury for so long, so much so that even the prospect of it was incredibly daunting. He didn’t remember how to look after himself, or even how the world worked anymore for that matter. He needed his own body guard, a protector.
And so, as he sat here ruminating, he came up with a rather brilliant plan for his survival.
Step 1: Pick a target.
This was a most vital choice. Each companion had their pro’s and con’s and he needed to choose carefully. Trying to use all of them at once would only end in disaster and he would risk all of them turning against and discarding him.
Wyll, admittedly, was the type of man he once dreamed of marrying all those years ago when he was a young lad. The selfless hero-type that fiercely protected everyone because it was simply the “right thing to do.” But he was also a notable monster hunter. And despite not yet having tried staking him upon the new knowledge of his vampiric nature, he wasn’t keen on finding out how long it’ll take before he decided on that alternative. Nor did he really approve most of Astarion’s choices. Not to mention he was the romantic type and ugh, bedding him would prove impossible without a well-prepared dinner and a significant duration of courting he didn’t have time to indulge.
Shadowheart was obviously beautiful, and she was quite adept at utilising her divine magic which he knew would serve him well. He could most certainly imagine her using such daylight and radiant spells to their advantage against his master if the need arrived. But her endless prattle about Shar and how easily she could get wound up from the slightest negative tone in the same sentence as the God could prove problematic. Not to mention, her stubbornness and insistence for secrecy was incredibly annoying.
Gale was a powerful, attractive wizard that much was for sure. Mystras chosen himself he claimed he was and it seemed to be that he had the skills to back up such a bold statement. Astarion was certain he could swoon the socially-recluse human, easily over a shared bottle of red before bedding him in his own bedroll. However, his arrogance was almost as glaring as his affinity for magic and love for tressyms. The mere prospect of getting forced to sit through his condescending lectures of magic, and Gods knows whatever tedious literature or conversation topics he deemed interesting, was painful.
The Githyanki Lae’Zel… no that was an absolute no go. A formidable warrior without a doubt who could slay her enemies faster than Astarion could say please. The fiercely loyal type, and we’re she to claim Astarion as a lover than he would be very well armed. But she was an absolute no go. Her personality was abrasive at best and even he had to concede that his usual fool-proof sweet-talk would be lost on her. Not that he’d admit it to anyone but she was also mildly terrifying at times and Astarion honestly much preferred not having his spine snapped in two.
Karlach was very much the ideal kind of protector. Large, strong, and with a naivety that made it almost childs play to manipulate her to his causes. Exploit that gentle soul of hers for all that it’s worse while getting thrown about in her muscular embrace as an added bonus. But the biggest problem was that he couldn’t touch her. Her infernal engine was far too much a road block in his plan. There was no possible way he could even enact his plans without exploiting physical intimacy and sex.
So that left their leader, Cicero. The half-elf that was an odd combination of a pirate and a devout cleric. Roguish yet incredibly outgoing and friendly, an unlawful delinquent of society with the morals of a holy man. Always eager to try his best to help those in suffering and need one moment and the next his light fingers sneakily rummaging in the pocket of a rich noble or rude passer-by. Always willing to take the brunt of others pain instead of them yet also quick to resort to violence, fighting and even murder in some cases when he deemed it necessary.
Yes… Cicero was perfect to use. Another powerful cleric with a charismatic smile that could persuade anyone to his cause. And on top of that, he was their leader. Who better to have on his side than the very one responsible for all their survival. Staunchly protective and eager to help them in anyway he can.
Step 2: Seduce said target.
That was easy. Instinctive, even. All he had to do was get that boy pining over him.
It would be a lie not to acknowledge that he was already subconsciously doing this with Cicero. Albeit on a lesser scale than what he had planned to do now. How could he not playfully flirt with him? He was an absurdly gorgeous man. It had been a while since he had gone out of his way to flirt and seduce more physically beautiful people and it certainly helped. But now his efforts were to be amplified, he had to convince him to be on his side. He was an extraordinarily emotional man, who wore his heart on his sleeve without any shame. That was good, it meant he was the perfect specimen to manipulate.
And he was going to do it easily.
Somehow.
…He hadn’t yet decided on exact parameters on that.
