Chapter Text
“I’ve seen worse,” Nanne said mildly.
Astarion assumed the words were meant to be comforting. They certainly didn’t feel comforting inside his tent.
It had felt natural, inviting Nanne to stay with him in his — their — tent. All the fears of them using his body to pay for it had evaporated like the morning sun, once he realized that they would never press him for sex. But more than that, he wanted them to be close. Nanne’s presence was… comforting, especially now that they knew the truth.
Not the entire truth. Just the parts that mattered.
And Astarion now knew the truth about Nanne: they truly cared for him. In a way that he never thought he would welcome, or desire, and especially in a way he did not deserve. But they did. The memories shown through the tadpole were proof enough. And the hug. His skin still tingled at the feeling of them — small but strong, hardy, warm — in his arms, face pressed to his shoulder. It was another thing he never thought he would welcome or desire or deserve. But it felt… good.
That nice, good feeling dissipated like dew before dawn as they stood in his tent.
Nanne held their own bedroll in their arms, which was the only bedroll in the tent. Astarion grasped his elbows as he looked at his tiny little sanctuary for the past two months. Some slats of wood to make a bed. His burial shroud, along with a few other ragged blankets he’d filched from the tiefling refugees. Straw — all right, that he had no idea how he’d tracked that in — and broken blood containers, hoarded in reserve for nights that Nanne finally refused to share their blood and kicked him out of their merry band of weirdos. One flat, half-stuffed pillow.
Nothing else.
It was an inside that did not match the outside. Some poet would have a field day with how the tent was a reflection of its owner, and he’d garrote them for it. Right now, he felt like burrowing a hole into the ground and hiding. Taking a deep breath, he began, “It’s…” But quickly realized he had no idea how to end that sentence, so let it die.
“It is what it is,” Nanne said, and honestly, that was probably the kindest observation they could make. Then, looking up at him before their gaze flitted to the wood slats, “Do you want to make it better?”
He shrugged. Did he? He didn’t know. So many questions circled in his mind, like the bats in the palace. “If you can magic up a feather bed, be my guest, darling.” But instead of light and teasing, his voice dragged on the ground like lead chains.
“Sorry,” Nanne said with a rueful smile, “bards don’t get to learn that spell. But I’ve got ideas.”
And they were, frankly speaking, good ideas. Nanne didn’t bring in the cushions from outside; Astarion let out a silent breath of gratitude at that. No one else in camp had to know what his sleeping conditions were, at least. Instead, they hauled in another bedroll. Astarion blinked as they threw the wood slats right out, then swept the hay into a pile. “Insulation,” they explained. “You had the right idea; a layer between you and the ground helps keep you warm. We’ll weave it into mats as we go.” Then they laid the bedroll on top. In an odd way, it resembled a nest. He rather liked that.
They carried out the glass jars without comment. The broken ones went into the fire, suffusing the camp with a smell akin to roasted pork. The remaining ones Nanne washed out, then placed in a rack Astarion had stolen from the blighted village.
Finally, they reached for the burial shroud — and Astarion snatched it up. “I need this,” he said, his voice far too small.
“You’re right, sorry,” Nanne whispered back, their voice also small. “Sorry.”
They apologized so much. It reminded Astarion too much of Dalyria, of frantic bowing and scraping. “No, darling,” he murmured. “I wasn’t… It’s my burial shroud,” he admitted. “Vampire’s resting place and all that.”
Nanne actually started at that, eyes as wide and round as dinner plates. “Oh f*ck,” they breathed — then blushed. Astarion’s lips twitched as they fidgeted with their hands. “…I guess I forgot.”
“Forgot what, darling?” he asked, smiling.
“That you’re, um, dead.” They shuffled in place. “Undead, actually.” Nanne let out a breath. “Right, let’s… Let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
Astarion almost laughed. Almost.
They situated Nanne’s bedroll so that it was closest to the tent’s opening. When Nanne asked him if he was sure about the placement, he shrugged. “They already know we’re sleeping together, darling. I’m not ashamed of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I know, but we’re not sleeping together now.”
A lump rose in his throat, icy fear still creeping down his spine. “They don’t have to know that.”
Nanne paused, kneeling on their bedroll. “Asta,” they said softly, and the way they said that nickname made all sorts of light and floaty feelings dance around in his chest. “I’m not going to tell anyone about what…” They took a deep breath. “What that bastard made you go through. I promise. I haven’t told Gale or Wyll about your scars. It’s your business.”
“I know, darling,” he said softly. “I trust you.”
“But, if they ask what’s going on between us, I’m not going to lie either.”
He folded his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. “What do you mean by that?”
Nanne set their pack in the corner. “I don’t want them to keep talking about you the way that they do.” They let out a heavy breath. “They think that you’re a…”
“slu*t?” he said lightly, despite the sour taste in his mouth. “Maneater? whor*? Incorrigible rake?”
Nanne winced, as if he’d twisted their arm. “That… sums it up pretty well, yeah.” They smiled up at him faintly. “After our first time, Wyll came up to me and asked if I was okay. Then he said that if I ever needed help chasing you off that he’d be first in line.”
Astarion snorted, because he’d be even more shocked if Wyll hadn’t said anything at all. “Oh, naturally. The Blade of Frontiers, defender of chastity and virtue, helping poor defenseless bards preyed upon by devastatingly handsome vampires.”
“That was the easier conversation to have.” Nanne swallowed, their face somehow alternating between blushing bright red and paling to a wan, sickly color. “Shadowheart asked me if I wanted her to test me for diseases.”
Astarion blinked – then cackled, an actual laugh, so hard he fell down onto his bedroll.
“It’s not funny, Astarion,” Nanne said sourly.
“Oh, you just need a better sense of humor,” he wheezed. “Darling, I’m dead. I can’t pass on diseases anymore than a table could.” Sitting up, still partially breathless, he placed his hand over his heart. “And I pride myself on my hygiene. You’ll never meet a more squeaky clean lover than I.”
Nanne looked at him for a second – then chuckled, shaking their head. “I’m still going to tell them the truth if they ask.”
The laughter died in his stomach as he laid on his side, looking at them. “Which is?”
“What you told me. You want us to be something real, so we’re figuring that out. And I’m happy.”
The ache he’d felt the night before returned in full force, constricting his chest.
“Can I tell them that much, at least?” they asked, pulling aside the covers to their bedroll.
“Of course,” he whispered, voice far more raw than he’d ever allowed before.
“I’m happy.”
Nanne shot a look at him. “Well?”
“Well what?” he asked back.
“Are you going to try out your new bedroll?”
