Chapter Text
Astarion wakes up from his reverie absolutely starving.
The campfire crackles softly, casting dancing, golden shadows across the rough fabric of his tent. From within, the faint sounds of their conversation easily reach him—two of his companions in the throes of silliness. It's an odd pairing this time, not Noor and Gale immersed in their absurd intellectual athletics, comparing notes and trading hypotheses in their shared reverence for their Mother of Magic (though Noor's reverence is much more... reverent than Gale's). Tonight it’s her and Shadowheart locked in their own discussion. And though there are many things about them both worth knowing or fearing; he can't for the life of him discern what they're discussing this evening.
Their hushed conversation tempts his curiosity—he loves a story, always has. Languidly reclined on a stolen plush divan, he’s been feigning interest in a tattered old tome, its pages adorned with faded runes. The book, like the tent and its furnishings, was purloined from the aftermath of a goblin raid on an abandoned manor house, its residents having all met with gruesome ends by way of the Absolute. Of course goblins don't have the taste or refinement to know what's actually worth taking. The dim glow of a single, flickering candle is his only source of light––the Elf doesn’t quite need it to read, but he enjoys the eerie, elongated shadows it casts on the pages he’s long since memorized. Gods, he’s hungry, but everyone’s still very awake and he can’t very well–
His sharp ears perk up when he hears Noor laugh softly––not her usual laugh, either, which tends to be loud and boisterous and make one think that she finds everything humorous. This is quieter, gentler. Teasing. He's heard this laugh before, with Karlach, usually. Shadowheart is an interesting choice–they don’t quite get along the way they used to since Shadowheart revealed being a cleric of Shar. Noor hasn’t judged, per say, but she’s certainly taken a distance. He furrows his brow.
Noor's voice, sparkly and warm, pierces the dusky atmosphere like a holy missile. "Yes, it’s a perfectly standard health potion," he hears her declare with an audible flourish, her fingers likely tracing invisible patterns in the air, "but I’ve made it delicious, Shadowheart."
Shadowheart scoffs. "So you keep insisting."
"Go ahead, drink up!"
“No one who needs to drink a health potion will need special flavorings to drink it,” Shadowheart admonishes in the condescending tone she tends to reserve just for their group. Noor's laughter echoes through the canvas. Lovely sound.
“Obviously not, but," Noor replies, still giggling, "I shouldn’t have to defend why it’s wonderful for things to be delicious!"
Shadowheart sighs. "Fine, fine, let me try it."
There's a pause, then Shadowheart speaks again. "That is…good."
"See?" Noor sounds triumphant.
"But deliciousness is hardly a concern when you’re on death’s door," Shadowheart quickly adds.
Noor would not be shaken. “It’s precisely at death’s door when you deserve a bit of sweetness to savor!” the wizard-cleric proclaims.
“I doubt that I would care, honestly.”
“You know, Shadowheart, your name is terribly on-the-nose,” Noor jokes, quite loudly, and Lae'zel takes the opportunity to fire a follow-up insult at the cleric, the two verbally sparring for about 30 seconds before the Githyanki announces her retirement for the night. Finally, Astarion thinks, only two of them left and then I can go find a boar to drain.
The pair continue bickering back and forth across the campfire until finally, unable to suppress his amusement (or hunger) any longer, Astarion steps out. Shadowheart appears to notice him first—a soft rustling of fabric, the creak of leather boots against the ground. The tent flap rustles, and a burst of warm, musty air spills out as he sweeps it aside.
"What an interesting performance. Is there more?"
"Astarion!" Noor yelps, her eyes lighting up like twin stars. She springs up from her seat. "You’ve come to join us!” Noor says, running over towards his tent. She shakes the small glass vials between her fingers, each filled with a shimmering deep red liquid that catches the moonlight. “Say you understand me––a touch of sweetness in dire moments is vital.”