Details weren’t to his strength admittedly, though with experience like his, it wasn’t as if such intricacies really needed to be pre-prepared. Though, of course, his usual motions of seduction would have to be adapted somewhat, given that a local tavern with loud music wasn’t exactly to hand. Yet the large crate of alcohol they had acquired from stealing could still necessitate the drunken state he often influenced them into. The alcohol clouding their mind just enough. When they were intoxicated it dulled their decision making just enough to easily influence them to follow him home. Lavishing upon them great promises of the pleasures he was going to give them in return for their company that evening. Sealing their fate with a passionate kiss, hands reaching to caress reddening cheeks of flustered inebriation. All the while in his mind planning, timing how long they had in their embrace before the sound of heels against marbled flooring got closer and closer to the boudoir.
It wasn’t a proud method. One that he tried desperately to avoid doing for the first 15 years of his enslavement. But when his results were feeble, lesser in numbers than what they should’ve been in comparison to his siblings, and the threat of punishment loomed over his head he had no other choice. Drink was a powerful tool in his arsenal, both in loosening inhibitions to seduce better and to make the process easier for everyone.
So that’s what he was going to do again. And the recent revelation of his vampirism, and the way Cicero defended him to the rest of the party was something he could use to his advantage. Somehow.
Step 3: Sleep with him.
Firstly, he needed to find an intimate piece of nowhere to take him to do. Camp wouldn’t do no… it needed to be somewhere they could fully indulge in each others bodies. Somewhere that the half-elf could moan and scream to his pretty hearts content. Perhaps the forest clearing had a perfect little private spot. Then, once there, they would have sex.
He knew that dance better than anyone else. The most effective forms of physical touch to have one yearn and keen for more, the carefully procured words of desire to have someone compliant and moaning ceaselessly all evening beneath or above him. Gifting them the blissful agony of rapture with his expert tongue. Every word was a lie, crafted up like a well-rehearsed speech. Soft hums, moans and whines of pleasure he performed to give the illusion of the most mind-blowing sex he had ever experienced. Honeyed compliments spilling from his lips, a flurry of comments like “you’re the best I’ve ever had darling” and “you’re doing such a good job” whispered in their ear as their bodies moved together, connected as one.
Did he lay it on thick to get better results, or was it a subconscious effort to give them one last moment of happiness before the horrific death that was about to face them? He couldn’t say for sure anymore.
And he could do it all with his eyes closed, with his mind absent, his body moving on instinct without any need to pilot it himself. Sex was transactional just like every other time he had done it. Now was no different.
Once he had Cicero’s trust that would mean only one thing. A guaranteed protector to defend him against threat. If that meant using his body, his charms and his repertoire of ruin then that was what he was doing to do. If he meant he had a protector against Cazador or his followers, then it was worth it. Far more so than a disease-addled rat was.
A snap of a twig beside him brought him from his internal plotting. Acting upon a natural instinct, his hand reached for his dagger and he whipped around to face the intruder, the weapon held in front of him, his own teeth bared like a predators. But it wasn’t Cazador before him, nor was it anyone else that posed any threat to the camp itself.
It was Cicero, eyebrows raised in a shocked expression as his eyes dashed between the blade pointed mere inches away from his throat then to Astarion’s face.
The vampires face softened slightly now that he was no longer in danger. “Cicero.”
With a smirk Cicero raised his arms, surrendering before him playfully. “We should really stop meeting like this.”
Cute.
Astarion tilted his face with a smirk of his own, stashing away the weapon back into its holster. “I’d apologise darling but I was just doing my job, very efficiently if may I add.”
“Oh no of course. But I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”
He was far too nice for his own good. This was going to be so easy.
Astarion looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I could stand to hear more praise from your lips pet. I do deserve it.”
Cicero looked away with a shy smile, acting so teasingly coy as he waved his hand in front of him.
“Flatterer. You’ll start making me feel special soon.”
He was cautious not to lay it on too thick yet, but he couldn’t resist some more harmless flirting. After all… something about doing it with Cicero was… dare he say, fun? Reminiscent almost of times he no longer remembered, when his skin emanated out a natural warmth it no longer did and his eyes bore a much different colour he recalled no more.
“I don’t already? Oh dear… seems my efforts will have to be doubled won’t they?”
“Lucky me.” He laughed slightly, swaying on the balls of his feet before gesturing to the patch of grass next to him. “Is this seat taken?”
Astarion shook his head. This could be the perfect opportunity to begin planting the seeds of his plan. He could utilise this opportunity and milk it for all its worth.