Ah. He opened it up, then slid inside – and immediately tugged the blanket to his chin. “Oh gods, this is so much more comfortable,” he groaned, sinking into the soft downy fur. It wasn’t as good as an actual mattress, but dear gods, he was so tired that anything other than wood slats was bliss. He actually felt a few pops from his spine as he laid down.
“I’m surprised you didn’t steal a bedroll before,” Nanne said, sliding into their own with a soft “oof.”
“It never really occurred to me,” he admitted.
He expected Nanne to say something about that, but they seemed content to leave the subject be. Which only made him more curious. “How did you know that the straw was insulation?” he asked, turning on his side to look at them better. “And you can weave?”
It hit him, in that moment, that aside from the fact that they were very pretty and could sing with the voice of an angel, Astarion didn’t really know anything about Nanne. He could say with confidence that he knew them. He’d known enough to know when to confess his feelings, anyhow. But aside from that one night ten years ago and the few and far in-between facts he’d gleaned from them, Nanne’s past was a complete mystery.
“What other secret talents are you hiding?” he teased, though it came out as a thoughtful murmur.
Nanne laughed softly. “When you’re on the streets, you pick up a thing or two about keeping warm.”
“On the streets?” he asked, eyebrows hitting his hairline. “Darling, don’t tell me you’re an urchin.” They’d mentioned paying rent before, hadn’t they?
“Not entirely. Da’s still alive. I’ve seen his posters around the city. He’s on tour right now.”
“You're telling me that I'm lying in the presence of someone famous?” he asked, hand held to his breast in mock shock.
Nanne snorted. “Gods, no. I haven't talked to Da in, what?” Their fingers curled as they counted. “Uh, fifteen years? I was seventeen.”
Astarion frowned; for an elf, that was akin to being a small child. But they were half drow. “What happened?”
He did not miss how they curled up under their blanket, burrowing into the bedding. “We had a fight. Said some nasty things to each other. Next morning, he was gone. Left me a wallet and my lute.”
A lump rose into his throat. “He abandoned you? Just like that?”
“Like I said, we had a fight. Bad one. I think that was the only time I ever yelled at him in my life.” Nanne sighed, eyes drifting closed. Their lashes looked like snowflakes, fluttering as they spoke. “Anyway, it was the streets from that point on.”
“For how long?” he asked, propping his head up in his hand.
“Six years. Then I managed to get a room at Fraygo’s Flophouse.” They smiled, a triumphant grin. “I’ll show you, when we get to the city. It’s not much, but it’s home.”
Astarion was glad Nanne’s eyes were closed. They’d doubtless be confused by the pained grimace that had passed across his face.
The Flophouse had been ten years ago. Doing the math, that night, they hadn't been huddled next to the fire because they had room and board — they'd still been living on the streets. Another wave of guilt flooded him. He'd nearly brought home a starving child who didn't even have a bed to curl up in. He must have made a sound, because Nanne turned to look at him. Such a young, innocent face. He could scarcely imagine what they’d look like even younger. Abandoned on the streets, alone.
Now he could understand their ire when he’d made that flippant comment about seeing dead urchins frozen in the snow.
“You okay, Astarion?” Their fingers curled up in the bedding. “Do you want me to go? I’m fine sleeping–”
“I am not kicking you out of this tent when it shouldn’t even be mine in the first place,” he said snippily. “You’re staying right here, where I can see that adorable face of yours instead of staring at the ceiling listening to Gale snore for another godsdamned night.”
It was too harsh of a tone, he knew — not the way one should talk to a lover. Yet instead of recoiling, Nanne snickered into their hand. “All right, love.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Good,” he replied haughtily – he was not going to melt just because of a simple pet name – settling himself back down in the blankets. “Still, I hardly know anything about you.”
“Well, as it turns out…” Nanne rolled over so they laid on their side, green eyes glowing in the dark. “My name’s actually Jonathan, I’m a princess of House Nightstar, and I’m married to a tarrasque.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, because after holding back tears for the entirety of the most grueling conversation of his life, what else was there to do? “Oh, really?”
“Uh huh.” Nanne giggled themself, and the sound was like the birdsong he so badly missed. “But really, what do you want to know? I’m pretty boring.”
“Oh, the usual things,” Astarion said. Never mind that he had no idea what the usual things were. Normally at this point in the conversation, he would have his tongue down their throat or whispered in their ear all the various positions he could contort himself into. Just as it had gone ten years ago, this conversation with Nanne was completely off script.
He loved it.
“I, uh…” Nanne’s fingers tapped that fun little rhythm on their bedroll. “My favorite color is purple? The blue kind of purple.”
“Not a bad choice,” Astarion murmured. So I was right to put forget-me-nots on their shirt. He’d had the intuition, but it was nice to know there were still happy coincidences in the world. Up until the Nautiloid, most coincidences were rather unhappy.
“And yours?”
He pursed his lips. “Anything but red, really. Red and gold, absolutely not. Far too garish and gaudy.” Rubbing his chin, he mused on the question. “I suppose… blue. Blue and silver.”
Nanne’s lips quirked up, eyes flickering like candlelight.
“And green,” he found himself saying, voice far softer. “Like emeralds.”
“Pretty.”
“I suppose, since we’re actually an item now, I should ask about flowers,” Astarion said with a sigh.
“You don’t like flowers.” It wasn’t a question.
“They’re far too flashy. And some of the smells, ugh.” He curled up beneath the blanket – was that a fur lining? How nice. “If I never smell rose-scented perfume, it’ll be too soon.”
“I like the littler flowers anyhow.” Nanne’s eyes slowly closed. “You smell nice, though.”
“Rosemary, bergamot, and a dash of aged brandy,” he said proudly. “My own little invention. Covers up the grave rot quite nicely, if I do say so myself.”
Instead of giggling or a compliment, a soft little sigh.
“Oh,” he whispered. “Good night, Nanne.”
“Good night… Asta.”
A lump rose in his throat, eyes pricked and stinging. Asta. Such a simple collection of sounds, and yet the way it made him feel…
It was dark in the tent, but light from the fire still shone through the fabric. It haloed Nanne’s face, their hair shimmering as if it wreathed their head in flames. Though their face was cast in shadow, he could see the bags beneath their eyes and those snowy eyelashes. Looking, really looking, he could see the scar on their lip, cutting across the left corner of their mouth. He should kiss it, sometime. Make them laugh, watch those eyelashes flutter over fuller cheeks.
