professional em dash user

(tags: #oc jamie cross / #the bloodstained mage)

All About My OC + Addendum ⭐️

Amazing Jamie art by ineed-to-sleep! ⭐️

Jamie's Background (lore update) ⭐️

Jamie's Patron + Pact ⭐️

The Bloodstained Mage: Jamie as a Companion #1 and #2 / 5 🆕

Jamie's voice claims

Jamie's flaws and relationships with companions ⭐️

OC Info Dump

OC/Writing Playlists

Jamie's relationships with the gods

Character inspirations

20 Relationship Asks (Jamie/Astarion)

Jamie's Dream Visitor 🆕

Can Tav lift their partner?

Jamie's thoughts on fate

Long Rest (party camp behaviors) ⭐️

Jamie in a coffee shop AU

Astarion's extremely messy healing process ⭐️

Szarr "Family" Headcanons ⭐️

Difficult Dadstarion moments

If Astarion were transmasc

Astarion and body image

Astarion and resignation

Astarion and handwriting/language

Updated 27 May

Astarion pictures Cazador, though really it's more like the image of Him forces itself into his mind. The Master sits above him, straight-backed in His "throne" (it's a chair, gods damn it, it's just a big bloody chair), and His dark eyes narrow. He allows a mirthless chuckle to escape His lips. The points of His fangs catch on candlelight. He reaches for Astarion's exposed throat.

"No," Astarion growls aloud now.

Panic tightens in his chest, the world spinning even as he tries to tell himself there is no danger here. There is no threat here. There is no Cazador here. Just trees and darkness and shame, boiling under the surface. Ten seconds alone and he's talking to himself like some loon all over some memory.

Astarion closes his eyes. He does not want Cazador to see him, now or ever again.

And he certainly doesn't want to pleasure anyone anymore, either. Perhaps it's for the best that Jamie decided not to come after all. The small amount of interest he might have had has vanished. Now he just feels ill.

He pushes himself off the tree with more vigor than he anticipated and stumbles forward. He feels his cheeks warm—what a stupid use of blood, surely this body has better things to do with it than blush in pitch-black darkness—as he rights himself and glances around for his shirt. He remembers folding it, remembers re-folding it when the first attempt left a wrinkle, but he doesn't remember setting it down. Hells, has he any sense at all?

A branch snaps, jerking him from his search and his terrible, terrible thoughts.

Jamie.

Astarion can't see them from where he's lurking behind this tree like a damned creature, but he can hear their leisurely gait drawing nearer. More than that, he can smell them: the iron and the salt on their skin, the tobacco and silkroot on their breath. They're close. He should have sensed them ages ago.

He's gotten sloppy, then. Distractible. The old Astarion knew better. He'd never have let his guard down or lost himself in thought. Cazador would—

(stop it, shut up shut up shut up)

This won't do. Jamie expects a night of passion with a sensual, capable vampire, yet Astarion's staggering around in the dirt reliving the very tortures and torments he's trying to protect himself against with this arrangement. He probably can't sneak away now without their noticing, either. He'll need to steady himself and commit.

He can do that. Of course he can. He's been doing it every night since Jamie Cross's ancestors came into this world screaming.

Astarion draws a quick breath, reminding this body that it follows his will now, and straightens his spine. Squares his shoulders. Sets his smirk just so. The anxiety rattling in his chest dulls itself to that ignorable churn as he assumes the proper position. The nausea recedes, or he at least pays it less mind. Yes, his mind need not get involved at all. The body knows what to do.

The environment is nearly perfect for it. An idyllic moonbeam graces a small clearing, and Astarion has it on good authority that moonlight suits his skin beautifully. The only issue is this pitiable, bedraggled tree he's beginning to hate.

Without thinking, he pulls a dagger from his pocket and plunges it into the trunk.

He blinks, surprised. This body is decisive, even when Astarion is not.

He scoffs as he yanks the blade back out. The scar it leaves behind is so jagged, so ugly and permanent and weeping thick sap that he stabs the blade right back in again to fill it. He won't miss the dagger. He's got plenty back at camp, plus another hidden in his waistband. He's no idiot.

Astarion slips through the darkness closer to the clearing and comes to a stop beside a much stronger, fuller fir. When he touches it, its bark does not crumble or fall away. Better.

A shadow stretches across the path, and he looks up.

Jamie's strolling along with the open, pleasant expression they always wear. Astarion knows by now that Jamie always looks at the world like they're seeing it anew.

They gaze around the trees, curious but in no great hurry, then frown as they approach the tree Astarion stabbed. He feels an odd twinge of shame and annoyance as Jamie slides the knife from the tree and rubs the hole with a slender finger, as if to soothe it. They mutter something, and a small beam of cool light shines from their fingertip into the wound. What are they, some bleeding-heart druid?

Gods below. Astarion will not simply stand here while Jamie wastes magic and moonlight knitting together this wretched tree, this broken runt of a thing.

He saunters directly into the streak of light with his hand still firmly on the proud fir, grounding him.

"There you are," he purrs.

Jamie startles, but only barely. They slide their hands back into the pockets of the too-large trousers they're attempting to wear (which Astarion would bet a small amount of gold belong to Gale) and give him a crooked grin.

"I like this whole thing you got going on," they say. "Dark forest, big moon, popping out of the treeline. Very vampire of you."

He offers them a single soft chuckle. "It does suit the mood, doesn't it? My, but you took your time."

Jamie shrugs and raises their brows just enough to be playful without committing to it. "Had stuff to do," they say lightly. "Karlachs to plan with, Gales to listen to. You know how it is."

Astarion purses his lips into a pout. "And all the while, I've been waiting. I've been waiting since the moment I set eyes on you."

He pauses for effect, letting the words take shape as he drags his gaze carefully over their body. He knows he must look lustful, not hungry; he should want, but never need.

"Waiting to have you."

The scene plays out in Astarion's head: Jamie will either relent and let him kiss them, or they'll keep acting coy until he delivers another line. He takes a step forward in case it's the former.

Jamie pauses. It'll be the latter, then.

What will they say? Perhaps and what will you do now that you have me? or, the favorite among marks who apparently wanted proof he was working hard enough, you don't have me yet.

"Since the knife thing?" Jamie says instead.

"Don't I— ah. What?" Astarion loses the low tone as his brain stutters. This was not on the list of responses he expected.

Jamie shrugs one shoulder like it's not even worth the effort of employing both.

"On the beach," they explain. "You've been thinking about having sex in the woods since you tried to hold me at knifepoint?"

Astarion scoffs. "I did hold you at knifepoint, actually. I didn't simply 'try.' Must you take everything so literally?"

They tilt their head and let a lock of hair fall into their face, blocking his view of their silver eye. The corner of their mouth quirks upwards.

"You said 'since the moment you saw me'. Which was a moment when you thought I was working for mind flayers and tried to knife me." They say it matter-of-factly, like they aren't particularly bothered by this.

"What can I say, lover? I misjudged you. I felt your body beneath mine that day and have thought of it ceaselessly ever since. I'm glad I let you live."

Jamie whistles and shifts their weight to one hip. "Oh yeah? Alright, carry on."

"I will, thank you." Astarion clears his throat and prepares to pull this whole affair back on track, to recite something about how Jamie's here and he doesn't think they want to talk, but stops short again and frowns. "Wait, 'carry on?' What do you mean 'carry on'?"

He feels himself slouching, drawing in his shoulders on instinct. Cazador always hated that.