He gifted him one his signature smirks, patting the ground beside him, as he maintained eye contact. “I’d love nothing more than your company. Come, join me.”
Cicero sat down beside him, resting one arm upon his knee as the other lay on the grass behind Astarion. The vampire examining his every movement, noting the way his body language relaxed in his presence. Good. But despite that, Astarion noticed that Cicero was quick to avoid making prolonged eye contact with him. Interesting, given that he had noticed the half-elf had no problem doing so with the others. It seemed it was just Astarion that he was somewhat shy around.
Perhaps he could use this piece of insight to his advantage. He picked all of his next words carefully.
“So… I saw you sparring earlier with our resident Githyanki.” Astarion said softly, smirking when Cicero looked back up at him. “Who won your little tussle?”
“Oh her hands down.” Cicero answered earnestly, grinning widely as he did. “I’d like to say I was overpowering her at one point, but she has way more strength than me.”
“You seemed like you were enjoying yourself. Can’t say I would personally, I try to avoid any potential outcome where I’m on the end of her fury.”
Cicero smiled. “Yeah she’s really fun to fight with. I think everyone haven’t really took the chance to understand and get to know her. I can tell she’s got a softness inside she tries to hide. Though that being said…”
He then turned his head to show off a dark contusion just below his blind eye. A deep contrast to the cloudy white film over his eye, yet the colour of it almost blending in the wave-like tattoo sprawled down the side of his face, from his neck, to his eye before finally disappearing up into his hairline. Pointing to it with the giddy delight of a child. “I mean look at this shit! This was her holding back and she still kicked my arse! I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t in awe of her skills.”
Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Can’t you heal that?”
Cicero moved his head so he could see Astarion with his good eye once again. “Yeah I can. But I like having battle scars and fight wounds, even if it’s just a temporary bruise. It’s like a sign of strength you know? They make for interesting stories.”
He couldn’t disagree with the sentiment more. Astarion hated his. He had no idea what they even looked like but he despised them. They were a sign of his cruel humiliation, his pathetic enslavement, not of strength.
“Could never have guessed.” Astarion eyes scanned Cicero’s body, noting every patch of his skin that was decorated in a variety of scars and burns. Some overlapping over others, an assortment of pinkish lacerations from differing weapon types displayed proudly across his skin like individual personal medallions of his survival. Stretching across his body with veined marble patterns, almost completely covered up by scars alone. Even his face bore the a large mark across his right cheek like flesh had been ripped away, leaving behind jagged lines in its wake. Not to mention the most obvious eye injury with permanently damaged eyesight.
Though… now his mind only began to wander on how heavily scarred the rest of his body was, beneath the layers of clothing.
“I’d love to see all of them.” Astarion purrs his voice purposely, making a show of slightly biting at his lip and lowering his eyes.
Annoyingly, Cicero didn’t even notice his performed seduction techniques, too busy observing one of the scars on his arm instead. “Oh I can’t show you them all, unless you want me naked.”
Astarion pursed his lips and turned away, ready to use this moment to find out where exactly Cicero’s loyalties lay. If he had been pursuing any of the others and if so, how he could steal him away from them. How he could show him a world of heightened ecstasy until he could think of nothing else but the vampire.
“So… I can only assume you and Lae’Zel have bared your battle scars to each other in all their glory.”
The insinuation was obviously lost on Cicero. “What do you mean?” He asked with a perplexed frown spread across his face.
Astarion rolled his eyes. It was a genuine wonder how someone so adept at being a leader, someone so wise and capable, could be so dense sometimes.
“Have you not spent the night together? As I said earlier, the pair of you seemed rather close.”
Cicero’s eyes widened almost comically as he understood what exactly Astarion was hinting at. Spluttering over himself and sitting upright to clear himself of the accusation.
“What Lae’Zel? Me and her as in…? Oh no, you’re kidding right? I think she’d literally break me in half if this bruise from a light tap is anything to go by. Gods knows what she’s like in bed, I pity any of her lovers.” Cicero laughed before leaning back again. “No but in all seriousness she’s great. I love how unintentionally hilarious she is. But there’s nothing between us like that.”
That’s a relief.
“Ahh of course, forgive me. It’s none of my business of course I wouldn’t want to intrude…” Astarion gave him a little side smirk. “Watch maybe… but never intrude!”