They’d gained weight. A softer belly, thicker arms to handle pulling back crossbow bolts and carry Phalar Aluve. It was a good change. If he had met a Nanne that looked like this on that night ten years ago, well…
Holding his breath, he reached over and pulled Nanne’s blanket up and over their arms, all the way up to just below their nose. He tucked them in carefully, watching as their face slackened from the resulting warmth. Sinking back into his bedding, he listened to their breathing: slow, low pitched and steady. Fast asleep. Safe.
Closing his eyes, he matched their breathing and began to trance.
For an evil villain’s lair, Astarion expected more… panache.
Granted, Moonrise Towers was no cuddly resort, but it felt more run down and archaic than a true lair. Where were the bodies on spikes? The finery? The glitz and glamour? At least Cazador went to the trouble to decorate his palace, even if it was tacky and tasteless. Moonrise wasn’t a fortress or a gilded castle, it was a tomb crumbling to pieces.
The puddles of slime on the floor didn’t help with the ambiance.
“Disgusting,” he muttered as he shuffled to the side, letting a cultist pass by. At least most of them didn’t stink — though the general bouquet of the tower was somewhere between “graverot, same as usual” and “bog full of piss.”
Nanne took a deep breath, looking at their party. “Remember, we’re not here to start fights unless we absolutely have to. We’ll split up into groups of two, cover more ground. Find out everything you can about where the tadpoles are coming from and where the tieflings have been taken. We’ll meet back up in two hours.”
So, their group paired off — and Astarion was very smug when Nanne beckoned him over. “I knew I was your favorite,” he teased, jokingly taking them by the arm. “Though I could think of a better place for a first date than here.”
Nanne chuckled. “Who says I asked you to be with me because I like you? Maybe I’m trying to make sure you don’t get us in trouble.”
“Darling, I’m hurt,” he gasped in mock horror. “Me? Causing trouble? I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”
“Astarion, you tried to pickpocket a Zhentarim and then they tried to murder us.” Nanne shot him a flat, unamused look, but the blush on their cheeks gave them away. “You’re a beacon for trouble, love.”
Love. He still loved the sound of that on Nanne’s tongue.
“This way?” Nanne said, gesturing to their left. Astarion let them lead the way. He didn’t hold their hand, nor did he walk at their side. Instead he followed close behind their left shoulder, looking around warily. The place practically swarmed with cultists, from goblins to bugbears to humans and elves and half orcs. He sighed as he nearly tripped over a gnome, who at least had the decency to stammer, “A-Apologies, True Soul!” before scampering off.
The bowing and scraping, he could get used to. But Nanne had made it clear that they had no designs to try and take over the cult — and looking at this place, Astarion could see why. The only place more miserable than here was inside the depths of Cazador’s palace.
“Ah, another drow in Moonrise! How fortunate for me.”
Astarion flinched as Nanne jerked around. They’d stumbled into some sort of lab, apparently; test tubes and flasks and kettles were strewn about the place, various dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Their interloper looked harmless enough, just a shorter drow woman with unkempt white hair.
Then Astarion caught a whiff of her and changed his mind immediately.
Everyone, as he’d told Nanne, had a particular scent to them that had nothing to do with soaps or hygiene. A… taste, really. Nanne’s he found particularly pleasant, but most of the time a person’s scent was simply a different note to their overall aromatic composition. A hint of sweetness or bitterness, some musk or sharpness. But this woman? She smelled… wrong. Like rotten food or mold or…
The Kennel.
Then she looked at him, and he nearly turned tail and left on the spot. He’d seen that look in her eyes before during Cazador’s more hedonistic parties. Noblewomen who feigned modesty and decorum, yet evaluated every specimen in front of them like a piece of meat. And naturally, to most, Astarion was the prize stud on auction that they’d bid for each night.
The only thing that kept him in the room was Nanne’s hand resting on his arm. Not gripping, not tugging – just warmth seeping through the spidersilk armor.
He had armor. He had friends. Things were different. He was different. A man, not something to be used.
“You talking to me?” Nanne asked, looking just as shaken as Astarion felt. Apparently the drow had spooked them too.
The drow woman offered a smile that was mostly a sneer. “Araj Oblodra, expert and trader in the sanguineous arts. It is a… pleasure to stand before a True Soul such as yourself.”
Ah. A barely concealed sense of superiority. This was going to be fun.
“I’d like to offer my services, if you’re willing,” she continued. “I suspect, with your choice of company, it would be of quite some interest to you.”
“My choice of company?” Nanne asked flatly.
She smirked. “Not one for coyness, I see. Don’t fret. I’ll ensure your lovely companion–” Astarion snorted “–is perfectly safe from any monster hunters or particularly sharp stakes.”
Well sh*t. So it wasn’t the fact that he was pretty as sin that had the drow all riled up. Astarion kept his lips pressed tight together as he flashed her a particularly loathing smile.
“That’s very kind of you,” Nanne said slowly. “What does a blood trader do?”
“Exactly what it sounds like, with a bit of alchemy on the side. With your blood, True Soul,” and there it was again, the disdain beneath the honorific, “I could brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest, I’d keep for myself.”
“And what kind of potion would that be?” Astarion asked snidely. “Elixir of Hair Removal or Tincture of Lesser Diarrhea?”
The drow sneered, which was a welcome change of pace from her hungry expression before. “I suggest that you keep your companion on a shorter leash, my friend. Lesser insolences have been punished far worse here at Moonrise. General Thorm is most intolerant of blathering.”
“He doesn’t mean any harm,” Nanne said quickly; Astarion held himself back from rolling his eyes as they smiled sweetly at her. “My friend’s just concerned.”
“There’s no need for alarm; it will only take a few drops, I assure you,” Araj said. “Enough for the potion, and for me to reserve for further study.”
“Can’t hurt,” Nanne murmured, holding out their hand. Astarion watched sharply as the drow took out a smaller, needle-like dagger, pricking the flesh of their thumb and squeezing. The familiar hunger coiled in the pit of his stomach as Nanne’s sweet scent permeated the air. Though he didn’t trust the woman, not at all, at least her nauseating stench wasn’t quite so strong as before. Araj pulled out a phial, squeezing the fat droplets of Nanne’s blood inside. They popped their thumb into their mouth as she moved back to her workstation, sliding one drop into a flask and shaking it vigorously. Astarion half expected some puff of smoke or flash of light, but no. Just one drop of blood in some viscous substance that he certainly hoped Nanne wasn’t expected to drink.
“And there we are,” Araj said, handing the flask to Nanne. “All of your best traits in a bottle. While it would be more efficacious if you were pureblooded, I’m sure a half-drow’s blood will provide some use.”
Astarion’s lip curled. “So that’s it? You just hand out flasks with people’s blood?”