Jamie does not appear to feel the same way. Their grin widens, chapped lips and blunt teeth on display. Astarion is no longer certain whether he will kiss that mouth or punch it before this night is over.

"I mean, looks like you've planned a whole thing out, so, y'know. Carry on with it," Jamie says. "You're doing good." They have the absolute audacity to nod encouragingly.

Astarion has never had a particularly powerful punch. He reminds himself of that twice over as Jamie just stands there and smiles.

Though, to be fair, he's also never thrown one whilst full of fox blood.

(No, no. Behave, little rat. Play along.)

"I've imagined it time and time again," he tries. His voice comes louder than he intended. "The way your body fit against mine. The way your skin felt, pressed to my own. I'd rather like to recreate the experience, and more besides. No knives necessary. Unless you'd want them, of course? Nothing wrong with a little swordplay."

Jamie bounces on their heels once, their ears perked up. They resemble the smallest of the foxes Astarion encountered earlier, which is a bizarre thought, but it strikes him all the same.

"What do you want?" they ask.

Finally, they've returned to the script with a question he can answer.

"What do any of us want?" Astarion stands taller and steps forward again, close enough now that he can feel the heat of Jamie's blood-warm body. "Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy."

He reaches for them slowly; one must be sensually dangerous, but never so threatening that the target retreats. He drags a finger over their jawline and towards the vein in their neck. Their skin is surprisingly soft. When their hair grazes his knuckles, it's silkier than he'd expected. There's something oddly enticing, too, about their expression: soft, intrigued, almost blithe. There's a haze to it that he recognizes as lingering silkroot. Still, they don't yield to his performance like all the rest, don't throw themself at him or plead or demand.

Nor do they rebuff him. No one ever does.

Astarion leans in, giving them time to resist, to push back if they must, but they don't. Of course not. He hears their heartbeat quicken as he brings his lips near theirs, the busy organ pumping that divine blood through their body, faster and harder, all for him. A greeting, a welcome; an invitation, an offering. A feast.

Will their lips taste of blood, he wonders?

"I think you want to be known," Astarion says. His gaze is locked onto their mouth. "To be tasted."

He does taste them, then. He presses a kiss to Jamie's lips and tastes the iron flavor of them, feels their breath on his tongue. He's vaguely aware of them rising to stand on their toes, bringing a gentle hand around his shoulder for balance or intimacy or, oh hells, who cares? He's too distracted by their taste. Like they've worn blood as lipstick, drenched themself in it. What a sight that would be. He fantasizes about smearing blood on their lips and kissing them, licking them, biting them.

It's all he can do to resist sinking his teeth in here and now. He could. He could split them open and lap up whatever drops spring forth into his mouth, his poor mouth that went for so long with nothing approximating decent sustenance and is now pressed against a meal made of literal magic.

But resist he does, partly because he must and partly because Jamie pulls away.

This, too, is off-script. Has he done something wrong? Their lips remain dry and unbroken, he confirms through a cloudy, red-tinged daze. He didn't bite. He didn't touch them anywhere people get fussy about. What has he done to change their mind?

What has he done?

"This is what you want, isn't it? To lose yourself in me?" he asks. He bows his head. (Show deference. Show openness. Show submission. Oh yes, a spawn must know his place.)

What Jamie should do now is nod, or press themself against him and kiss him harder, or just fling off that tattered shirt and stand still if they'd rather leave the flirtation and fantasy fully to him. Astarion can carry them both through the proper motions if Jamie will let him.

What Jamie should do and what Jamie does do, unfortunately, are quite far apart indeed.

"Maybe later," they say with a shrug, "if you're into it."

"Darling, would I have invited you here tonight if I weren't?"

Jamie takes a small step back. It's not a fearful one. Astarion knows what fear looks like, smells like, and this is not that. Their heart races, their pupils have dilated, they've uncrossed their arms. They want him. They want him, so why will they not take him?

"You said you just wanted to pay me back, somehow, for the monster hunter thing," they point out. Jamie is not often serious, but the breeziness in their voice has faded a bit.

Astarion scoffs. "I told you that was just an excuse," he says. "I assured you there was nothing on my mind but depraved carnal lust."

"You did say all that, yeah." Jamie drops their weight to one hip and kicks absently at a twig. "But I think you say a lot of things you don't mean."

How can one person be so gods-damned infuriating?

It's easy—Jamie's role here is so easy! All they have to do is fall for it! Flirt, touch, kiss, grab, let him do what he was made to do, and then move on. He cannot fathom how they do not understand this. Are they simple? Are they trying to disarm him? Do they simply wish to be pursued?

Ah, there's a thought. Astarion has met people who desired to be chased, wanted to be wanted. Pathetic, really, but Astarion is in fact a predator. If Jamie wants to play at being prey, so be it. They're not far off.

He plasters on a perfect, sultry smirk.

"Oh, you sweet thing. Let's say what we really mean, then," he says, leaning in. "I'm growing to like you, Jamie, and I know what you think of me. I could feel it when I was getting lost in your veins that night. Your little shakes of excitement. You enjoyed it. I'm craving you again, and I want more than your delicious blood this evening. You want it, too. There's no shame in our wanting."

Ugh, he's laying it on thick tonight. He's also lying through his teeth. Wanting is a vampire's most shameful sin. Gods, please let Jamie be as dumb as they look.

Jamie rubs at their lower lip, but they don't look away. They're thinking, processing, letting Astarion's plea words sink in through the silkroot.

A beat.

Another.

Then—

"So you're telling me you wouldn't rather put your shirt back on and, like, go for a walk with me?"

It's Astarion who looks elsewhere. He hardly chooses to do it; his head turns almost on its own. Like he's been slapped. Like he can't stand to see them.

Jamie doesn't move, doesn't probe or push. They just wait. He can feel their eyes on him even though he's making a great effort to avoid feeling anything at all. He's intimately familiar with the sensation of people's eyes crawling over him like bugs, desperate for a taste.

"Not once in my entire existence has someone asked me to put my shirt on," Astarion says at last.

Jamie laughs. It's high and effortless, and Astarion can only manage to feel somewhat slighted by it.

"I'll bet," they say with an oddly sage nod. Then they jerk their chin towards the path. "There's a shortcut over there that'll take us back to the shore near the crash. I been wondering what's on the other side. Looks calm from what I can tell. Lots of weird mushrooms on the way, too."

"I'm sure you intend to make off with as many of them as you can stuff in your pockets," Astarion snipes.

"Gale's pockets," Jamie corrects him. They wink a bloodshot eye and slap their thigh with a flat palm, turning slightly to the side. "Grabbed these bad boys right off the drying line when he passed out. I think they look better on me."

"I rather agree," Astarion says graciously, but he doesn't. The trousers suit the wizard well but hang too low on Jamie's hips. "Though they'd look better still on the forest floor."

He's aware he's being pushy. He's been kicked out of the Elfsong for less persistence than this, relegated to the flophouse where nobody punishes pushiness. Jamie doesn't reply, though. They're already heading towards their shortcut to the shore.

A less patient vampire would cut his losses here, he thinks as they go. He could do that. He could saunter back to camp, feign sleep, and set his sights on someone else come dawn. Jamie's the key member of this party, but they're not the only person around.

Take Karlach, for example. She's fun, she's protective, and she and Jamie are inseparable. If Astarion earned her affections, Jamie would see fit to keep him safe forevermore. But Karlach cannot be touched or tasted, and these are the only senses a sinner has left.

Astarion reaches for his shirt, wrinkled despite his best efforts, and pulls it around his shoulders. Stands there. Stands there longer. Jamie strides onward towards the shore, their silhouette shrinking and their scent fading.

