Chapter Text
He doesn't know what love is. All he knows is hunger.
Even before he was turned he had been ruled by it. The hunger for more than what he had, which was nothing. His life before was little more than fog, colored by an ever-pervasive feeling of fear and dissatisfaction. But even now, he remembered how starved he had been. The sharp pangs in his stomach were not for food, or love, or self-fulfillment. The hunger was for all of it. More. For something he could sink his nails into and feast upon. More, more, more. Never enough. Always reaching, blinding clutching. He was incapable of being satisfied and he knew it. Everything always seemed to slip through the little slats where his fingers didn't quite meet up right. Like he was Narcissus- cursed to stare but never hold. A sieve of a person. He knew, even then, that nothing would ever fill him.
And then Cazador. And he didn't want to think about him, or those two hundred or so years that had taken so many pieces of him he had wished so many times that he had died in that alley.
There were times with Cazador when he had been nothing more than the hunger. Flashes of himself on all fours, so starving he stares with blown-out black eyes at the cracks in the mossy walls of the filthy dungeon, listening for the rats- hoping one would peak its mottled brown head out of the wall so he could bite it off and feed because god above, he was ravenous
There were times when he allowed himself to become lost in it. He would become nothing but a vessel for the cravings. Skin stretched over blood that didn't belong to him. Performing, as he always did, though he was no longer in his body as strangers' hands caressed and stroked and intruded upon- into- him. It was easier that way, when he was nothing but his base instincts, and whatever was left of the real him could detach from his body. Because then it didn’t really feel like his skin. It didn’t feel like he was being used, but some stranger wearing his body for the night. It was easier.
He'd never admit it aloud, much less to himself, but sometimes a very, very small part of him was glad he couldn't see his reflection. He wasn't sure he would be able to recognize himself.
(He wasn't sure he could bear looking at the thing he had become.)
He no longer denied the hunger. What was the point, when such resistance only led to inevitable self-loathing when he caved anyway? What was the point of sobriety when a relapse was inevitable? What was the point of any of it? His life had been a foregone conclusion from birth.
Or it had been, before you.
He recognizes the hunger in you.
It takes him a second. To be fair, he'd had quite a shock, waking up on that mind-flayer ship and having a parasite fed into his red eye. Then the crash, and dragging himself out of the pod and blinking, half blinded, in the sunlight. The sunlight. The real sun, after two centuries of being shunned by her warm, yellow gaze. He was more than a little out of sorts.
You were the first person he had seen, after that. There you were, stumbling up the worn dirt road, covered in blood ( gods, he was starving) of questionable origin and looking just as out of place as he felt. Looking confused, and helpless, and disoriented. Looking a little like prey.
He had seen you running around on the ship, he realized. Which made you an enemy. Though in all honesty, he'd held blades to people's throats for less. But you'd shoved him off you with the uncanny, measured strength of someone who had experience with being held at knifepoint, and before he could recover his head felt like it was splitting apart and he was seeing through your eyes.
But then he was back in the present, staring at you, and he finally noticed it.
The urge.
It glimmered in your eyes like a coal-dusted diamond wedged in the grime-covered walls of a mine. He knew the look of bloodthirst, and you wore it so well. It only lasted for a moment before he watched you painfully struggle to wrangle your expression into something less obscene before your other companions noticed. But it was too late. He'd seen it.
" You have an air of irresistible desperation about you," he'd said, mouth half curled into a smile as his gaze flickered over your dirt-streaked face. "I like it."
You changed the subject.
His smile grew- that was answer enough for him.
No one else in your little adventuring party seemed to detect something was deeply, deeply monstrous inside you. You played the part of the amnesiac hero with charm. It'd have been aggravating, seeing you act so sanctimonious and modest and moral, had he not noticed the way you would swallow every mad impulse for cruelty and violence with every interaction. It was interesting, watching the way your eyes would flash when the opportunity to shed blood fell into your lap. He'd watch you struggle to choke out pleasantries and diplomacy while your fingers twitched towards your blade, your attention continually darting to their jugular artery.
But you'd always curl your fingers into fists to still them. He'd smell your blood where your nails dug into your palms so hard they broke skin as you forced a smile.
Interesting , he thought, before reminding himself not to fall asleep when you were keeping watch.