Araj chuckled, and he did not like the sound of it. “There is, of course, something else I would like to discuss with you. Your friend – he’s a vampire spawn, isn’t he?”
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone else,” Nanne said sharply, eyes flaring in the dark.
“And I will not. I have no interest in letting such a beautiful specimen end up on the wrong end of a pike.” Astarion’s lip curled as she looked at Nanne with that same haughty superiority. “I am also not as prejudiced as some of my sisters,” she said primly. “They would simply force you to relinquish your bed slave, but here, we are all equal under the Absolute. Name your price for the spawn.”
“My bed slave?” Nanne’s voice cracked in clear stupefaction.
Honestly, as epithets went, Cazador had used far worse. whor*. slu*t. Harlot. Bed slave, at least, was somewhat accurate, considering that he’d never had a choice in the matter. It didn’t stop him from seeing red as he grasped the hilt of one of his daggers.
“I’m not— I don’t own him.” Nanne’s eyes sparked, lips pressed in a thin line. “He’s his own person. We belong to each other. There’s no one and nothing to sell.”
A lump rose in Astarion’s throat at those words — and at Nanne’s hand grasping his, stepping slightly in front of him to shield him with their body, despite being shorter.
“I suppose you would be ignorant of our traditions, half-bred as you are,” Araj replied; Astarion bit back a snarl as Nanne shrank down. “Still, I would like to conduct an arrangement with you. Do you have a name, spawn?”
Astarion paused as he realized the drow was talking to him. Plastering a smile on his face, he made sure to expose his fangs. “Astarion, darling. And it’s as you said, dear,” he replied icily. “We’re all equal under the Absolute. But don’t worry — I won’t bite.” He wasn’t stupid enough to commit murder in the enemy’s camp. Though he did know he’d enjoy fantasizing about tearing her throat out later in bed with Nanne.
“Oh, I would prefer it if you did,” she said, a deceptively bland smile on her lips. “I have dreamed of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl. I would not dare let the opportunity pass while it is within my grasp.”
His jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, you want to be bitten?”
“To feel one’s lifeblood slipping away? To dance between the boundaries of life and death?” Her eyelashes fluttered, lips parted in a sickening hunger he recognized all too quickly. “Yes.”
There truly was a fetish for everything, wasn’t there?
His stomach churned, flipping as her stench washed over towards him. Her arousal mixed with that awful bile taint, giving it a pungent sharpness that only accentuated the wrongness of it all. Despite their smaller frame, he found himself stepping half behind Nanne, recoiling as her eyes didn’t leave him for a moment.
“I would, of course, compensate your master for this,” she said, as if she had said something very reasonable instead of getting turned on over him sucking her filthy blood. “A potion that would greatly enhance the strength of whoever drinks it. A permanent enhancement, mind you. It’s not for sale, but it’s yours – if you bite me.”
There it was: the reward for getting on his back again. Not a rat, not “favors” from party guests, but an actual potion of strength. It was… better than he’d expected, honestly. Just one bite, not even a kiss by the sounds of it. Just one little moment to push through.
Astarion took a deep breath, to steady himself, to prepare – then nearly gagged on the stench of Araj’s blood. The sweet perfume of Nanne’s scent had faded, dulled by saliva and scabbing, yet oddly enough it was Araj’s blood that cut through instinct and gave him clarity.
Cazador had offered him clearly diseased rats before. It was one of the very few lines that Astarion refused to cross – because as awful as a trip to the Kennel was, nothing came close to the agony of finally being fed, given a taste, then having to force it all back up because it was too rotten to stomach. It had also been one of his very few ways to actually frustrate Cazador. The “gall” and “impudence” to refuse food, to willingly starve in the hopes of something better – to somehow still resist, despite everything else that Astarion had done to avoid punishment and get some pitiful reprieve.
Never again.
Swallowing hard, he stopped breathing – then froze as Nanne’s hand rubbed up and down on Astarion’s wrist. Not grasping, again, just gently buffing against the armor. It felt soothing. Safe, despite being in her presence.
Cazador didn’t loom over his shoulder. No, Nanne stood by his side, defended him, despite the drow’s own barbs towards them. They’d understand, wouldn’t they? They’d support him, because they–
“It’s okay,” Nanne said with a smile, and he smiled back. “You can go ahead and drink from her, if you want.”
Every bit of warmth in his body turned to ice water.
“If you want.” He knew the lie in those words. No one liked a whor* who had standards. That wasn’t his role. His was to be charming, sweet, fawning and simpering and so very, very willing to fulfill the fantasy. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he looked down at Nanne, waiting for the cold emptiness to take over. But instead of resigning himself, as he should, his chest tightened, throat raw, every muscle straining and flexing with terror.
This… This wasn’t supposed to happen. Nanne was supposed to understand. They were supposed to… They were supposed to be safe. They were supposed to care. And here they were, using him as a bargaining chip, when they’d said so many sweet and wonderful things last night, when they’d promised…
Sharp daggers pierced his stomach, as if Araj’s blood was already running down his throat.
“I won’t be mad,” Nanne murmured softly, their smile fading, but their eyes still soft and kind. “You can do it.”
The words made no sense. Nanne made no sense. “I…” He turned back to Araj with the most condescending sneer he could manage. “I’m sorry, would you excuse us for a moment?”
He didn’t give a sh*t what answer she gave; he took Nanne by the hand and all but darted to the farthest corner of the room. “Astarion?” Nanne asked, looking as wide-eyed and innocent as a babe in the cradle. “What–”
“Don’t make me do this,” he begged, grasping their hands. “Don’t trade me for some potion. I can… I can pickpocket it from her, o-or I can…” He swallowed, feeling something delicate and fragile within him crumble to dust, because of course he’d been foolish to hope for something more, something better. “Tonight, I can–”
“Wait, Asta, stop.” Nanne’s voice was soft, gentle instead of rebuking or commanding. “This isn’t about the potion.”
“Then what is it about?” he almost shrieked, hands shaking around theirs.
“You haven’t had anything to eat except my blood in tendays,” they said simply.
Oh gods. Of course. The strain of constantly feeding him. He’d been too greedy, too selfish, drinking from them too often. Of course they’d shunt him away, growing frustrated, angry, resentful. After everything he’d done, after all the lies, of course they’d—
“Astarion, slow down– Asta. Breathe.”
He had been breathing, hadn’t he? But then he heard the fast wheezes that sounded too much like gasping.
“Love, come back to me, please,” Nanne whispered. “Deep breaths?”
He inhaled. Counted to three. Exhaled.
Then whispered, “Please don’t make me do this.”