The shore, Astarion realizes all at once—Jamie's leading him to a beach! It all makes sense now. Sex on beaches is the pinnacle of dull mortal fantasies. It's not one he's been able to deliver, and the idea of sand (and all the unsavory places it could lodge itself) doesn't appeal to him, but at least it will be something new.

So be it.

He leaves the shirt unbuttoned for easy access and jogs to catch up. Jamie walks on—or, rather, meanders. Wanders. Drifts. It takes Astarion only a second to fall wordlessly into step behind them.

Jamie doesn't acknowledge him. He's lagging by a few paces, but close enough to catch them humming a song he sort-of recognizes. They start, then stop, then start again, painfully off-key each time.

Watching Jamie is exhausting. This half-elf is a creature of constant motion. They can't keep a steady pace, slowing down and speeding up with no apparent reason, veering off-course to snag mushrooms growing off the path, licking one and stuffing another into their pack. They tilt their head from side to side as they go, glancing at... at what? The tree branches blocking out the stars? The bugs? The dirt?

It's like they don't even know Astarion is here, like they don't care whether he follows or not.

His thoughts float towards Wyll. Wyll always knows when Astarion is around. He seems to know when Astarion is even thinking about being around. The lad's got his head on a swivel. A good quality when it's not pointed against Astarion. Wyll is also handsome. Kind, princely, capable. But he's a monster hunter, and a traditional type, too. Courting Wyll would require a long game that Astarion does not have time to play.

Gale? Please. If Astarion must offer himself to someone in this camp, he'll make damn sure it's at least someone fun.

Getting to know Shadowheart has been surprisingly enjoyable—though "know" is a stretch. The girl knows nothing about herself yet still manages to take herself too seriously. Astarion is certain she would sleep with him if he flattered her, made her feel special and unique, but she and Jamie are at each other's throats. Her protection would mean nothing.

Then there's the gith.

He nearly laughs aloud.

Jamie is the best option and indeed the only option. They are also the most profoundly irritating option, which says a lot when Gale of bloody Waterdeep is one of them.

Snap.

It's not a twig this time but Jamie's fingers. They've cast a cantrip to illuminate the path.

"Sorry," they say. To him, he realizes. "I dunno if this is too bright for your vamp-vision."

"You may have noticed that I've walked in the sun all day with no problem," Astarion says, squinting. "Your little spell won't do me in."

Jamie wiggles their fingers again. The light dims to about half its initial power, and Astarion's eyelids relax. Oh.

Apparently satisfied, Jamie hops onto a fallen log and attempts to balance across it. They wobble and nearly fall three separate times before they lose their footing entirely and careen into a half-dead berry bush.

"You didn't see that," Jamie warns as they stand, brushing leaves off Gale's trousers.

"I'm afraid I did," Astarion says. A smirk appears on his lips without his explicit permission. "How could I have missed you bumbling about under all this light?"

Jamie puts a hand on their narrow hip and rolls their shoulders. They look the very picture of an indignant urchin, complete with dirt on their face and burrs on their breeches. "You think you could do better?"

Astarion surprises himself by chuckling. "Do you really need to ask? I'm a vampire and a rogue to boot. That is child's play."

"Show me, then, O Master of Dexterity." Jamie gestures grandly towards the log and pops a berry into their mouth. Astarion hopes it's a raspberry or another supposedly edible sort, for their sake.

He considers declining. To balance himself on a log, really? The challenge is beneath him. He has nothing to prove. But if this is all Jamie asks of him, it'd be nonsense not to play along.

"Prepare to be amazed," he says in the driest voice he can.

Astarion feels, quite honestly, silly as he steps up onto the log. He's hardly off the ground at all but Jamie's looking up at him like's done a trick. He probably could pull off some feat if he tried. He's kept his balance for much longer and in much more precarious positions than this.

He's trying not to think about some of those positions, trying harder not to think about the aches and pains and bruises many of them left behind, when suddenly Jamie's bare foot darts out and kicks the log.

Hard.

Astarion stumbles—okay, yes, ha-ha, his balance is compromised. While he doesn't fall nearly as gracelessly as they did, gods no, he does let out an undignified yelp. His arms fly out in search of something to grab, to steady him, and he finds...

Jamie. They've reached out a hand to him. And he's taken it.

"Gotcha." They shoot him a grin he can only describe as "shit-eating."

"You little cheat!"

"Yep." Jamie pops the p and pulls him in, gentle as anything, so he's on flat ground beside them. So he's mere inches from their body.

"You was talking such big game, but never even checked to see if somebody was waiting to trip you."

"I didn't think I needed to! I hadn't realized my favorite traveling companion was such a treacherous sneak!"

Jamie actually chks in an uncanny impression of Lae'zel, but the judgmental effect is lost because unlike Lae'zel, Jamie's grinning ear to ear. Plainly proud of themself, they start down the path without another thought. They're still holding onto his hand, he realizes, or maybe he's holding onto theirs. He considers pulling away as he walks beside them, but he doesn't, and Jamie gives no indication that they want him to.

"Gotta stay on your toes around people like me," they say suddenly.

"How ominous. You'll have to be more specific, my friend. 'Like you' could mean many things."

Jamie shrugs twice. "What's it mean to you?"

It's a fair question. The trouble is Astarion has never met someone quite like Jamie. Well, obviously he's met half-humans and warlocks and odd people with boring fantasies. But there's something in Jamie that he hasn't seen in the brothel-goers or criminals of the Gate.

Jamie isn't asking for his honest assessment of them, though. Hardly anyone would survive Astarion's true evaluation of their character. No, they're leading him into some petty flattery, which he is, if not happy, certainly qualified to provide.

"Strong," he purrs finally. "Stronger than I gave you credit for."

"Really."

Astarion digs in. "Just look at you! You've been to the hells and back, and survived everything since the crash. You've kept our group alive, relatively. You slaughter goblins more efficiently than anyone besides yours truly. You're quick, you're clever, and your magic is simply delicious, if I may say so."

Jamie clicks their tongue. "Damn, you're good, huh? That might actually work on some people."

Forget punching Jamie. Astarion may kill Jamie before dawn.

He pulls away from them. It doesn't seem appropriate to hold hands like schoolchildren whilst daydreaming about draining the bastard dry.

Hmm. But the party would not take kindly to his putting their leader in the dirt.

Also. As pleasurable as murder can be, there is the simple truth that Jamie would give him a run for his money in a fight. Astarion will be damned if he'll risk his unlife again a mere tenday into freedom.

Also also. He doesn't exactly want them to be gone. Jamie can be great fun when they're not annoying the piss out of him. Killing goblins, stealing from Gale, running headlong into battles, leading Gale on, et cetera.

"Work on people? What do you think I'm attempting to do?" Astarion says instead of sinking his teeth into their neck. (Never let it be said that he can't be magnanimous.)

Jamie doesn't speak for a long moment. They look up with a strange expression that he can't interpret and turn back to the path in front of them.

"Beach is right up here," they say when they eventually decide to respond.

It's hardly responding; his question's still hanging in the air. 

"What fun," Astarion says. "I've never had a chance to bed someone on a beach. The whole sun issue, you understand."

"It's night," Jamie says helpfully.

"Is it indeed? I hadn't noticed."

Jamie glances over their shoulder and winks, then tries to hop over a small sand dune. They barely stick the landing and Astarion thinks they might fall again, but they right themself at the last second and give him a thumbs-up that he does not return.