She is, he observes, in a very good mood. There’s both a curiosity and distance to her gaze on him–he doesn’t like or hate it, necessarily. They don’t know each other well, but their personalities are complimentary enough that he knows he delights her. He likes how easy it is for him to make her happy.
Shadowheart rolls her eyes, still seated. "Great, now there’s two of them," she mutters.
Astarion approaches Noor with an easy grace, a practiced grace, his dark cloak swirling gently in the evening breeze. Meeting the wizard-cleric's eyes, he tosses a little croon onto his voice as he leans closer. "Do I understand you, darling?"
"Not a chance," Shadowheart deadpans, crossing her arms in a huff. Noor stutters, but gives him a winning smile, egging him on to continue speaking.
Astarion reaches forward and plucks one of the small, ruby-toned vials from her grasp. "You and I already know a certain sweetness does have the power to bring the dead back to life.” he winks, tapping her neck twice to enunciate his point.
“Please salivate over her neck in a less disgusting manner, Astarion,” Shadowheart mutters, wrinkling her nose at the thought.
He feigns ignorance and looks at Noor pointedly, who seems stunned quiet. They haven’t talked about the bites, not in any real way, not in front of others. She laughs nervously, her face tingling as a blush creeps across her cheeks like a shy sunset. Extending a slightly calloused hand, she peers at him, half-shy, half-excited. “So does this mean you’ll try my potion?”
He glances at the small vial cradled in his palm, the scarlet liquid glinting in the firelight. The faintest whiff of rogue's morsel reaches his nose--he recognizes the plant well by now, after weeks of being forced by the Mystran to stop and grab it. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she meets his eyes expectantly.
She’s grown used to his flirting by now, he gathers. She doesn’t believe a word he says, but it affects her anyway. She doesn’t seem to care that he’s a liar--she'll blush and titter and wring her hands all the same. It's fun, and he can work with it.
“I'd be delighted to ‘try your potion’, my dear," he purrs, his fingers delicately brushing against hers as he accepts her vial. As he suspected, the touch sends a shiver through her, but her conspiring grin doesn’t budge.
“Astarion, gross!” Shadowheart exclaims, and the vampire barks out a hearty laugh before raising the glass to his lips, his gaze never straying from Noor’s. He sips the potion slowly, only to freeze. He can taste this.
“Noor,” he says slowly, as if he’s forgotten how to pronounce the syllable. “What have you done to this potion, exactly?”
A wild grin overtakes the cleric of Mystra’s face as she explains her enchantment. “I didn’t add new ingredients; it’s my magic changing the flavor. There’s some arithmancy happening to make sure it tastes distinct to the drinker’s tastes, but it’s just an illusion. I wasn’t sure if––well. I’d hoped to test it on you.”
He hears what she doesn’t say. That he hasn’t fooled her, or perhaps he’d even given himself away––it must have been the tieflings’ party. A flicker of memory tugs at him, the strangeness in her expression when she sipped his so-called vinegar for wine. That had just been his assumption, really. It might well have been a delightful dry red, but he wouldn’t know. He hadn’t tasted wine, let alone been wine-drunk, in two centuries.
Astarion takes another sip and smacks his lips thoughtfully. It’s brilliant. He’d compare it to wild cherries and hibiscus—thick, rich, and bold—if he had any real memory of those flavors, but he doesn’t so it’s just good. Very good. Not something anyone in this part of the world could pay for, for sure.
Somehow, she managed to give him the magical approximation of real human drink. A memory, however sweet, that he'd thought he'd lost to time forever.
Noor watches him intently, has been watching him intently, her anticipation plainly visible on her face. "Well, what's the verdict?"
He lifts his gaze back to her as he tries to push away the unfamiliar heaviness, this alien swell of nostalgia roiling within him. “You clever girl," he says, his voice low. “It’s marvelous.”
Noor's cheeks deepen their shade of crimson, releasing a sweet, heady scent into the air as blood pools beneath the surface of her skin. Astarion groans, then attempts to smother the sound with a chuckle. “Don’t blush like that darling, you smell divine,“ he teases, while valiantly fighting the urge to sniff her face like a dog. He needs to get out before he loses propriety.