And then there were the times you gave in. Those were perhaps the only times he saw your real smile. And what a smile it was. So many teeth. What joy. What drunken euphoria, like a particularly hard-hitting orgasm. Like a relapse. Nothing but relief.
But joys fades, and reality is always patiently at the door, hand in hand with shame. Along with the self denial, which Astarion usually found so tedious and dull. He had never understood why anyone would deny themselves of something that felt good, and clearly, you enjoyed killing. Or perhaps enjoyed was the wrong word. It seemed like a compulsion. An itch. An addiction so strong it seemed to tear you inside out to resist it. He remembers when the group had encountered those sirens, and how easily you had resisted their enchanted songs. Like your self-control had been forged by fire.
He’s waiting for you to snap. He’s thinking you’d kill Wyll first- out of all your companions, Wyll is the sweetest, and by far the most naive, and he can tell that something about how naturally kindness and compassion comes to the Blade of Frontiers frustrates you. But it could be anyone, really, who gives you that little shove over the edge.
It’s just not going to be him. You’re more powerful than you let on, is the thing, and Astarion likes to be on the winning side. So he slathers on the charm- manipulation- and stays firmly grounded in your good graces. He lathers you with flattering- not all of which is false, because there is, as he said before, something particularly magnetic about you. He goes along with whatever you want, even when it’s eye-rollingly noble and a bit obnoxious. He flirts, and you humor him because it’s nice to engage in such stupid, frivolous behavior when the world is collapsing around you. He’s not sure if you actually buy into any of his advances, but the fact that you allow them to happen is as good of a sign as any that you harbor some sort of tolerance for him and his theatrics. He figures that if he has your back, it’ll be easier to stab you in it if he gets the feeling you’re going to turn on him. He knows he can’t take you in a fair fight face to face, but luckily Astarion doesn’t care much about fighting fair. He stays in the shadows. He’s a person who lurks in the peripherals, always watching.
Watching you, mostly, because there’s something about you that demands attention. And it’s not just the fact that he’s convinced you’re secretly a homicidal maniac.
He’s watching you now. The others are all asleep and it’s his turn to keep guard. He's used to being awake during the night, so it's not difficult for him to stay up.
As far as the view goes, it’s not a bad one. The fire crackles and sputters. Spits out little embers that get whisked away in the wind and into the tree tops. The wilderness is nice, he thinks. He hasn’t been outside Baldur’s gate in- what, two centuries? He’s used to the city. He’s not so used to nature, and while he may bitch and whine about the dirt and the bugs, he admits there’s something uniquely beautiful about the forest. And Astarion admires beautiful things.
You sleep fitfully, as is typical of you. Your brow wrinkles and sweat beads on your forehead despite the chill of the breeze off the lake. You whimper and turn and your neck is exposed. You usually have your hair secured in twin braids- a little bit youthful and girlish for someone with such a violent heart- but the style leaves your throat bare. You have a pale scar slashed across one side of your tattooed neck. He's seen you absently rubbing at it, sometimes, when you're deep in thought. He wonders how you got it, and more importantly, how you survived it. It runs right over your jugular and it looks like it was a deep gash. The kind of gash that people did not survive. Perhaps someone had used Revify on you. Perhaps you, too, were technically undead. Reanimated. Had there been ink on your neck before, or had you used it to obscure the scar? Did you even remember? So many mysteries. He wants to pick you apart. He wants to know what secrets lay dormant in that infected, precious brain in your skull.
He's staring a little too intently at your neck, he realizes. Unsmiling. Red eyes as dark as the circles lining them. The hunger is thrumming through him. It's not localized to his stomach, because it's not craving for food so much as it is a full-body ache for relief. Now that he's aware of it, it begins to cloud his vision. He takes a swig of the bottle of burgundy, bitter wine he's been cradling all night, never looking away from the smooth column of your throat. He can almost hear your pulse under that soft skin. He can imagine the way your blood rolls through you, pumped by your lovely, necrotic heart.