"What's it like?" Jamie says as they watch Astarion gracefully step onto the dune. It hardly reacts to his weight, and their eyes widen, impressed.

"What's what like?" He's pretending not to notice their awe. Not to care.

"The sun," Jamie replies.

"You know what the sun's like, dear. You're in it it every day."

"The sun is new for you, though. So is it, like, nice? Or maybe it's weird after too long."

Astarion slows his pace and lets Jamie trudge ahead. Presumably they'll find a nice patch of sand soon, or perhaps they expect him to find a suitable spot for the deed, but for now they just stand at the shoreline and rock languidly on their heels. They're looking not at the water, but up to the starry sky.

"Of course it's nice," Astarion says, still a few feet behind them. "It's wonderful. And weird, yes. But if you're hoping for poetry, you'll have to ask the wizard. I'm sure he's penned a tome of celestial-themed verses."

"You're not a poetry guy? Me neither. I never get it."

Astarion crosses his arms. "I 'get' it perfectly well. It's just rare that a poet says anything worth getting. I've got to parse all their twee symbols and flowery words for such little reward."

"Uh, right," Jamie says lightly, which for some reason sends a flare of irritation through Astarion's chest. The feeling is fleeting, though. No time for it. Jamie's here, the waves gently lapping at their bare toes, the moonlight bathing them like it's honored they've come here. They do have the distinct coloring of a moon-elf, all blues and silvers and lavenders... But no, no, now is not the time to think about Jamie's soft hair and striking eyes. It's time to think about work.

Astarion slinks forward and rests a hand on their waist over their shirt. It's tucked further under the baggy material than he expected it to be, and he feels the subtlest flinch, the tensing of muscles as he finds it.

"You've managed to bring us somewhere even more intimate than what I had in mind," he says, coming around to face them. He brings his other hand to their waist and considers attempting to wrap around it—he could come close—but thinks better of it. "It's the perfect place to get to know each other better."

Oh, how their heartbeat calls for him.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking," Jamie says, breathy.

"I was so hoping you'd say that."

Astarion trails his fingers down their hip and reaches for the hem of their shirt, ready to get it out of his way. He slips a practiced hand underneath, enticing, teasing a line just above where their waistband would be if these trousers fit properly. Jamie's slim, skinny even, but there's a hint of muscle and a touch of softness vying for prominence and he imagines for a moment lifting them—or letting them lift him—of being pressed against them and wondering if he might feel something. If he wants to feel anything.

Jamie doesn't stop him, but when he looks at them again their face is... doing something. No, it's doing nothing. It's blank. Flat. Their ears twitch, like they might drop down.

Something sick and uncertain and uncomfortably familiar twists in Astarion's gut. His hands cease their roaming.

"Um," Jamie starts, but they trail off and bite at their lower lip instead. They don't chew it. It's a single, decisive bite and release, like a predator marking prey. Like a vampire delivering the killing blow.

Their heartbeat grows louder, louder, and Astarion swears their body warms beneath his touch. Their skin reddens from within as their blood begins to hum. Jamie's face is soft, but this sudden heat feels less like passion and more like a threat.

Only he can't tell whether he or Jamie is being threatened.

Astarion pulls away and lets their shirt drop.

"If there's somewhere you'd rather I not touch, I'll understand," he says as reassuringly as he can, though his own anxiety pulses. "I'll feel I'm missing out, of course, lovely as you are. But plenty of people have insecurities, even beautiful ones like yourself. I can be careful."

"That's not... umm, I... Fuck," they hiss, and they turn away from him suddenly.

"Do you?" he jests, but Jamie doesn't respond to the levity for once. He has been wondering, though. Jamie's being so squirrelly about it, and now's as good a time as any to inquire.

"Jamie, have you ever had anyone before? Or are you a v-"

He can't finish the question. He'd like to, partly because he's a nosy bastard and partly because he would appreciate them affirming that he won't be their first (gods, how he hates being people's first), but his breath catches at the sudden smell of blood.

Jamie's blood.

The words choke and die in Astarion's suddenly-dry throat. He's hungry again, like the foxes never gave their lives. His body tenses and urges him towards the intoxicating scent. He salivates in preparation. Stupid, he thinks as he holds his breath to prevent himself from smelling it further, stupid how after all this time, you still expect a taste.

Jamie hunches over and rubs at their eyes. Their fingers come away streaked crimson and taunting. Astarion can't decide whether to draw nearer or flee entirely.

"Wretched hells, Jamie, what's happened?" he manages.

"Sorry, hold on," Jamie mutters into their palm. "I'm fine, my bad."

"Ugh, don't be sorry, just tell me what's happening. Do you often bleed from your eyes?!"

Jamie says nothing for a moment, just grits their teeth so hard he hears the click. They wipe their bloodied fingers on their pants—wasting it, oh—and it dawns on Astarion that this is It.

The terrible balance, the feverish heat, and now bleeding from the gods-damned eyes. Lae'zel had told them about this. Gushing blood from orifices that don't normally gush is a sign of ceremorphosis.

Shit. This can't be happening. If it's happening to them, he'll be next.

He'll die.

He'll die, he'll be dead, dead in this open shirt and too-tight trousers. Dead on a bloody beach. Dead a meter away from running water. A cosmic joke from the gods themselves.

But not yet. He feels fine, he thinks. Aside from the nausea swirling in his stomach, though that's nothing new. Astarion's been nauseous for as long as he can remember.

Perhaps he still has time. Jamie, however, does not.

They're still bent over, but the flow of blood has slowed to a trickle. Poor thing, he thinks inanely. They've lived just three decades, and now they're to die, to be made monstrous. There is perhaps nothing more tragic.

Astarion snatches the dagger from his waistband. He's on them before they even notice.

A plume of sand kicks up around them as they fall together in a tangle of limbs.

"Oh, Ao's ass, not this shit again!" Jamie groans from beneath him. "What is with you, man?"

"I've got to put you down," he growls. He drives a knee into their chest and grabs their wrist with his free hand. "You're starting to turn, aren't you? I can see it. You're done. I won't let you become one of those things and start hunting me."

Jamie stares at him. "I am not turning, Astarion," they say slowly, like he's an especially dense child. "And if I did, I wouldn't really have to hunt you. I know where you are 'cause you're literally on top of me."

"You are turning," Astarion insists. "Unless you mean to tell me there's some other, totally innocuous reason for this mess."

"'Kay, first of all, I'm not bleeding anymore," they point out, which is true, for better or worse. "I just can't clean it off with you holding me down. Listen, this happens all the time. It's no big deal."

"No big—?!" Astarion hears himself go shrill and presses more of his weight into their chest. "Don't lie to me! Try to die with some dignity, will you? If it helps, I won't waste a drop. I'll make it fast, too."

"You can try," Jamie says with a bloodstained smile. A smile, whilst under the knife and the fangs of a vampire spawn in the dead of night! He wonders, not for the first time, whether Jamie Cross is an idiot or the cleverest person in camp.

"It's just how my patron says 'hi Jay, I'm thinking about you.' They think it's funny. Now can you get the fuck off me, please."

"You said your patron abandoned you," Astarion says uneasily, keeping his grip tight. "Like a poor, unwanted pet. Now they're popping into your eye sockets to say hello?"

Jamie's voice hardens. "I never said abandoned. We didn't break the pact. They're just not working with me right now, but they're still here. As you can see." They try to point at their own face, but Astarion's got their arm pinned so they can't pull it off. He doesn't let up. "I just gotta get somebody to say their name, and, um, I should also probably stop breaking their rules. Then they'll come back. That's what I told you."