They paled instantly. “Oh gods, Astarion, I…” Nanne’s fingers intertwined with his. “I’m not making you do anything, I promise. I just thought… Aren’t you hungry for something else, anything else? You’ve got to be sick of my taste by now.”
Oh.
That was almost sweet. It would be sweet, if not for the fact the alternative to their blood was a fetishizing drow that reeked of decay and rotting blood and wrongness.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. Her blood is filthy, darling. If only you could smell how rank…” He shuddered. “Something’s wrong with her. No one should ever smell like that, not even if they’re sick.” He’d taken victims back to Cazador that had been ill with blood diseases, completely by accident – not that Cazador had cared for that fact when he’d sentenced Astarion to three months without so much as a nibble of a rat. But even then, their scent had been so subtle that he hadn’t noticed until it was far too late. If their blood was the whiff of rotten food, Araj was the Kennel stacked with rotting bodies.
Nanne winced. “So, if you drink from her, it’ll hurt you?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know, but I…” He swallowed thickly. Being sick, disturbingly enough, wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. “She would be… excited in the moment.” The words were a new brand of humiliation, but sickeningly familiar all at once. He could almost hear the music at the ball: some disgusting tripe about love while forced to endure mockeries of it, Cazador smiling graciously as his patrons fought over a special night in the guest room with his prettiest son. Isn’t it an honor to be so desired, my child? Let her indulge in her fantasies. You want nothing more, don’t you? Just a moment of discomfort, then it will all be over, as always. I raised a better child than this. Picking over his food like an ungrateful brat. No, I know that you will deliver.
You are exactly—
Nanne tore their hands from his, and Astarion trembled in his boots as they marched over.
“Well?” Araj asked, picking at her nailbeds. “Have you reached a decision?”
Astarion squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing.
“No, thank you. We’re going to leave now.”
All the breath in his lungs left him in a rush.
“Surely you can talk some sense into your charge,” Araj said, voice sickeningly sweet. “The potion is–”
“He said no. End of story.” When Nanne’s eyes met his, they flickered, full of warmth. “Isn’t that right, Astarion?”
For a moment, he stood there like an idiot, mouth gaping, because it still felt like a trap. He’d been in this situation before. “Go on, child,” Cazador had whispered in his ear. “If you truly don’t like it, you can always say no.” He’d done that so often at the beginning, when he’d been naive enough to think that word still had power. He’d said it to Cazador’s face, once.
It had taken six days for his tongue to regrow after Godey had pulled it out with the pliers.
But Nanne was not Cazador. This… All of this was different.
“That’s right, dear,” he croaked out, voice ungainly and stumbling. “I gave you my answer.”
There. That was close enough, wasn’t it?
“We’re going to go now,” Nanne said sharply. “We won’t change our minds in the future. Don’t talk to us again.”
And just like that, their hands grasped his again, and their voice was far softer, that familiar murmur. “Let’s go outside. Get some fresh air.”
There wasn’t anything like fresh air in this whole damned cursed land, but he let Nanne pull him out without a word of complaint, stumbling through crumbling corridors and a mess hall where slime dripped from the rafters. Eventually, somehow, Nanne found a door that did lead outside — and the second that the door closed, Astarion bolted to the far wall and felt the lurch of his stomach desperately trying to empty itself into the churning water below.
Of course, his stomach didn’t actually hold anything, so all that got him was a mouth too full of saliva and bile.
“I’m so sorry,” Nanne whispered, voice shaking as he grasped the stones, convulsing with the strength of his heaves. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t— I thought it was a good idea, I didn’t know.”
That was it. That was all. They didn’t know. How could they? They couldn’t smell her blood, and they’d been a virgin before he’d come along. Of course Nanne wouldn’t know. They didn’t know so many things; he couldn’t hold that against them.
It didn’t stop the bile in his mouth, but it did help his hand stop shaking as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” Nanne whispered again. “I’ll go—”
Then froze as Astarion seized their hand. He couldn’t say anything, not yet. But he did look them in the eyes.
“Oh.” It was more of a soft exhale from their lips than anything else. “I’ll… We can just stay out here, then.”
Astarion nodded, before he turned and began spitting out the bile and saliva pooling in his mouth. He wouldn’t cry, not here and now. Perhaps never. Why should he cry? Compared to some of the things he’d been asked to do, a simple bite was tame. Had two months being away from Cazador already made him go soft? Violet would mock him endlessly for it. “Too dramatic for your own good. It’s no wonder you can only bring back meals half the time with an act like that.”
Back sliding down the wall, he sat down with his knees pulled to his chest and the back of his skull against the damp stone. It helped alleviate the pounding in his head, all the tension and strain building in his neck and shoulders. He’d be sore tonight, he knew.
In the distance, something splashed, and he looked up to see Nanne’s arm stretching over the palisade. A chill ran down his spine as he saw the scowl on their face.
But then they looked at him, and it was gone. “I tossed her potion,” they explained quietly. “Probably poison anyhow.” Then they sat next to him, close enough for him to feel their warmth, but only brushing against him a little. It was… soothing.
Safe.
The urge to laugh welled so strongly in his chest at that moment. Just two minutes ago, he’d been convinced that Nanne would sell them off without a thought. Nanne. The bard who had let him sit by a warm fire, who gave him their blood freely, who insisted they rescue the tieflings who had gotten themselves captured in Moonrise Towers because “it’s the right thing to do.” Even now, though, he felt the dregs of fear still sitting in his gut. Shame and guilt mixed with it now to form a particularly bitter elixir. No, Nanne wouldn’t sell him out. They’d never.
That didn’t change the fact that ten years ago, he almost had.
After the sobbing and wailing and sappy reunions, Nanne bid Rolan’s siblings, Danis, and Lakrissa to go enjoy themselves in Last Light, then walked back into camp. Astarion waited for them there, just outside of his tent while Gale cobbled together an evening meal. Karlach laughed with Wyll as he did a silly looking flourish that Astarion recognized as one of the more popular dance moves as of late. Lae’zel was at her grindstone as always. Shadowheart, curiously, wasn’t in prayer as usual. Instead she paced — just like he had been for the last fifteen minutes, stewing in his embarrassment.
But, when Nanne passed by his tent, he was ready. “I wanted to thank you,” he said softly, grasping their arm.
They paused, lingering in the shadows with him. “For what?”
He almost laughed. “For what you said, darling, whilst we were in front of that vile drow.” He swallowed. “And I want to apologize for that display, back there. I know you would never…” His throat ached as he looked at the ground. “I know.”