Oh, he's a bit drunk. He blames it on the fact that you've been dragging him around on so many little excursions out of camp that he hasn't had the time to hunt properly . The last thing he had was that boar, and- well, that had been quite a bit of trouble and had done so little to sate his hunger. Then you'd gone and stumbled into its bloodless corpse and you, being you, had asked all those questions and refused to maybe just let a mystery be a mystery. All he's drunk since is wine and maybe that's not the best for his inhibitions, because he's getting to his feet and walking, silent, to your bedroll.
He stands for a few moments at your side, his red gaze heavy on your prone, sleeping body. Because that's all you are, right now. A body. How many times had people used his body? How many times had people taken liberty with him? Taken whatever they needed to make themselves feel good? It’s a sick thought, he knows, but- well, he’s a bit desensitized to sick thoughts. Sick actions. He’s done worse, he rationalizes. He’s killed people whose only crime was being lonely and gullible and too easy to seduce. He’s not killing you. He’s just going to indulge a little. You may not even wake- you, too, had drunk your fair share of wine before passing out. He remembers Gale commenting on your intoxication and you dryly saying something about wine helping you fall asleep. You might not even know you’d been bitten until morning, and maybe he can convince you it was some sort of wild animal. He wouldn’t be lying, necessarily.
And it's not like he can just ask to drink from you. You'll deny him, because who would willingly let a vampire- spawn or not- drink from them? And he knows there will be that inevitable disgust and horror and betrayal in your eyes when you learn of his true nature. There always is. It’s a bad idea.
But that's the thing about hunger. It defies logic. It consumes. It demands. It brings the most powerful of men to their knees. Which is where he is now, propped up on all fours over you with bared fangs just an inch above your neck.
You wake.
You shove him off of you so quickly it's pure animal instinct- a panic response from someone who seems to be used to waking up to life-or-death stakes. There’s nothing but adrenaline in your eyes as you kick him off you.
Astarion stumbles backward with a quiet wheeze, clutching at his stomach.
"Shit,” he manages, because oh, he’s fucked up.
You scramble to your feet, eyes darting towards your axe where it gleams in the firelight. You’re breathing deeply but neither of you had been loud enough to wake up your other companions. Yet. You could still begin screaming. Summoning the mob and all that. But you’ve never really been the type to have other people do your dirty business for you. So instead you speak in low, hissing whispers.
"What in the hells?" you ask, clearly both outraged and a little baffled. He throws up both his hands in front of him because he’s seen you behead enough goblins to know that you don’t miss when you swing.
"No no- it's not what it looks like, I swear,” he starts, too fast. He’s realizing that climbing on top of sleeping women in the middle of the night isn’t a good look, and that you’re probably thinking the worst. Which is fair, he guesses, because as much as the two of you get along, you really don’t know him that well and he hasn’t exactly given you many reasons to trust him. “I- I wasn't going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood."
He sees it click.
"You're a vampire?" You ask, though it's clear you're not really looking for confirmation. You know the answer. He thinks you've probably always suspected it. You're not stupid, and he's noticed you noticing the odd little puncture marks on his neck. You've made offhand comments about him not being hungry while the rest of the party gorges themselves on whatever supplies they'd scrounged up during the day. You've brought up the unusual pallor of his skin and hair, and his eyes, and… well, clearly you suspected something. He figures that the whole not burning up in the sun thing had been the only reason you hadn't realized his true nature sooner. That and the fact that there were more pressing matters at hand, like the mind flayer tadpoles eating at your brain.
So you continue. "Gods, Astarion." You don't sound repulsed, which surprises him a little. You sound more exasperated than anything, as though he'd just added another complication to your already tedious list of tasks. As far as reactions go, it could be worse. You eye him like you're trying to figure out if this is a fire that needs to be put out now, or if it can wait until morning. You seem a little out of it, maybe from the wine, maybe from lack of sleep, or maybe because you’re reeling from what looks like a very overt betrayal of your trust by an ally. "And you were trying to bite me?"
“No. I mean, yes, but that's-" He considers lying. It comes naturally to him, but he can't quite think of any other explanation, seeing as you caught him in the act. "I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds- whatever I can get. But it's not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better," he adds, because he figures you're considering murdering him and he needs to restate his value. You probably don't need him as much as he needs you, but that's not something he wants you to realize. He can be of use to you. "Please,” he adds, because he’s never been too proud to beg.