"I hate to be the one to explain this, but that is textbook abandonment," Astarion says. "Seems your dear old patron took the 'it's not you, it's me' approach. It's a classic for a reason."

"This is a warlock pact," Jamie says, rolling their eyes. "They're my infernal patron for life and probably after. Not my hookup." 

"Perhaps you never had any patron to begin with," Astarion says. He shifts, bringing more of his body flush with theirs. Gods, they're still so warm. "Perhaps you've been lying to us."

"Oh, yeah, you got me. I made up the whole blood-sorcerer-from-Melvaunt thing so you wouldn't find out I'm actually on the lam."

"Ooooh, fun, a cover story! Whatever did you do?"

"Killed seventeen Flaming Fist with a fishhook and put a whoopee cushion on the Grand Duke's chair. I'll tell you all about it if you get. off. me."

Astarion does the exact opposite of that.

It's like there's a magnet in his chest, pulling him in towards Jamie. He presses forward until he can almost taste them again. Jamie shudders beneath him. Their lips part. He's momentarily taken by an urge to slide a finger into their mouth, to be inside of them in a way that feels safer, softer.

"I don't think you want me to get off of you," he murmurs. "Get you off, maybe."

Jamie swallows audibly. "What happened to trying to kill me? Did I convince you I'm not going squid-mode?"

"I'm still assessing." 

"Well, hurry it the fuck up. You're blocking the stars with your damn..." Jamie blows a piece of hair out of their way as they search for the right words. "...stupid, perfect, pretty fuckin' face."

Astarion begins to reply, but the blush that's gracing Jamie's face is so bright, so red, so immediate that he all he can do is chuckle. Their ears are tilted nearly all the way down. Their features are scrunched in embarrassed horror. And Astarion snickers in their face, quite literally. He's just a hair's breadth away from it, after all.

Jamie turns away and groans. "That wasn't really what I meant to say."

"Ah-ah, you can't take it back," Astarion teases. "You've admitted it. You find my face perfect and pretty."

"I also said it was stupid," they mumble.

"But you didn't mean that," he says.

"Nah."

"In fact, I think you say a lot of things you don't mean."

"Ha. Not usually. Not like you."

Irritating creature. Astarion brushes two fingers over Jamie's cheekbone in weak retaliation. The blood's dry enough now that it's sticky and tacky, but a smear comes away on his hand and he sticks it into his mouth without thinking. His lashes flutter and his stomach twists with pleasant eagerness.

Jamie's pleased, too. He can tell, even through the mask of blood, that they're happy. They like seeing him feed. They like that they can feed him. Is "happy" all that they are? For once, he's unsure whether he has aroused them or if they're simply... glad.

Astarion can't decide whether this is disappointing or delightful.

"Darling," Astarion says after he swallows indulgently, "I fear you may be the most earnest person I've ever met."

"Hey, fuck you."

Astarion blinks. "A bit harsh, no?"

Jamie blinks back. "I dunno."

"How do you not know?"

Jamie sighs and stares straight up, where Astarion's perfection is apparently blotting out the starry sky. "I don't know what 'earnest' means."

"Truly?"

"Yeah, truly," Jamie says, deepening their voice to imitate Astarion. "I said it. I meant it. It's true."

Astarion chuckles again, just once, into the quiet between their bodies. Jamie frowns, but he caresses their (warm, flushed) cheek with his (cold, dead) hand, and their eyebrows pop right back up.

"It's funny because that's precisely what earnest means," he says. "It means sincere or intense. Intense in one's sincerity, even. Earnestness can be terribly annoying, if the person is naïve or sanctimonious—like Wyll—but it can also be precious in someone with a more creative moral compass."

"You sound like Gale, explaining all these words. This must be what school is like."

"Eugh. Never compare me to him again."

Astarion takes the opportunity to push himself off of Jamie and roll over to lie beside them. The sand's warm against his back, even through the thin layer of his shirt and under the blanket of night he thought would have chilled the ground by now. He starts to tuck his blade back into his waistband, but he's thankful for the tiny extra amount of space its absence creates. He can breathe a little deeper and move a little easier without it (what luxuries he enjoys these days), so he drops it beside a crescent-shaped seashell and lets it lie.

For their part, Jamie seems content to let him lie and to lie themself. Their attention is occupied by the sky.

Astarion follows their line of sight. There, what they've ostensibly been searching for all night: a sea of glittering stars, lights twinkling from worlds away. A half-full moon keeps watch.

The glossy look has faded from Jamie's eyes and most of the blood's been scrubbed away, though a bit of it lingers on their lashes. Under the light of the moon, they are not quite beautiful, but Astarion is inexplicably drawn to them nonetheless.

Minutes pass. He can hear only the waves and the pattern of Jamie's breaths over the sounds of forest creatures scuttling.

Jamie isn't the first, of course. Some marks have tried to play the romantic with him before taking him to bed. He's sat on the Elfsong balcony with plenty of travelers who presumed to watch the stars and compliment him until their desires eclipsed their egos.

It is nice, sometimes, the pretending. But when it goes on too long, it becomes dangerous. It challenges what Astarion has learned about this life and these people, and to doubt himself now would bring him nothing but failure. Punishment. Pain—

—his head spins—

—the Master again. He pounds on the door of Astarion's psyche.

The view of the sky drains away, replaced with a long dark corridor and the faint glow of a staff. On his knees, it all looms larger. Shadows stretch up the walls as the figure approaches, as Cazador approaches. Astarion cannot move. He cannot scream. He is naked and shaking and so, so afraid. This is familiar. This is old. Yet his body seems to have forgotten it and a fresh wave of terror collapses over him when The Master taps His staff against the stone. Something small slams into Astarion's bare foot and it's a rat, a putrid dying rodent, and suddenly a sea of them skitters over his skin—

"Hey?"

He gasps. The vision disappears like the falsehood it was. Not even an illusion, Astarion thinks bitterly, just a figment of his broken mind.

Jamie looks curious, intrigued. What they don't look is alarmed, which strikes Astarion as somewhat odd but immensely appreciated.

"You alright?"

"Of course," he snaps.

"Okay."

Astarion drapes a hand over his own chest. He knows not to expect a rhythmic heartbeat or the rise and fall of breath, but something buried deep within him must remember how that felt and seeks the comfort still.

Jamie's heart, though, is strong and regular. Their breaths come easily enough despite the occasional hitch (all that damned silkroot residue caking their lungs, no doubt). Their stomach makes tiny noises if he listens closely. Dear doting Gale went to great lengths to feed them earlier, all but forcing his stew down their throat, and their body is making use of it. Or trying to, anyway. Astarion's no expert, but it sounds like their body is having a hard time. They are fed and nourished and struggling with it.

Astarion stops listening.

Jamie's watching him in their periphery and pretending not to. As predicted, there is always a point when the fun of pretending expires.

"Why are we here, Jamie?" he asks quietly.

"Pleasure," Jamie says in a deep but melodic voice. "Yours, mine, and all that."

"Cheeky."

"Yeah."

He turns over onto his side to look at them properly. "Do you know what cheeky means?"

"Yes, you bitch."

It's Astarion's turn to smirk. "Forgive me. I had to check."

"I shall consider forgiving you, darling," Jamie says in that affected drawl. Astarion considers insisting that he does not sound like that, but it's actually a decent impression and he can't really argue otherwise.

"So, we're whiling away the night looking at the stars like teenaged sweethearts?" he says instead. "Shall I name constellations?"