"I'm glad you like the taste," Noor tells the grass and dirt.
Shadowheart sighs loudly, startling Noor out of her embarrassment. “If you’ve quite finished your theatrics, Astarion, I’ll be going.” She turns and looks to Noor expectantly, but the wizard-cleric seems to have no intention of leaving the vampire's company. Which gives the half-starved Astarion a terrible idea.
Astarion waves his hand at her, turning his attention back to the potion. "Sleep well, Shadowheart."
Shadowheart’s exasperated sigh echoes softly as she makes her exit, and the two of them are left alone in the fading light of evening, the world around them shrouded in shadows.
Noor breaks the silence, clearing her throat and stepping forward, her head tilting. His eyes follow the movement. "I suppose I should go too."
"Do you have to?" he asks quietly. "Perhaps we ought to investigate more of this 'sweetness' in the darkness," he suggests, his voice a gentle murmur.
Noor grins. "I have more potions if you're interested."
"I was thinking of something sweeter," he whispers.
Noor bites her lip and glances at his tent. “Is this your way of asking to feed on me?” she asks, and Astarion notices how her voice has grown a little softer, her body language shifting with the change in subject. Her hand goes to her neck, her fingertips tracing the delicate skin above her jugular. Her pulse is a little quick. Something about the jumping veins in her neck distantly strikes him as erotic.
He steps closer and places his hands on her hips, the warmth of her body radiating through her clothes. She inhales sharply, at the coolness of his palms, the firm grip of his fingers. "Oh, my dear Noor, your curiosity is boundless, isn't it?" He brushes a loose braid of hair behind her ear, the leather of his gloves smooth and soft.
She leans towards him. With her neck to the side, the healed puncture from his last bite, his first bite, is exposed, and he hums softly at the sight, running his thumb over the spot. The wound had been a deep one, but he remembers his parting gift––a smooth, cold tongue laving over his marks, undead saliva healing the injury point. The skin is mostly unblemished, indented only by texture. He leans forward, his lips barely brushing the spot, and inhales deeply.
His condition has deadened his nose to most scents, but not this. He knows what vitality smells like, and Noor is a bouquet of it, her pulse fluttering under her skin. Blood, muscle, sinew, bone, fat. Her magic. It might as well be flowers and honey. "Tell me yes," he whispers into her ear.
"Yes," Noor whispers back.
He grins, then nuzzles his face against her neck, pressing his lips against the pulse that beats there. "Yes to what?" he purrs.
"I don't know." she answers breathlessly, shivering at his cold breaths brushing across her skin.
"Tell me yes again, then," Astarion replies, as if they're brainstorming.
He moves closer, her back against his chest now. A strong arm slides across her midsection and his hand comes up to cradle her jaw, his palm pressing firmly into the underside of her chin. She is so, so warm. "Noor," he says, pitching his voice deeper. She swallows again and closes her eyes. "Noor," he says again. She turns her head and opens her eyes and finds herself looking up at him, into his crimson gaze.
"Yes?" Noor exhales shakily as she answers, the syllables breathless and high pitched. She's not sure if this (and what is this?) is a good idea. Even if Astarion is (in his awful way) asking for clear, precise permission, she doesn't want to just be––
"Yes to what?" Astarion asks. He runs the tip of his nose against the slope of her cheek before resting his chin in her hair. The motion is uncharacteristically soft. Something bright and fearful hits Noor squarely in her chest.
She doesn’t want him to ask her to save him from his own weakness. She'd never deny him sustenance, obviously, but this—the closeness. She wants him to want her, the way she'd hoped he would last time, the time she let him nearly kill her, wanted him to, and they had to pretend it had been an accident. Can’t they, why is it so hard to—
"Yes," Noor says. "Yes, please." She doesn't have a lot of words to work with right now.