(Well. Maybe once- maybe at the beginning of his life. But Cazador had beat - starved - fucked that pride out of him decades ago.)
You keep looking at him. Your eyes bore into his own. He can see his reflection off the shine of them and he looks… small, in your eyes. Like a cornered dog. "Why didn't you tell me?" You say after a worryingly long pause.
He almost laughs, because it's such a stupid question. He resists the urge. "At best I was sure you'd say no. More likely you'd ram a stake through my ribs."
"I almost did, " you reply. "I wake up to you trying to eat me. That’s not okay, you know? Gods above. You just… why didn't you tell me, Astarion?"
He realizes you're not actually asking him. You're saying something else entirely.
You should have told me.
He feels oddly defensive. Which is not fair, probably, considering he’d been the one to break your trust, but it bothers him that you’re lecturing him on trusting others when you know nothing about what trusting others had done to him. Again, he knows this is not a fair feeling to have in the situation, and that it’s not your fault that you don’t know his past, but- but knowing a feeling is not correct or logical doesn’t make the feeling go away. "Do you honestly think anyone would willingly partner up with a vampire? No. And I needed you to trust me. And you can. Trust me. "
"I did, " you say, a little icy. There is a brief pause where he watches you wrangle your anger at his deception under control. It’s fascinating, he thinks, watching someone tame so much rage. It’s like watching a circus performer swallow fire. He is acutely aware of where his dagger lays in its hilt on his thigh. He’s already thinking of justification. Self-defense, although he had undoubtedly been the aggressor in this particular interaction.
But then you inhale slowly. Exhale even slower. You look tired. "I do,” you correct, which surprises him. “If you’re a vampire, I'm… I'm sure that the temptation to drink from one of us would have been… a heavy weight to carry. I don’t… necessarily blame you for giving in.”
It’s not just forgiveness. It’s empathy, as though whatever weight you speak of has burdened you, too. It puts your grace into perspective- you sound like you're believing him for your own sake rather than his. Like you're trying to be a good, forgiving person. That was the thing about altruistic people- their kindness was often self-serving, mustered up to support an internal belief that they were a moral, righteous person. But something about your mercy tastes different than Wyll’s sanctimonious heroics. It seems almost desperate.
And desperation is such a familiar lover to Astarion.
"Thank you,” he says, and his gratitude is genuine. But gratitude does not fill stomachs, and oh, he’s starved. His teeth ache and he has never known limits. He has never known when to stop pushing. So he pushes. His words come out a little halting, but they come out nonetheless. Shameless words. Greedy words.
“Do you think you could trust me just a little further?” It’s a mad thing to ask after you’d just given him so much grace. But the hunger pangs claw at him, and he’ll risk your contempt and scorn for the chance of having the ache abide.
Your expression fades.
“You can’t be serious,” you say, disbelief on your lips.
Which is not a no. He presses on quickly, because doesn’t know how to cut his losses. “I only need a taste. I swear."
And then you do something altogether surprising. You say yes. And Astarion knows he can be persuasive- it’s a skill he’s spent the last two hundred or so years cultivating- but your compliance still surprises him. Because you’re not particularly gullible. His flirtations have always seemed to amuse rather than beguile you. You don’t seem particularly convinced of his virtue. You may be sickeningly charitable, but you’ve seen enough of the evils of the world to know most people probably don’t deserve it. And yet you give the benefit of the doubt anyway.
There’s no logical reason why. Or none he knows. Just another question. Another mystery. You are fascinating.
"Really? I-” he hears the surprise in his voice and catches it. “Of course. Not one drop more. Let's make ourselves comfortable, shall we?"
You lay down on the bedroll. You don’t seem particularly scared or tense for someone about to have a wound inflicted on them. You ask if it will hurt, though. But seemingly more to prepare yourself than out of fear. Pain doesn’t seem to terrify you as much as it does him.
"It might sting a little," he replies. The truth is, he doesn’t really know if it’ll hurt. He had been bitten by Cazador so long ago, and while that had been possibly the worst physical pain he'd ever expereinced- his bones cracking, the marrow hollowing, body morphing into something decidedly unalive- the pain was from the turning itself, not the bite. And he himself has never actually fed from any person before. Animals woud wail, sometimes, but he had never been allowed to feed from people. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to- Cazador, as far away as he might be, still lingers like a breath on his skin. He’s not sure if he can disobey his orders. He’s not sure his body won’t betray him and refuse to allow him to feed from anything more than rats.