"You know any?"

Does he? Astarion glances up as if one might make itself known to him, but it doesn't happen. He can't recall the names of anything above him. Perhaps he knew once. More likely, he never did.

Jamie seems to read something in his silence and doesn't make him reply.

"I was gonna come out here with or without you," they say.

"Why, though? The stars are visible from camp. You could watch the sky while safe and snug in your bedroll."

"You can see 'em better here with nothing in the way. Besides your big head."

"My head is of a perfectly normal size, I'll have you know."

"Uh-huh," Jamie says dreamily.

Jamie's fixated on the stars. They're right, Astarion thinks. The stars are more visible here than they are at camp and leagues brighter than they are in Baldur's Gate. Jamie looks at them the way Astarion looks at fresh blood, the way Gale looks at old books, the way Lae'zel looks at hordes of weaklings ripe for slaughter. They look at the stars like someone hungry.

"I haven't seen the sun much, either," Jamie says suddenly. "You ever been to Melvaunt?"

"No, I've been rather attached to Baldur's Gate," Astarion says. "Though if I'd had the chance to explore, Melvaunt wouldn't exactly top my list of destinations."

"Oh. Yeah. Makes sense," Jamie says. They furrow their brow and rub a finger over their lips again. "Melvaunt, it's—hmm. I was gonna say it's hell, but it isn't, 'cause I've been to hell and it was fine and Melvaunt's fine, too, really. I think most people haven't been to hell or to Melvaunt and they'd say Melvaunt is hell. But to me it's just home so it's not hell. Y'know?"

Astarion does not know. He can barely follow the words. They wander the way Jamie themself does when walking through the woods.

"Right," Astarion says.

Jamie nods. "Melvaunt sucks, but lots of places suck. It's covered in this thick black smog, from the ground to as far up as you can see. Not that you can really see anything up above or far away. You can't see stars. You can't grow food." Jamie laughs once, a humorless one that doesn't suit them. "I didn't know food grows on trees or in soil 'til we made our pact and I got out."

"When was that?"

"Sixteen or seventeen." They reach into their pocket and pull out a thick, poorly rolled cigarette that's shedding tobacco like a dog sheds hair. Astarion can smell the ether in it before they even cast their cantrip to light it.

He watches Jamie's lips wrap around the cigarette, watches the first wisp of smoke curl in the air and stretch up towards the stars. Among them, it dissipates into nothing.

"I thought my patron was fucking with me at first," Jamie says as they exhale. "Thought they were conjuring up snacks to remind me how powerful they are and how smart I was to accept their deal. Like a reward. I followed them out the gates of Melvaunt, and we was in a forest. Were. I'd never seen a lot of trees outside of paintings and stuff. It was dark, 'cause it was night, but I loved being there. I loved the air I could breathe. I loved the stars I could see. Like now."

Jamie pauses to offer the cigarette to Astarion, who shakes his head. "Vampirism," he says simply. "No effect."

They make an apologetic "mm" sound and pop it back into their mouth. "I saw an apple on a tree, and I reached up and grabbed it. I thought it was a trick when I bit down. It was so red, and I felt all this juice in my mouth. I never had an apple that crunched before. I actually cried. I asked my patron where it came from, and they didn't get it. Didn't realize how Melvaunt is, I guess. It was the first time I ate fresh fruit, the first time I saw the stars, and the first time I cried in front of somebody else. Patron didn't mind," they add. "Pretty laid-back, really."

Astarion takes too long to respond. He knows he does. He just can't stop watching their lips. He remembers their taste like clean blood. By all rights those lips should be red as the apple Jamie's describing. But they're not: they're tinted moon-blue and dry. Jamie keeps licking them. A scar decorates part of their mouth. These lips have clearly been split again and again.

"I didn't realize the Moonsea was so grim," Astarion says. "I hardly expected grandeur, but I always thought endless darkness and starvation belonged to vampires. You're infringing upon my culture."

Jamie snorts. "Vampires would do better than anyone in Melvaunt, I think."

"Seems so. But you are decidedly not a vampire. How did you get by?"

"Rich folk pay people to bring food in." Jamie takes a deeper drag. "I found out later that farmers from Cormyr and around Moonsea sell it to the grocers and lords and stuff. Street kids got whatever those fuckers dropped or threw away. In the orphanage, the clerics told us food was a gift right from Tyr."

Jamie shoots up into a sitting position, makes a horrendous noise in the back of their throat, and spits on the sand with more venom than Astarion's yet seen from them. He grimaces, but within seconds, the tide has rolled in to reclaim their tobacco-tinged saliva. All traces of it wash away.

Even the ocean is eager to taste Jamie.

"Didn't you spend time in Baldur's Gate?" Astarion asks carefully. "You can see the stars from the docks or the Upper City parks, if you're so inclined."

Jamie scoffs and gestures to themself with their cigarette. "You think they're letting me upstairs? I got to the Gate a year or so after I left Melvaunt. Haven't been to the docks much. I don't really know the Lower City either. I live in... ugh, you're gonna judge me."

"Me? Judge? Never!"

"I'm being for real."

Astarion sits up beside them. "Ah, I see. Well, the Outer City is nothing to be a... nothing to hide, at any rate. Plenty of people live in the Outer City."

"Not me."

"Then...?"

"Yep, I live in the Undercity. Balduran's Basement."

Jamie pauses like they might stop talking, might try to take it back, but they don't.

"You can't see a damn thing from down there except the shit and trash people dump on us," they blurt. "The first job I ever took had me go down there and sweep out a bunch of werewolves who'd been tearing people apart. It was a big deal. Everyone knew my name after that. Someone asked me to do another thing, and another thing, then someone else got me into smuggling. All routes go through us, y'know. And that's how it happened. I just stayed."

"You never thought to make your way into the Lower City, at least? I know Undercity dwellers aren't exactly welcomed with open arms, but I've never seen an unfriendly greeting stop you."

Jamie points at a currently-unbandaged sliver of skin on their arm. "I'm in a pact with an entity who people are so scared of that nobody will say their name. My magic is blood. It's illegal. I'm illegal."

"Shame. I, for one, would enjoy having more blood mages walk the streets."

"Me fuckin' too. Sometimes I go topside to do missions for my patron, but it's hush-hush. I take lots of tunnels, sleep in lots of caves. Can't really sunbathe or stargaze. So most of the time, I'm in the Undercity, working. It's where I am and what I do."

Again, irritation floods Astarion's chest, though if he's honest it's closer to rage this time.

Jamie's got all the freedom in the world. They're free to leave, to run, to plant one foot in front of the other and make a life of their own, yet they choose to live underground? To settle for the worse-than-slums of the Sword Coast's most unforgiving city? They're young and clever with centuries ahead of them that they plan to spend suffering in the sewers. Jamie deserves better.

"I never imagined the people of the Undercity holding jobs," he says tightly.

"You probably never thought about us at all," Jamie says. "Not judging. Just true."

Astarion can't in good faith disagree. He considers disagreeing in bad faith, but he imagines Jamie would notice.

"I can't say I have spared much thought to them, you're right," he says.

"I'm kinda surprised you're listening now. Asking questions too."

Astarion is also surprised by this, but he finds he wants to know. He wants to listen to Jamie's rambling speech, wants to hear about where the world crafted this stranger with the enchanted blood. If he can't taste Jamie the way he'd like, he can at least get to know them.