Cicero looks at him and smirks as he lightly nudges Astarion’s shoulder. “Degenerate. Though… it wouldn’t be intruding if you were invited in the first place.”
Astarion laughed. “How brazen of you! And here I thought I was the cheeky one.”
Cicero chuckles to himself before shaking his head. “But to clarify, no, I don’t see her in that way.”
So blissfully unaware, so perfectly naive, so painfully trusting.
Astarion rests his chin against an open palm, facing towards Cicero. “I must say I’m surprised you’re awake at this hour. I thought you were fast asleep like the others.”
Cicero shrugged before mumbling slightly. “Couldn’t sleep. Or well, I guess it’s more accurate to say that my dream interrupted my sleep.”
“Oh?” Astarion laughs quietly, gazing at him with lidded eyes. “Come Darling~ indulge me in your naughty little dreams.”
Cicero laughed back in response, shaking his head. “Nothing like that I assure you. It was that… dream figure again. This time praising me for using the tadpole we found on that true soul believer.”
“Ah yes. The one you refused to let me eat. I remember quite fondly. Quite greedy of you.” Astarion joked but was not met with the usual chuckle from the half-elf. He turned his face and noticed that Cicero all of a sudden bore a rather serious looking expression. As he looked up at the night sky, his brow furrowed slightly, jaw tensing unconsciously as his mind appeared to be lost in a different realm entirely.
“I’m not sure now whether we should trust them.”
“What, why?” Astarion frowned. “They’re offering us power and you’d want to throw it back in their face? That seems like a rather stupid decision if you ask me. Here I thought you were smarter than this.”
Cicero shook his head in clear disagreement.
“Maybe I’d be more inclined to believe them if my dream figure wasn’t wearing the mask of someone I was once… close to. Someone I once revered, idolised after. Wanted nothing more than to make him proud of me.” Cicero stopped momentarily, catching himself like he just revealed something he shouldn’t have, taking another deep breath before whispering out the rest, more to himself than to Astarion. Wrapping his arms around his knees.
“Someone who wants nothing to do with me anymore.”
Astarion couldn’t help wonder what exactly had him so worked up. The tadpoles were a blessing, they were the very reason for his freedom. Without it, he would still be stuck in the kennels, slobbering over rotten scraps of rat flesh between his teeth, chained by the collar around his neck as he accepted the “meal”. If consuming more of these tadpoles meant that his powers only grew stronger, that he became more formidable, more capable at survival, than so be it. He would be a fool to turn them down, even when the others all expressed clear disinterest with painful sheep-like following. But that wasn’t going to make him compromise on his stance.
Besides, his dream guardian was nobody he knew. Nobody he remembered. Nobody he even cared for. Just the form of a random, attractive tiefling that really didn’t have to try hard to get him on board with even trying the mindflayer worms. Not when Astarion all but searched for them anyway.
Astarion scoffed slightly. “Who cares if their motives are corrupt? If it means I get more powerful than so be it. I see no tentacles sprouting, so it’s a complete success in my eyes. You’d be an utter fool to deny it.”
Cicero stared strangely at Astarion and the vampire shifted slightly as he tried to read that rather enigmatic look he was giving him. But one thing was clear enough in that expression he was giving him that Astarion could decipher. He clearly disapproved of that comment. The silence between them palpable and deafening.
Astarion hated silence.
But Cicero broke it first when he let out a big exhale. “Well I can’t stop you, if that’s what you decide to do with yourself.” He shrugged again and returns his gaze to the starry void above them. “I just think we should all be more cautious about accepting such tempting offers. Especially you.”
“Especially me?”
“Well I…” Cicero swallowed, his voice low and shaky. “I… don’t want to see you get hurt anymore.”
Oh.
Astarion felt an unfamiliar sensation crawl up his stomach and curl in his chest. Yet he pays no mind to it, to preoccupied with other more pressing thoughts instead.
He knows this is the perfect moment to strike. He knows that this genuine display of vulnerability was exactly what should exploited for his plan. He knows he should make the move, lean in and kiss those rather beautiful looking lips of his with the passion he had perfected. He should call him the beautiful names that had anyone swoon and blush with a vengeance. Use every moment to his advantage.
But instead, Astarion’s vocal proficiency, his mastery of deception and lustful exploitation Is all but missing. He can’t even speak those words.