“It’s all right, Asta.” Nanne gently pulled their arm out of his grip — then his breath caught as they held his hand instead, fingers interlacing. “It’s my fault. You looked uncomfortable. I should have seen that. And I should have known that what she asked was… nasty.” Their face warped into a wince. “I didn’t realize that… People have never acted like that in front of me. But I still let you down.”
“No, you didn’t,” he murmured, sitting down in the cushions. Nanne joined him, easing down with a tired sigh. “You’re innocent, and that isn’t a bad thing. It’s what makes you different from her. From all the others.” A bitterness seeped into his mouth as he stared at the fire. “I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back to him. What I wanted, how I felt about it, it never mattered. You’d think that with all that time spent dulling my mind, I should be used to it by now. The way she leered at me.” His lip curled, nails digging into the nearest cushion even as he squeezed Nanne’s hand. “There’s nothing more desirable in the world than a vampire, is there?”
A long, thorny silence stretched between them.
He stared at the blanket spread before his tent, swallowing past his sore throat. “I’m sorry. I was being too precious back there, wasn’t I? We could have used her potion. I’ve survived far worse than just biting a drow.” He chuckled bitterly. “A moment of unpleasantry doesn’t matter much if there’s a fine reward. Just a moment of disgust to force myself through. I should have just gritted my teeth and let her have me for a bit.”
“No. You shouldn’t have.”
Astarion nearly flinched at how sharp Nanne’s voice was, cutting through the night like a knife. There was a ripple there, a pop that he recognized immediately as the Weave itself. And when he looked into their eyes, the flames roared, sparking like a hammer beating down on white hot steel.
“I don’t give a sh*t about that potion,” they said, but their voice was softer now, calmer. “What I care about, Asta, is you. I’m never going to use you like that. It’s disgusting. No potion or weapon or anything like that is worth hurting you. Understand me?”
A lump rose in his throat. “Yes,” he whispered, voice far too raw.
It isn’t worth the scars. Not anymore.
Nanne nodded, and his eyes widened as they leaned in — but not for a kiss. Instead, they laid their head on his shoulder, a soft and warm weight. But he could only savor it for a second before they jerked back. “Sorry, I should have asked.”
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to, darling. We’re…” The sentence died as he stared at the rug beneath them. Because, in truth, he had no idea what they were. Someone important, obviously, and someone special. Someone he couldn’t bear to lose. But beyond that, a label was ephemeral. Dangerous. As if the second he declared them a lover, they’d fade away, like mist in the sun.
Nanne let the sentence die. “Then, is this okay?” Their cheeks glowed red as they asked. “Cuddling?”
“Darling, that barely counted as a cuddle,” he protested.
“Still, I want to ask.” They swallowed thickly. “If you’re upset from what happened, I can give you space?”
“Gods, that’s the last thing I want,” he huffed out. “Come here.” Fingers sinking into their hair, he guided them to lean against him, head resting on his shoulder. “It’s freezing out here anyway.”
They chuckled softly — but their body easily molded to his, and he felt a warmth that had nothing to do with their body heat inside his chest. The guilt chased it, of course. It was a shadow that always haunted him, these days. But it would fade with time, as it always did. So he carded his fingers through their hair and relished the sensation of a body just resting against him. Just pressure and weight. It was… novel. Soothing.
And though the silence between them was no longer laced with hurt and anger, he found himself talking anyway.
“For so long,” he said softly, his arm winding around their waist to hold them close, “I had nothing. Not even my body. That was owned by Cazador, to be sent out to tempt fools back into his palace for his supper. I’ve bedded thousands of people. I barely remember half of them; most of them didn’t even give me a hint of temporary bliss. I tried to enjoy it, in the beginning,” he admitted, staring back down at the fraying threads of the rug beneath them. “It didn’t last.”
“Oh,” Nanne whispered.
“I let my mind grow numb to it all, I suppose.” A cool breeze ran through camp, wicking away the sweat that had begun to bead beneath his shirt. “It was so easy to think of myself as an actor on the stage. If I just lost myself in the role, then it would… hurt less, when they used me. A knife doesn’t cry when you stab it into meat. Everything and everyone told me that I was just a means to an end, so… I embraced the thought.”
Nanne didn’t crane their head to look up at him, and he welcomed that. He didn’t know if he could ever face them directly when talking about this. “Is that why you’d go away when we slept together?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I didn’t always mean to do it. Especially later, when I…” He swallowed thickly. “When I wanted us to be more than just tawdry sex. But, I suppose, after two centuries of slavery, old habits die hard.” He stared at the flickering fire, watching as Gale diced ingredients. “People loved it, too. The charming whor*, eager to fulfill all their fantasies. What more could you ask for than a devastatingly beautiful man who wants nothing more than to give you a night you’ll never forget?” His chest felt too tight, tongue too heavy. “It felt so easy to go back to that mask. To say those stupid lines and woo you right into my bed.”
“I wish I could have told you no,” Nanne whispered, voice far too pained. “I should have. That night on the riverbank—”
“I sprung a trap, and you walked right into it, exactly as I planned,” Astarion interrupted. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned, cupping their cheek with his hand. He didn’t tilt their face up to meet his gaze; Nanne was never the type to look into his eyes except in rare circ*mstances. But he did run his thumb over the apple of their cheek, his eyes rooted on their face. “Darling, none of this was ever your fault. You… You couldn’t have known.”
And that was the loathsome truth. He hadn't consciously picked them because they were naive. But they fit his type perfectly. Young. Innocent. Sweet.
“But I hurt you,” they protested, even now, sitting in his arms. “I just went along with it, when I knew you weren’t fully there. I should have said something.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he said hollowly, because that was the second loathsome truth. “I’d have just doubled down, darling. And you don’t know…” His throat ached. “For two centuries, everyone I met thought of me in terms of sex, because that’s all I could let them see. And then you came along, and you… you saw me. I threw myself at you and you treated me like a friend. You are my friend. I’ve had so many lovers, a veritable parade, but a friend?” He smiled, pressing his nose to their hair. Their scent was almost floral tonight, clean and sharp after washing up in the river with real, actual soap. “Until you, not a single one.”
“Is that what you want?” Nanne asked softly. “To be friends?”
“Friends and more, my sweet.” Tilting up their chin, he looked into those emerald eyes. “I’m not about to let you start thinking that I don’t want to kiss you.”
They flushed, again, and he fixed the sight in his mind — if their face showed up in his trances tonight, it would be more than welcome. “You want a kiss right now?”