"You listened to me prattle on about Cazador and captivity," he says, too lightly. "Now I want to hear about your ghosts. Tell me about the Undercity, but do try not to oversell it. You're the type to say it's 'the people' that keep you happily chained somewhere rancid."

Jamie closes their eyes. The ether's probably taking hold.

"Not chained," they say slowly. "Just busy."

"With? Don't hold back. Indulge me."

They sigh, a shallow one that's more preparation than lamentation, and launch into their story. The words come slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. Jamie starts and stops and restarts sentences like they've never said this much at once before. Probably they haven't.

Astarion may be the first to hear them speak this way, he thinks, and his ears flick towards them like a sunflower to light. Stupid things.

"There's kids down there sleeping on piles of garbage. There's people ended up there 'cause they're running from something ten times worse. I know this woman whose husband beat her so bad she went half-blind. She left to live with her sister in Silverymoon. Husband couldn't handle her not being under his thumb, so he sent some Unseen goons to kill her. They tracked her down. She hid in a cellar, but they stabbed her sister and burnt the house. She barely made it out. Then, husband starts followin' her wherever she went, leaving body parts around that he was chopping off people, just to scare her. The fucking freak! Finally she sold all her stuff and changed her name. She wound up broke in the Basement, half-burnt, taking enough terazul to topple a beholder. Husband'll have a hard time finding her now."

"Ex-husband, one hopes," Astarion says.

"You know the worst part? Her own father sold her out. She thought she was safe, but they just kept looking and looking..."

Something icy is twisting in Astarion's stomach again, swirling alongside the hunger. He swears he feels a hand on his neck and swats at it impulsively, nerves screeching, but there's nothing there besides the sea breeze.

"Gods." Is his voice shaking?

"No gods down there," Jamie replies, "but it gives people like her and me somewhere to go. Somewhere brave women and blood sorcs can breathe. With our noses plugged," they add, grinning, "'til we get used to the smell."

Astarion wrinkles his own nose and makes a gagging noise. Jamie nods.

"I mean it, though. It is the people, but it's also the... the..." Jamie trails off, searching for a word, and clenches a fist in frustration. "The not-fake-ness of it. Nobody's wearing fancy clothes. Nobody lies to you about where food comes from. You can live for free, if you build your own place. There's work, if you let folk pay you in food or favors. We built a school and a little hospital and if you kill someone, or steal too much, everybody you hurt comes together with you and we all decide what happens. Some guy sitting up in a big building doesn't get to throw you in a cell forever."

Astarion bristles. If Jamie notices, they don't react.

"I mean, sometimes we throw people out or take people out who cause too much suffering. The place is already suffering without that. Nobody has enough food or medicine. But we decide it and we keep it running, all of us, without patriars and politics," Jamie says with a note of finality. "Nobody questions you when you bleed from your eyes or slice yourself open to sling blood at somebody. It ain't Melvaunt, or hell, or home. It just is."

The ether's definitely taken root. Jamie rocks slowly, their shoulders relaxed and their expression faraway. When they lift their head again, it lolls forward like it's too heavy to hold up. They rest their chin in their hand and giggle.

He's not sure whether he does it because he's interested after all or because he for some reason wants to stop them, but Astarion reaches out expectantly for their cigarette. Jamie passes it to him without hesitation.

"So, Jamie Cross of the Undercity," Astarion muses, bringing the cigarette to his mouth. "You've been underground all this time. That would explain why I've never smelled y—I mean, met you, in a tavern."

Jamie starts to whistle but it turns into a cough. "Yeahhh, the only taverns I've been to are the ones downstairs. You wouldn't last a second in a Basement bar, pretty boy."

"Excuse me? I've frequented the most dangerous establishments in the Gate since before you were born."

"The toughest place topside is safer than the nicest place down below. I bet you... ha! I bet you all the shoe polish in Wyll's pack that it's true."

Astarion snickers mid-drag and coughs on it too. For someone who doesn't have to breathe, it's almost impressive how thoroughly he can choke.

Jamie gives him a single good-natured slap on the back. He twitches without meaning to. Whether Jamie catches it, he doesn't know, but they retreat nonetheless and lie down again. Their energy's waning. Astarion can hear their heart rate slowing as they sit here.

"I'd prefer a lifetime supply or two of pomade, but shoe polish could come in handy," Astarion says once he's recovered. "You'll have to take me somewhere horrid in the Undercity and let me prove myself."

"Sure, but you'll have to take me somewhere nice in Baldur's Gate," Jamie says. For the first time, they pull their eyes off the stars and fix them, instead, on him.

Oh. Astarion remembers with a rush of clarity that this is the game he's been playing all along—this was the goal. To seduce, to persuade, to ensure Jamie falls for him.

To ensure that he does not fall for them.

He reclines and lies beside them once more.

"It's a date, darling," he says.

"If you could go anywhere, tomorrow," Jamie says, shoving another dubious mushroom into their pocket, "where would it be?"

Astarion has never had the energy to waste on daydreams. He'd say so, or deflect with some quip about any place with drunk young patriars naked in the fountains being good enough for him, but Jamie's excited again this morning. The sunlight's casting a lovely glow on their eager face. He finds himself hesitant to end the conversation.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "Evereska, perhaps? I doubt I'd be welcomed in Evermeet with my condition, but I'm sure I could worm my way in somehow."

Astarion almost regrets staying on the beach to watch the sun come up; it's beaming through the trees now and despite the tadpole he does feel a bit like he's baking. Not to mention there's sand in places he would very much prefer for there not to be sand. Waiting for sunrise felt too poetic a request to make, but luckily Jamie had slept so long he didn't have to. He'd finally woken them with a somewhat less-than-gentle kick, and now they're clomping through the forest to try and get back to camp "before anyone notices."

That ship's sailed, of course. At the very least Lae'zel will have woken ages ago to sharpen her sword. At this point, the only thing sharper than that blade is his own fangs.

One hopes.

"Huh," Jamie says. They hold their map centimeters in front of their face, trying valiantly to lead the way back to camp, but given that they're holding the map upside down the odds are not great.

He plucks it from their fingers and tries to ignore their obviously unpracticed attempt at scowling. "Was my answer that disappointing?"

"Nah, I just thought you'd say, like, Luskan or Waterdeep," Jamie says. "Luskan's full of pirates, and Waterdeep's full of rich bastards who don't know how to keep their coin purse closed. You'd love 'em."

"Compelling, but I can pick a pocket anywhere I go. I prefer prey that makes it a challenge. This way," Astarion adds, pointing in the exact opposite direction of where Jamie was facing. They whirl around dutifully and march on.

"Anyway, I'm surprised you've found time to visit Waterdeep and Luskan with all your Undercity heroics."

"Not Waterdeep yet, but Luskan, yeah. For a mission," Jamie says. "Wouldn't call it a visit, really. I was there to kill a—to kill someone. Didn't stay long after that."

"Understandable."

"I've been to Neverwinter, too," they say. "A couple times. You would haaaate it. It's swampy and everything wants to kill you. I mean everything. I swear to the gods a blade of grass tried to end my shit."

"That sounds familiar," Astarion says dryly. "Who, or what, were you slaying?"

"Can't say." Astarion must make a face because Jamie gives him a sad half-smile. "Sorry. Really. I don't like being all secret. But my—"

"—your patron."

"Yeah. I can usually talk about our pact all I want, but not now. Same as Wyll. We'll get his out of him, though." They fumble in their pockets, presumably for a cigarette or something else chemical, but come up empty besides soggy mushrooms. "Mizora's only a cambion."

Only a cambion?