But… But this was all just a moment of weakness. Yes. Like one of those rare moments in which his usual mask slipped when preying on the type of victims that were kind-hearted fools. The ones that hurt the most, the ones he tried to avoid at all costs until he was left with no other choice but the lonely soul desperate for affection, to be chosen by someone for once in their life. The only reason he was having such hestitation was because Cicero reminded him of so many of those innocents. If he just gave himself a few moments to recollect and to remind himself of what exactly he was set out to do, then he could continue his plan smoothly. Execute everything as intended.
And that was when Cicero, completely unaware of the turmoil inside the vampires mind, continued to make the situation even more difficult.
“Which erm… I guess is a good point to mention something else I wanted to get off my chest.” Cicero shifted his body to face Astarion more forward than before. Taking a deep breath, blinking rapidly for a moment as nerves suddenly appear to take over every fibre of his being.
“You know… I did want to apologise for my outburst with the whole… vampire debacle.”
The half-elf sheepishly looked away. Fingertips now unconsciously playing with the short blades of grass beneath his hands. Astarion continued to watch, slightly took aback my the change in his demeanour, the ashamed look in his
“Are you referring to the punch I received once I so kindly resurrected you?”
He nodded. “I… sometimes my anger takes a hold of me in the moment and I just see red mist and nothing else. Sometimes I don’t even realise I’m doing it until the damage is done. Since turning to Ilmater, I’ve tried desperately to try and improve that behaviour, but it’s hard to change old habits you know?”
He certainly did know. More than anyone else.
“Anyway.” Cicero continued. “I feel bad about hurting you. Especially when I realise it’s something you can’t control. I know you didn’t mean to get carried away. From what you’ve told me it’s not like you decided to choose this life willingly. I can only imagine how difficult that’s been.”
Astarion stills. Completely at a loss upon hearing such a comment. No one in 200 years had ever expressed anything like this for his well-being. No one cared, no one said a damn kind word or shared a shred of decency towards him. He was only used. Used to lure victims back, to seduce, to make every single target feel like they were the most special mortal in existence from his grand gestures.
And Astarion is almost furious. Positivity livid at the prospect of someone playing his own game. Disgusted that he can feel himself somewhat fall prey to the very same tactics that he utilised himself. He must be trying to manipulate him back, he concludes. This was all a ruse to get Astarion to lower his guard so that he could use him. That was it. That was his plan.
But then he smiles at him so earnestly and it doesn’t feel like that. The half-elf isn’t intelligent enough to devise a devious plan like his own. So Astarion is left even more at a loss at his words. Why he said such a thing. Why his body aches.
With an uncomfortably dry mouth and an even more uncomfortable pressure inside his chest, he just about manages to successively fake nonchalance to everything said. Putting on an easy smile, brushing off the deep-rooted emotions that threatened to stir and make their unwanted appearance.
“Well, I appreciate the sentiment my dear. To be truthful I suppose I may have deserved it after all-”
“No.” Cicero insisted. “You didn’t. No one deserves that kind of outburst. I should never have lashed out like that. I’m sorry.”
Astarion stares back confused. What was this reaction? Why was he so genuinely upset? He did deserve it. He deserved the pain, he deserved the punishment, he deserved it all…
Didn’t he?
“Well I appreciate the sentiment. In the spirit of brutal honesty I suppose I can also confess something regarding your generosity in letting me feed from you.” Astarion cleared his throat and looked away to the side slightly, lowering his tone slightly. A sick feeling bubbling in his throat, all but choking out the words with an obvious waver of his voice that he tried so hard to stifle.
“You truthfully… were my first.”
“Oh shit.” Cicero looked away, biting his lower lip slightly before an exasperated laugh slipped free. “Well that makes me feel even worse.”
Shit.
“I didn’t say it with the intent to make you feel bad darling.” Astarion added, almost eagerly upon noting the disappointment across his face. “Really. It’s fine.”
Why did that bother him?
“That’s a relief. Just so you know. I… the whole vampire thing really doesn’t bother me.” Cicero says quietly, his hand playing with the small, messy ponytail at the back of his head. “But that does raise a question. How exactly will we feed you?”
“Oh don’t worry about me, after all, you all know my secret. I can use all my weapons now, teeth included. And if I occasionally drain the odd bandit what’s the harm? They’re just as good as dead.” A high-pitched laugh escaped him. Cicero smiled.