At first it seemed like the right answer. Astarion pulls her closer against him, his grip tightening as he breathes in deeply, pressing his nose to the back of her head. She shivers as the tip of his nose trails down the back of her neck, stopping at the base of her skull. Blood, muscle, bone, blood, muscle, bone–– "Fuck," he curses quietly.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I should clear my head before taking any part in this." His grip on her loosens. "I am going to get you some wine," he states simply, and disappears.
Noor is left alone, stunned.
What is he playing at?
%
Astarion is gone for what feels like hours.
Noor wonders if he will come back. If he left her at all. It's not as if he could disappear in the blink of an eye; there's no way he's not still in the camp. And yet, she cannot seem to find him anywhere. She doesn't have the chin to ask the others, have them prognosticate.
She has half a mind to go after him. And say what? Where'd you go, Astarion? I'd hoped you'd be sucking my blood until I was squirming and whimpering on your lap--
The sky has turned a deep shade of indigo, and the campfire has died to embers when Noor finally spots Astarion's silhouette.
He appears to be...walking around aimlessly, his gaze pointed downward, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Is he drunk?
"Astarion!" She calls out.
He stops, looks up, and gives her a small smile. "You're still awake."
"I'm still––?" Noor cuts herself off. His clothes are covered in blood. “Are you drunk?” she asks him instead. He puffs up his chest and nods. “In a way. I found a bear. He took some of my blood, I took all of his,” he brags. She looks at him, takes in his lively demeanor, the strength in his stance. Am I jealous of a bear, she almost says.
"You haven't brought any wine," she says instead.
He cocks his head to the side, feigns confusion. "Wine?"
"You said you'd bring me wine."
"Ah." He steps closer to her, looking over her shoulder and into the tent. "That I did."
"I didn't need any wine."
"You didn't?"
"I mean, I wouldn't have minded it. But I didn't need it. I didn't ask for it. You offered."
Astarion hums and moves around her, steps into the tent.
Noor stands there for a moment. It's a long moment, a long, confused moment. She walks in after him.
He's lounging, on his stolen divan, back propped up by a pillow. "Come along," he says, gesturing for her to sit with him.
Noor remains where she is. "Have I done something?" she asks quietly, a nervous feeling rising within her. "You were––we were––"
"I don't believe so." Astarion pulls one knee up to his chest and drapes an arm over it, resting his chin on his palm. "What are you thinking about?"
She stares at him for a while before taking a deep breath in and sitting on the divan. She's too anxious to sit in it comfortably; her back is straight, and she has both her knees drawn up to her chest, her feet tucked under her legs. She looks at his legs and thinks, perhaps he's anxious as well. "You disappeared."
He takes his other hand and begins to toy with his fingernails, studying them in the lamplight. He glances up at her before returning his gaze to his hands. "I was...considering."
Noor feels a rush of something strange. "Do you mind considering out loud?" she asks.
He raises his eyebrows and leans back. Studies Noor for a few moments. Whatever he thinks he sees in her face pulls his lips into a grimace, revealing sharp canines. “You’re too eager,” he tells her.
The statement stuns Noor, and she flushes at the implication. "Excuse me?"
He ignores her, still staring at her as though she were an enigma he can’t quite work out. "You're eager, but I can't tell what it is you want," he says, his gaze searching her face. "I had a plan. You can't just––you do understand this hunger of mine is a dark compulsion?"
Noor isn't sure how to respond to that, so she just looks at him.
His face tightens in a momentary snarl before smoothing out into a neutral expression. "If I do not control myself," he says slowly. "You will get hurt."
She looks down at the ground and pulls at the hem of her tunic.
"Yet near nightly, since last week," he continues. "You've been offering me your neck. Nights when I don't even need it. I've had to say no. Are you mad?"
He huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose, turning his gaze to the top of the tent.
Silence settles between them, thick with the weight of all the things that they both do and don't understand. "I just feel like I can't know you," Noor begins.