Astarion decides once and for all that it's probably best not to wonder about the nature of Jamie's patron.

It's probably best not to wonder a lot of things about Jamie, but Astarion can't help it all. He can't make sense of them. Last night, they fell asleep under their beloved stars, in a wizard's borrowed trousers, beside a sulky vampire spawn with a taste for their blood specifically. All night they lay beside him without either fleeing or reaching for him. He'd waited hours before slipping into his trance and even then only half-rested, expecting to wake up with Jamie on him or in him, but it never happened. They stayed curled on their side facing the water, fidgeting now and again. Once, they coughed, and Astarion had braced, certain they were going to wake up and take him then—but no. They were just coughing in their sleep, on their own Melvaunt-choked lungs.

Dark past. Bright eyes. Drug habit. Blood magic. It's like the hells sent Jamie here just to complicate things.

The truth is, there's something deeply wrong with Jamie.

And unfortunately, Astarion is utterly fascinated by whatever that is.

"You ever been to Amn? Like, maybe back before?" Jamie asks. Their voice is coming from below him, somehow, so Astarion looks down and spins around once before finding them on all fours, investigating a bone that's been picked clean at the base of a fir tree.

"Before vampirism? Not that I can recall," Astarion says. "But if you ever get the chance to go, do invite me along. Talk about deep pockets."

"You got it." Jamie stands and tosses the bone back to its resting place. They apparently don't want to carry around some dead old thing. "But if we wanna live long enough to see Amn, we're gonna have to start with getting back to camp."

They're looking at him again. Not leering, though, not undressing him with their eyes or imagining all the ways he could service them. They don't seem to want to stake him. They don't even look particularly shy. They just are.

And Astarion just is.

He cannot work it out. How is it possible that he feels more uncomfortable now than he has in a brothel in years?

The other night someone whipped him without a word of warning and Astarion moaned like he liked it. A tenday ago a dragonborn threw him against a wardrobe so hard it shattered and he begged for more as wood panels collapsed around him. He vaguely recalls a drow trying to choke him and smiling wickedly when she discovered Astarion does not breathe. Oh, the things I can do to you, she'd said, and when Cazador finally came to take her away, Astarion thanked Him of his own volition.

All Jamie did was change their mind. Jamie decided not to sleep with him. Jamie told him to keep his clothes on.

And Astarion feels... something. "Angry" is too broad. "Sad" is too, well, sad. Not "hurt," but something in that area.

He feels rejected. Frustrated.

Small.

Jamie has turned him down. Without his body, without physicality, who is Astarion? What has he got to offer to secure the leader's favor? If he can't seduce them, how in the hells will he stay safe?

"Jamie," he says suddenly, surprising himself enough that the panic thrashing in his chest stutters to a crawl, "could I ask you something? I need to understand."

"Yeah."

"It may be a bit, well, pathetic."

"I doubt it."

"Wh- Oh, thank you. What made you change your mind, precisely?"

At first Jamie says nothing. Astarion worries he'll have to spell it out further, at which point it would become pathetic if it hasn't already, but then they laugh. It's that bubbly sharp one that he's learned means Jamie truly found it funny. Found him funny.

"You're really not used to people not wanting to fuck you, huh?"

"No! This has never happened to me before!" Astarion cries, and they laugh harder, longer. He finds he rather likes the sound of it, the shape of it in the air and on their slightly-bloodstained face.

Perhaps he'd like to make them laugh again.

"I suppose I hear how that sounds, and I don't mean to be—well, I do mean to be vain, actually. Hello, it's me. But I really am curious," Astarion continues. "Have all these years lacking a reflection finally taken a toll? Normally they're begging me to drain them on the first night."

"First of all," Jamie says, blushing so beautifully for him, "don't, uh, worry about that. You do get me hot. Pretty much everyone else, too."

"Aw, only 'pretty much?'"

"Well, yeah. I can't really tell what Lae'zel thinks. The others all have an eye on you."

"Nice as that is to hear, it's not the others' opinions I care about," Astarion coos.

Jamie rakes their fingers through their hair once, grimaces, decides it's not worth it and stuffs their hands in their pockets again. "I didn't want it to be something where you felt like you owed me but didn't actually want to," they say quickly. "Sleeping with somebody who doesn't want to sleep with me isn't what I want."

Astarion kicks a stone out of his way with more force than necessary and glowers as it flies into a shrub. He'd tried so hard to convince Jamie that he desired them in that way, and a small part of him actually had before that damned memory of Cazador wiped away his will to try.

How did Jamie notice what countless nameless, faceless, now lifeless others could not?

"Again, you presume what I want! How many times must I tell you that you're wrong?" he says. "I'm a hedonistic bastard who simply enjoys your company. Or I did, until I realized how annoying you are."

"Look," Jamie says, rubbing at the back of their neck, "I wasn't dead-set" (they wink) "on doing it. I mostly just wanted to... um. Spend some time, I guess. You're funny. I like it. So I'm happy. I'm not saying no forever."

Astarion lets precious seconds pass before he can reply, and all he can think to say is, "Ugh. Isn't that sweet."

"Thanks, yeah, I'm real sweet."

"...Yes. You are." Astarion clears his throat. "It's alright, I'll have you yet. I can promise you a night you'll never forget, as soon as you quiet that bleeding heart of yours and listen to your body instead."

"The heart's part of the body," Jamie says.

Astarion's own chest, still though it may be, clenches.

Fine, then. He'll try his luck with Karlach after all. That vile Mizora was right about one thing: Karlach, at least, has no heart.

Astarion looks back to Jamie and is met not with their face but their shoulder. They've hopped up onto a log, apparently seeking redemption after yesterday. There's a rumpled berry bush off to the side that tells him this is exactly where Jamie fell before, where they teased him. Where he let them do it. Where he played along.

"Alright, tell me how you do it," they say, wobbling already. "Do I gotta think steady thoughts or what?"

"Thoughts won't help. You've got to have balance. Distribute your weight evenly," Astarion says. "You always lean to one side when you stand."

"I do?"

Astarion nods. "Stare straight ahead at a fixed point and use the muscles in your middle to support you, not in your legs. It helps. What would help more is being an elf, a vampire, or a rogue, but you'll have to make do without such gifts."

Jamie scrunches up their face and stares intently at the tree ahead of them, so intently that they bend their torso closer to it and hinge forward. Predictably, they stumble. Less predictably, they catch themself and avoid falling.

"Progress!" they cheer.

"That's one word for it," Astarion says, and he decides he's tired of looking up to talk to such a short person so in a single fluid motion he ascends to stand next to them on the log. His weight (minimal but respectable, thank you very much) causes the log to rock just enough for Jamie to lose their balance again.

Genuine fear flashes across their face and they windmill their arms. Ah, windmill. Astarion's reminded of that gnome spinning around and around back in those goblin-infested ruins and he can't help but laugh. At Jamie, at the unfortunate gnome they saved, at the absurdity of standing here in a sunny forest with an illiterate blood mage who wouldn't fuck him and can't balance and thinks he's funny.

Astarion laughs. He laughs in a way he hasn't in years, decades, lifetimes. He almost doesn't recognize the sound of it. For so long he's known only the titters he offers under social obligation. He'd nearly forgotten he was capable of anything else. Anything real.

Jamie takes a deep breath and steadies themself. Their ears shoot straight up and their face goes softer, brighter, at his laughter.

"I did it," they say, and he's not sure which they mean, the balance or the laugh.

"You did," Astarion says.

Jamie grins.

Astarion does, too.