His answer was to lean down and press his lips to theirs. Just a simple peck; he wasn’t about to shove his tongue down their throat in front of the whole camp. But when they parted, Nanne had a dazed, nearly delirious smile on their face, as if he’d kissed them senseless. “Oh,” they whispered, and he bit back a laugh at how breathless they were. “That’s nice.”
“Mmm, yes it is,” he murmured sultrily. Then bit his lip as they frowned, leaning back. “I… Forgive me. It’s so easy to…” Slip. Fall back into old habits. Be afraid.
Yet instead of leaving, they laid their head back down on his shoulder. “It’s fine. And I… Is it bad to say that I like the flirting, sometimes?”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have deflowered you if you didn’t, now would I?”
Nanne snorted, and he half expected a thwack to his side — but it never came. Instead, they curled up against him, hands resting on the tops of their knees as his arm rested on their waist. “I still wish I could have helped you sooner.”
“And what I’m trying to tell you is that you did.” His fingers went back to stroking their hair, relishing the soft sigh of contentment that misted on his chest. “You made me see that I never stopped thinking like I was Cazador’s slave, even in freedom. And…” He took a deep breath. “It was because of you that I realized that I’m more than that. More than a thing to be used. That I don’t… I don’t have to get on my back for breadcrumbs ever again.”
“And I’ll never ask you to,” Nanne murmured.
It was a beautiful, touching thing to say — and very rudely interrupted by Nanne’s growling stomach.
He laughed. “Go on, now. I’m sure Gale’s managed to whip up something edible in this realm of horrors. Cursed mushroom stew, perhaps?”
Nanne chuckled, climbing to their feet. Then, curiously, they didn’t leave; instead, they extended their hands towards him, smiling. “Come on.”
He frowned. “Darling, you know I can’t eat.”
“No,” they said lightly. “But you can still sit with the rest of us. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
Merely a tenday ago, he would have protested, cracked a joke about communal dinner cutting into his very important brooding time. But tonight, he followed Nanne, just their fingertips touching as they sat by the fire. “Well now,” Shadowheart said, dark eyes twinkling. “Look who’s joined us.”
“Ah, Astarion! I was wondering when you’d come round,” Gale cut in cheerily, ladling out bowls of what looked like… mush. Pleasant smelling mush, but mush. “And Nanne, as always, an extra serving.”
“Thanks, Gale,” Nanne said, taking the bowl with both hands. “It looks delicious.”
Astarion snorted — then paused as Karlach gave him a sour look. “Look Fangs, I know it’s not a nice bowl of blood, but Gale works hard to keep us fed.”
“I think he could stand to work a little harder, judging by that bowl’s contents.”
“The look of food has no effect on its taste,” Lae’zel said, shoveling her food into her mouth with military efficiency. “Nor its nutrients.”
“Ah, but it does affect the appetite,” Gale conceded, sitting down with his own bowl. Idly, Astarion noticed Nanne leaning against him again as they started to eat. Not a true cuddle by any means, but more contact than they’d ever shared with him in front of the others. “Once our unwelcome guests are evicted, I’d love to host everyone in my tower. I make a marvelous Hundur sauce! Perfect for roasts.”
“We’d love to take you up on that, Gale,” Wyll said kindly. “It’s been years since I’ve visited Waterdeep — or had a roast.”
“Gods, a roast,” Karlach sighed, a dreamy look on her face. “I could eat a whole cow by now.”
The conversation shifted as they ate, turning to different types of food. Apparently, githyanki actually ate miniature space hamsters, which was not a combination of words Astarion had ever expected to hear in his undeath. To his surprise, Nanne didn’t interject into the conversation much, even after they’d finished eating and scrubbed out their bowl. They seemed content to sit with him in silence, still leaning against him as the fire flickered.
Then, to Astarion’s embarrassment, Nanne whirled around to look him with a soft “Oh.” Their hand brushed his. “You must be hungry.”
He was hungry. He hadn’t had so much as a droplet of blood pass his lips for two days. Yet, to his shame, their words from before still swam around in his head. “Aren’t you hungry for something else, anything else?”
It was kind of them to say. But was it kindness that had prompted those words, or exhaustion and weariness? Was Nanne hoping that he’d say yes? The pendant he’d stolen from the Emerald Grove revitalized them and cured their blood loss, yes, but…
Astarion forced himself to smile. “Oh, it’s nothing, darling.”
He’d survived for far longer on far less. A few hunger pangs wouldn’t kill him. Hardly anything would.
Nanne’s lips, however, pursed together in a thin line of obvious disapproval. Astarion blinked as they looked at him for a long, long moment — or, well, at his mouth. It was one of the most intense stares he’d ever seen, and yet completely unthreatening. Strange.
With a soft little groan, they got up from the ground, then walked over to the fire. The camp went silent as Nanne stretched their upper body over the flames, craning their head to the side.
“Nanne, what are you doing?” Gale asked, utterly baffled.
Nanne… smirked? “I’m heating up dinner for Astarion.”
…What?
Karlach burst into uproarious laughter, slapping her knee so loud it made a deafening smack. “Awww! That's bloody romantic, soldier!”
“Do you not get tired of sacrificing your blood?” Lae’zel asked seriously, even as the others let out a few chuckles; Shadowheart was clearly trying to hide her laughter by clapping her hands over her mouth.
“No, not really,” Nanne said simply. “We’re a team, right? It’d be rude if one of us starved while the rest ate.”
“Ugh, don’t tell us we’re going to have to watch,” Shadowheart said dryly, though there was still a smirk on her lips. “I’d rather not see our darling bard turn into a husk right in front of us.”
“Oh no, that view is for my eyes only,” Astarion teased back.
“Speaking of,” Nanne said, stepping back from the fire. “We should get a headstart on sleep. We’re going to the Thorm Mausoleum tomorrow.” They turned, holding out their hands. “Ready for bed, Asta?”
Astarion chuckled, letting them pull him off the ground. Their grip was surprisingly sturdy. “You don’t need to ask twice, dear.”
Nanne rolled their eyes but otherwise didn’t say anything as they retreated into his — their — tent. Sitting down on their bedroll with a soft “oof”, they took off their boots, then their jacket. “Whenever you’re ready,” they said, looking up at him expectantly.
Astarion froze.
“I mean dinner,” Nanne quickly clarified. “For you. Do you want me to lay down? I can lay down.”
If he had actual warm blood in his belly, he would have flushed. “Oh. Er, yes, if you’d like.”
Yet they remained sitting, legs crossed. “Maybe, before you eat, we should talk about some things first?” they asked softly.
Astarion sat down on his own bedroll, leaning back on the heels of his hands. “Such as?” This whole night felt off kilter, in so many good and uncomfortable ways.