Astarion says nothing.
"I want to," Noor continues. "That's what I want––from this," she gestures between the two of them. "I--I can't learn you from a scroll. And you're so secretive, I won't learn from your mouth."
"No?" He turns to her, his eyes boring into hers.
"Well, I don't know."
He barks a laugh at that. "No. No, I suppose you wouldn't." Astarion's gaze moves back to the ceiling of the tent as he reclines. His mouth opens slightly as he chews his lip. "There's a difference. Between saying 'it's okay if you bite me' and..." his words trail off, and he sighs.
Begging for it, dreaming about it, drafting hypotheses–
"And sweetness in the darkness?"
Astarion laughs again. "Is that what we called it?" He sits up, moving closer to her, his gaze growing more intense, his body leaning towards her. "Tell me. What does curiosity mean here?" he asks, gesturing between the two of them as she had done, just before. "Tell me how this––" Astarion pauses, his tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth as his eyes rove over her face, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, before returning his gaze back to hers. "Hm."
Noor watches him, eyes widening, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I—you can bite me," she offers weakly.
"Yes, I've deduced that," Astarion shakes his head, then presses his forehead to his hand, his thumb massaging the space between his eyes. Noor feels as though she's walked into a maze with no end.
"Why not just––"
"Don't interrupt ." He says, holding his hand up as he looks at her. His red eyes flash as his expression shifts from a look of frustration into something darker, and more intense. She has no idea what she's seeing on his face. "You're so keen to understand me," Astarion tells her.
He thinks of her with a quill and ink early in the morning, sketching out divine mathematics to reconfigure the very essence of a simple health potion just so that he could taste it. Taste something. The sun-dappled courtyard. The green. "Let's say you did know me." He reaches over, pulling her onto his lap so she straddles his thighs, her eyes wide at his sudden movement. He rolls his eyes at the sound of her quickening breath, his hands resting lightly on her hips. "What's your next move?" he asks. "Where are we, my clever girl? In this lovely world of yours where you've unlocked everything about me with your keen eyes." He tilts his head and regards her.
He leans closer until his breath ghosts across her cheek and she can see his pale skin in sharp contrast to her cool brown, seemingly permanently reddened by sunshine. The warmth of the blood underneath. "Do I still scare you?"
"You don't––you're doing this on purpose," Noor whispers. She knows her cheeks are flushed with color; she knows that he knows he makes her nervous, sometimes. Her mind is racing as she looks up at him. "Like you think I'm––you want me to disappoint you."
"I'd like you to realize I'm a monster."
"Real monsters don't think they're monsters," Noor responds, shifting her legs. The cold of Astarion's skin is icy through his pants, through hers, and it feels strange against her legs. He's sitting cross-legged, she realizes; that's why she feels so––she's sitting nestled between his legs. She swallows hard.
His head is bowed towards her. He is looking at the base of her throat, the collar of her shirt. She feels the soft leather of his gloves slide from the sides of her thighs up to her waist. "Take your gloves off," she says, suddenly.
"My gloves?" His eyes dart back up to hers and he furrows his eyebrows, giving her a bemused look. He does not, however, remove his hands from her.
"Take your gloves off, when you touch me," she whispers.
Astarion stills and gives her a searching look. "It's cold," he says quietly.
"I know." Noor shifts forward in his lap, sliding closer to him so their stomachs are flush against each other's. It is cold. She can feel the strength of his abdominals, and she shivers, letting out a long exhale. "Or, I want to know."
"She wants to know," he parrots. "She wants to know how cold it is." His fingers squeeze her sides.
Noor lifts a hand to cup his face. The pads of her fingers trace along his sharp jaw before they come to rest in the smooth, soft skin below his cheekbones. "Yeah, I do. And how sharp these are," she murmurs, as she runs her fingers along his cheekbone, where his teeth hide underneath the barely-there fat.