Cicero nods before furrowing his brow and lowering his voice “just so you know. I’m not opposed to the whole…feeding on me thing. I just want us to both agree to it without anymore midnight surprises.”
That genuinely took Astarion by surprise. “You’d let me drink from you again?”
Cicero nods. “I have spells to deal with the after effects of being bloodless I’m sure. Besides if it helps you be on top form, then I can’t see a problem with it.”
This was becoming remarkably easier than he had anticipated. Too easy. He was offering himself up like a platter. There absolutely must be more to this then that. Ulterior motives he hadn’t yet discovered.
“Well that sounds perfectly reasonable. How selfless of you, thinking of my needs like that.” Astarion narrows his eyes, examining the half-elf’s reaction to his next words. “I’m sure it’s not a pleasant sensation for you after all, my mouth brushing up against your skin, my fangs deep inside your neck.”
That was then Cicero’s composure let slip for just a brief moment. The slightest hitch in his breath before his shut his mouth all together. The subtle hint of embarrassment that flitted across his doe-like eyes before he broke eye contact almost as immediately as it passed. The shiver that violently ran along his spine, causing his fair hairs to stand on edge.
Oh… he had liked it.
And unfortunately for him, Astarion had noticed. And he was going to milk this information for everything it was worth.
“I… of course!” Cicero cleared his throat and plastered a wide grin across his face. No doubt trying to deflect his innermost secret from Astarion, a few seconds too late. Floundering around the subject with purposefully short sentences. “It was okay. I could handle it. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well don’t worry my dear, you have my word that I won’t bite unless you ask nicely.” Astarion leant forward, his eyes lowering to stare at the half-elfs plump mouth. His voice dropping an octave, became breathier, all but whispered out in the most salacious version he could muster.
“After all, I can be a very…very good boy when I want to be.”
There it was. The half-elf’s usual confidence all but shattered in the face of Astarion’s flirting. That expression, the way his breathing intensified, the heat that began to rise to his cheeks which painted them a lovely shade of red, completely hiding away light dotted freckles across his nose. All of it a tell-tale sign of arousal that every single past victim of his had unconsciously displayed within the bursting taverns before taking them home with him. It was delicious… and it was sickening.
“Is that so…?” Cicero breathed out, chest rising and falling, paralysed in the web of Astarion’s creation. “And here I thought you enjoyed being so… contrary with me.”
“Don’t sell me so short dear.” Astarion placed a hand to his chest with dramatic flair. “It seems as if I’ve not been very fair to you… Perhaps I ought to show you first-hand, just how loyal and obedient I can be to those who really deserve it.”
Cicero wetted his lips with his tongue. “Indulge me then, Astarion. How exactly will you do that?”
This was getting fun.
Astarion smirked, slinking ever closer, prowling towards the prey in his trap. Cooing gently. “I’ll make sure to come to your bedroll when you’re nicely snuggled up and settled in for the night. But not to worry… I shall be as quiet as a mouse so I dare not disturb your rest. I’ll be as gentle as a newborn babe, my hand settling on the back of your head to cushion against the hard ground. My tongue lapping lightly against the wound, not wasting a precious drop of your exquisite blood. I’ll try my utmost best not to softly moan as I drink this time, I promise.”
Cicero tries ever so hard to appear nonchalant in the face of Astarion’s flirting, but his heartbeat continued to betray him. The blood coursing through his body with abandon, more potent now more than ever under the vampires heightened senses as it continued to burn in his veins. No doubt rushing to areas he most likely wasn’t anticipating.
He had him right where he wanted him.
Astarion’s hand begins to slowly ghost its way up Cicero’s leg. His fingers now stroking small circles across his knee, applying just enough pressure to make the touch as pleasurable as possible. Noting the way Cicero’s body naturally moves towards him, wordlessly yearning for more. The vampire moves with ease, his arm resting behind Cicero, the half-elf still watching his movements with tensed up muscles of his own.
“Just enough to give me strength and just enough to leave you… begging… for more.” Astarion’s half-lidded gaze met Cicero’s wide one, a naughty little smile stretched across his own lips. “Would you like that, my darling? Would that please you?”