You nod. He climbs on top of you.
“Ready?” he asks.
“I think so,” you say. But is he ready? He’s not as certain. But he’s done so many things without being ready for them. This is no different.
So he sinks his fangs into your neck, right on top of your scar.
There's this little pop of skin where he pierces into you, followed immediately by the warm, metallic burst of blood and-
Oh. Oh, but that was different.
The rats always tasted sickly sweet, like rotten fruit. Like mold. Like filth.
You taste-
Your blood tastes divine.
As in it tastes like something more than mortal. Like ambrosia. The heat of it warms his whole body, chasing away a chill he hasn't been able to shake off in decades. It washes the ash from his bones. It fills his stomach, his lungs, his heart. Your blood in his body. Your life. You. It permeates every inch of his cold, unfeeling flesh, and he feels, for the first time since he was bitten, alive.
He can't stop himself. He loses himself. He takes great gulping mouthful of your blood. You squirm in discomfort but you don't push him off. A little breath escapes your lip. A reluctant little noise. His hand cradles the back of your head, now, as he drinks from you. Your skin feels soft. Oh, gods.
Eventually, though, he feels a little shove on his shoulder. "Enough," you mumble. He almost doesn’t hear it, but he feels your fingers curl around his arm. It grounds him.
“Ah- yes, of course.”
He pulls back, his head reeling. He licks your blood from his teeth as he stares down at you with wide, bright eyes. He feels like he’s spent the last two hundred years seeing the world through a cloud of fog, never seeing the world for what it was. Now, though, the fire glows brighter. The light reflects off your hair, your skin, your dazed eyes where you lay sprawled out like a sacrificial lamb, gazing up at him. Angel, is the word that pops, unprovoked, in his head. It’s like he’s seeing you clearly- all the freckles on your face, the sheen on your lips, the slight flush of your cheeks. He is no longer blind. He feels real. He feels present.
"That was amazing," he says breathlessly, as he looks down at you. You move to prop yourself up to a sitting position, though it takes you a moment- clearly, you’re a little lightheaded from the blood loss. He can’t bring himself to care- he feels free. Euphoria courses through his long dried-up veins. No- you course through his veins. Your blood. "My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”
It takes him a moment to recognize what, it is, he feels. He hasn’t felt it in so very long. It comes to him like the face of an old friend. “Happy."
You wipe at your neck. The wound is already clotting, so there’s not much to clean up. You grimace at first, but it softens when you see the look on his face. Whatever that look is. He’s not quite sure. He’s never felt like this before.
“Full?” you ask, your voice slightly hoarse.
No, of course. Never full. He thinks you can tell, from the way you’re watching him. One feeding will never be enough. All the blood in the world will never be enough. The hunger is not gone, it’s just been lulled to sleep. For now. But already he can feel it stirring inside him, aroused by the night breeze and the brine of your blood still coating his tongue.
“Better,” is what he replies.
You lay back down. “Glad to be of service.” It seems the act has drained all the energy out of you, and with it that restlessness that had kept you up so many nights. You gaze at him. “You’re going to go hunting for more, now?” you ask, your voice slightly blurry at the edges.
“Well, no rest for the wicked,” he says lightly. He’s going to tear into some deer after this. He’s going to feast.
“I know it,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m gonna… sleep now. Please don’t wake me up with any more surprises tonight,” you say.
And you trust him enough to fall asleep under his watch again. Even now. Even after he'd just proved he was very capable of exsanguinating you in your slumber. Or maybe that was why you felt so comfortable- he had restrained himself from killing you, and didn't that mean he didn't want to kill you? Surely that proved his intentions were pure. As pure as any of Astarion's intentions could ever be.
“Of course not. Sweet dreams, darling.”
You hum out an acknowledgment as he collects himself and starts towards the forest. But he pauses after a moment.
“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it,” he says. But you don’t reply. He turns back and you’re already out. You sleep peacefully for the first time since he’s met you.
The hunger for blood is not gone. He doesn’t think it will ever be.
But tonight, it rests.