"Yes," Astarion's gaze flicks down to her mouth as his lips part. She can see the pink of his tongue as it swipes at his sharp teeth. His chest heaves once, and then all of him is still as he lets her hand travel down to his lips, lets her small brown finger slip inside.
She brushes her index finger over his front teeth and Astarion exhales shakily through his nose. His lips close around the pad of her finger and she shivers as she feels his teeth bite down lightly, not piercing through. He looks at her, and Noor cannot read his eyes, only feel the coolness of his breath on her hand. The sharpness of his teeth as she presses her finger deeper. He hasn't moved a stray muscle, only letting Noor explore.
It is not a kiss, but it’s like that.
Noor leans forward, moving her hand so she can touch his lower lip with her thumb. She pulls at his lip, exposing his teeth, and runs her thumb across the point of his canine.
Astarion lets out a pained exhale and the tip of his tongue flicks at the pad of her thumb. "Oh." Her eyes widen at the noise, and she watches as Astarion swallows.
His eyes are half lidded as he looks at her, and the tips of his ears have turned pink.
"Are you going to bite me?" she asks, and she's surprised by the sound of her own voice, how breathy it is. He is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head slowly. No. No, he's not.
Her heart pounds in her chest as she attempts to push a second finger into his mouth. He open his mouth wider for her. Not biting her, not breaking her skin. She brushes the pad of her index finger along the tip of his tongue and shivers at the way he sucks lightly on her fingers.
"It's––" Noor takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. She's having a hard time thinking. "Your breath is cool."
He exhales sharply through his nose. It tickles her knuckles. "I'm not breathing," he tells her.
"I thought––" She moves her hand to cup his cheek again, but he grabs it with his own hand and begins to remove the glove. "Oh."
The leather drops to the ground, and he looks at her for a moment. "I don't need to breathe. I forget, often," He guides her hand to his chest. "I am not alive."
"You're––" Noor begins, but she can't get the words out. She looks down at her hand, at the sight of it, brown against his pale. He is cold.
She pushes her hand against his chest and feels for his heartbeat. There’s nothing in his chest. No ticking heart, no shuddering lungs. She looks up at him in wonder.
"I don't breathe. I don't eat. I don't sleep. I do not excrete," he tells her, and she is so startled by his words that she removes her hand from his chest.
"The wine," she begins.
"The bear," he corrects.
"Oh."
"But red wine always looks delicious. I can imagine."
"My potion..." Noor breathes, and he closes his eyes for a moment and nods.
"Yes, I did taste that," he whispers. "You're very clever."
Noor feels her face grow hot at his praise.
"And you're so warm," he says, leaning forward, brushing his lips against the tip of her pointed ear. She shudders at the sensation of his mouth on her skin, and she leans forward, into him.
His hands move up and down her sides as she nuzzles his neck, breathes him in. The scent of him––the smell of the air right before a thunderstorm. Not alive. What does that even mean? She can hear the sound of his teeth grinding together, and he makes a pained sound, pulling her closer against him. "We should talk, let's talk," he mumbles.
"Yes." Noor looks at him. She can't stop looking at him. Her hand moves up to brush the hair out of his face, and she brushes his skin. She touches his forehead. She's surprised when he leans into her hand, and her eyes widen slightly.
"I like hearing you say yes to things I ask for," Astarion says quietly, and Noor huffs a soft laugh.
"Most people like that," She runs a thumb over his cheekbone, tracing the outline of his eye socket.
"I was a slave," he reminds her. "My master only told me no, and I had to thank him for it."
"Oh."
Astarion's gaze is difficult to follow as he looks at her, like he's found something about her to focus on that can't fathom. A heaviness settles in the air as they stare at each other.
"We should talk," he repeats, his voice hoarse. Noor stops tracing his cheekbones and looks up at him. There's the same intensity on his face that he gets when they're arguing. She can't tell what that's about, either. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
"For what?"
"I don't know. Everything I don't know, I guess."
"No, no." He leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes are closed. "We'll talk," he murmurs. "I'll teach you."