Cicero bowed his head slightly, muttering huskily as he subconsciously moved closer to Astarion, his hand brushing up against the elfs, perched upon the ground. “Of course I would…”
“Oh love you’re so kind to me. Why it’s enough to…” Astarion loudly hitched his breath. “Make someone fall to their knees before you… to worship you like you deserve…”
Astarion moves his face closer, now they’re just mere inches away from eachother. Cicero unable to pull his gaze away from Astarion’s own, his breathing heavy and Astarion can all but feel his warm breath against his own lips. Breaching the gap between them is just one move away. One more move, and their lips will finally meet. From then on out everything else would be simple, it would be routine and it would be exactly following his plan. To show him what it was to experience ecstasy by his talented hand, and in return he would gain a protector. A symbiotic relationship formed upon lies and deceit. It was what he knew best.
“I can do that for you… Give you everything you desire, and then some. I can do that.”
All he had to do now, was kiss him.
But then, just as he went to fulfil the next step in his itinerary, the unthinkable happened. Cicero pulled away from him at the last possible second.
“I- I think the others will get the wrong idea if they see us both awake at this time.” Cicero mumbled slightly, his red cheeks even more aflame as he started scurrying up to his feet. Standing up and brushing off any dirt that had settled upon his camp clothes, completely avoiding Astarion’s eye. Pretending as if they hadn’t been so close to kissing, as if the energy wasn’t palpable and obvious between them as he blushed furiously at the mere idea of being fed from again. Flustered beyond any semblance of the word. As if his heartbeat was racing at the thought of their shared kiss, like he wasn’t just as desperate for it as Astarion was.
“I’m going to go check on the supplies and get ready for the outing today. We still have that village to fully ransack before we even think about going to the Goblin camp.”
Sorry, what was happening right now? Astarion didn’t know what to say back to him. Rendered completely speechless by the events that were unfolding right now. Frozen in place, trapped in a confused, flabbergasted, state of shock at what had just happened.
He was denied. For the first time in his existence, he was rejected. He racked his brain, playing over everything that had just happened in the search of pinpointing where exactly it had gone wrong. He didn’t explicitly say anything to Cicero as he began eagerly scrambling away from Astarion’s touch. His sudden adverse reaction not remotely telling of what his actions had just incited and pursued. There was no possible way Astarion misread the situation, not with that look of wanton craving and need that Cicero was giving him less than 30 seconds ago. The way his eyes dropped to stare at Astarion lips telling of what singular thought was driving his mind.
Cicero began to walk off while Astarion was lost in thought, yet just as he disappeared from Astarion’s line of sight, he called his name once more.
“Astarion?”
Astarion wordlessly turned around to face Cicero, who gave him a weak smile in response. Hands clasping together anxiously that vastly opposed the attempt of a calm demeanour and smile he put on.
“Next time you want to feed, all you have to do is ask. That’s all. I don’t need persuading or… anything else like that, okay? Just ask me.”
What… what did that mean? Another wave of some unknown feeling washed over him again and he refused to acknowledge it. Even when it tried drowning him in it. A brief moment of prolonged eye contact occurred between them. Astarions breath catching in his throat upon meeting those eyes of his, a want to tell him… what exactly?
Instead Astarion nodded mutely in response and Cicero span on his heels and promptly left him alone again. His eyes trained upon a tree before him, his mind racing.
Frustration. Anger. Despondency. Resentment. A flurried torrent of negative emotions swirled around in his brain like a ship caught in a storm at sea. He was embarrassed, humiliated and downright horrified in himself that someone would even have the gall to not want him. Those last words of the lad continued to spiral around in his head like a fairground ride spinning round and round until he was left feeling nauseous and unsteady. Feeling like a small child again, unable to process the most simplest of emotions.
And yet, despite all of that, the most prevalent emotion was that he found himself to be experiencing was… relief? Though that wasn’t just it, no, there was something else stirring deep down in the pit of his stomach he couldn’t quite place. Something warm, something… soft, maybe. In the face of light rejection he was almost thankful for it. And the way Cicero smiled at him so honestly afterwards, the words in which he uttered towards him…it was nice. Maybe… maybe a tactic of sex wasn’t necessary after all…
No. Weakness. This was a weakness. This was a distraction, his body trying to prevent him from pursuing his usual tactics. Why? He didn’t know. Why it was so potent now more than ever before he didn’t know. The fleeting smile that threatened to spread across his lips was annihilated in a split second. This was the right course of action, and this was what needed to be done. Just like so many before.
The game was on, and Astarion was not one to be beaten. Cicero was his prey, and he was gods damned sure that he was going to get what he needed.
A protector.