“The whole sex thing,” Nanne said, hands fidgeting in their lap. “I know that’s off the table, but what else?”
Ah. He swallowed, staring down at the patch of bedroll he could see between his legs. “I… I’m not sure.”
“You said kissing is okay. Do you like kissing?”
“With you, yes,” Astarion said softly, a fang digging into his lip idly. “And… The hug was lovely.”
It was nice that Nanne was even asking what he wanted. But therein laid the problem. It wasn’t like he’d tread this ground with anyone else. Even those that he brought back to Cazador that had been good and kind and innocent, the Sebastians of the world, they had just blithely gone along with whatever he suggested. And, more than that, the idea of going though a list of sex acts and crossing them off felt… stifling. Anxiety inducing.
The undeniable proof that he was broken.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know what I want.”
There. Not a concrete “no,” but also not a lie either. Just the simple, honest-to-gods, humiliating truth.
Because there was a part of him that did want to have sex with Nanne, even with his stomach twisting into knots and his palms cold and clammy at the very thought. It was what they deserved, wasn’t it? Being lavished with all the affection he’d so coldly and cruelly denied them, the affection that they’d been starved of their whole lives? And it wouldn’t… It wouldn’t be bad. Nanne was gorgeous, all soft warm skin and strong hands and sweet little gasps and whimpers. They’d never hurt him, not even unintentionally.
That was the problem. Even during that night in the woods when he hadn’t ever finished, the sex had never been awful or painful.
But it had never been good, either.
And Astarion wanted it to be good. He wanted the arousal to be real, the feelings to be real, the sounds pouring out of his lips to be real and not him Fading into nothing and performing. He wanted to get an erection because he was aroused, not because someone moved against his co*ck the right way. He wanted to finish not because he’d been stimulated enough, but because it was Nanne and he found real pleasure in their body. He wanted… He wanted to want sex, and intimacy, and all of the other bells and whistles that came along with whatever the hells this relationship was supposed to be.
He just had no idea how to get there.
“Maybe we just hug and kiss and hold hands,” Nanne said softly, yet simply, as if they were talking about dinner plans instead of how to navigate this wretched, awful minefield. “And I’ll ask if you want to.”
That was an answer that was just as humiliating as his confession. Hugs. Kisses. Holding hands. Such weak, meager crumbs compared to the feast he could give. Things that ordinary lovers shouldn’t even have to ask about. He opened his mouth to say that, that they didn’t need to ask, but the words died at the simple, pure sincerity in Nanne’s eyes.
“I’d like that,” he admitted, leaning forward and pressing his knees together.
“And, if things go… more,” Nanne said, a little awkwardly, “we can talk about it before? About what you’re okay with?”
He snorted. “What, like what safeword to use?”
“What’s a safeword?” Nanne asked.
Dear sweet gods.
“Yes, darling,” he said quickly, “that sounds very reasonable.”
Nanne’s eyes narrowed in suspicion for a moment, but let it drop. “Good. But for now, I like this. What we have.” Their voice came out soft, hesitating. “I think I’d like to take it slow too, for now.”
Oh.
Astarion’s cheeks couldn’t burn with shame, but his chest could clench. In the past, he’d always tried to phrase his behavior with innocents as a gift: the best night of sex they could possibly have before they died at Cazador’s hands. Going out with a bang, when he tried to put a humorous spin on it. He was so skilled at pleasuring others, after all. That was how he’d thought about it with Nanne: the best sex of their life, to ensure they’d never sell him out, never betray him. What more could they possibly want? Why trifle with the little things when he could give them the finest from the start?
But now he felt like he’d shoved a bottle of Blingdenstone Blush down their throat. It didn’t matter how sweet the wine tasted when you choked on it.
“Of course,” he said softly. “We… We can take it as slow as you would like.” Somehow, that was far easier than saying he wasn’t ready for sex.
Nanne smiled. “As slow as you’d like too. Promise?”
He blinked, then nodded. “I promise.”
“Good. Now, you’re hungry.” They eased back down into their bedroll, letting out a soft sigh as they stretched out. The invitation was clear as day, yet as Astarion crawled on his hands and knees to loom over them, he hesitated.
The first time he’d fed from Nanne, it had been like this: his body over theirs, feeling each jerk and twist of their frame beneath them as he clutched their head. He didn’t know how to feel about that. There hadn’t been any arousal that he could remember, but he’d been so overwhelmed by the taste of the blood of a thinking creature that he hadn’t even stopped to think about it. The thought of taking that same position, especially when they’d just finished talking about his wants, his limits…
Nanne’s head tilted slightly. Then they smiled, rolling up the sleeve of their shirt. “Here?” they asked, holding up their arm.
Swallowing down his relief, Astarion mumbled, “Thank you,” before kneeling at their side instead and biting down into the crook of their elbow.
There were a few disadvantages to feeding from Nanne while they were awake — the first being the soft but unmistakable gasp of pain as his fangs broke their skin and he took his first gulp. He froze, muscles tensing and straining, not daring to breathe. If he breathed, he wouldn’t be able to stop again.
“I’m okay,” Nanne whispered, “it’s okay, go ahead.”
Closing his eyes, Astarion took another deep pull from the artery, and this time Nanne’s sound was a soft exhale. Less pained, but still with a bit of tension, some discomfort. He almost pulled away, insisted they get some sleep, that he could try again while they were unconscious. But their taste was so intoxicating, their sweetness so flavorful yet delicate as it slid down his throat and into his stomach. In the back of his mind, he realized what was happening, his instincts taking over as he slipped into bloodlust. But… it didn’t seem like the right term. Lust implied an overwhelm, a frenzy of sensation and desire. Drinking from Nanne wasn’t overwhelming, it was soothing. Even on that night, sating a centuries-deep hunger, he’d felt a delirious sort of relief.
And he didn’t want it to stop.
Forcing his eyes open, he fumbled out with his free hand, awkwardly reaching for Nanne’s other arm while holding up the one he’d sank his teeth into. Nanne blinked, eyes dim and hazy, but slipped their hand into his proffered one, a simple but sweet smile curling up their lips as he interlaced their fingers.
Nanne’s hand squeezed his every so often as he drank and drank — at first, tightly, but then softer, just gentle presses of their fingertips between his knuckles. It was… nice. A completely different type of euphoria than their blood in his mouth. Sounds of his own began to pass his lips, thankfully muffled somewhat by the crook of their elbow. Little moans, soft sighs. A warmth pooled low in his belly, but nothing like arousal; his co*ck didn’t strain in his trousers. No, this was… it was intimate, but in a way that he’d never used the word for before. It wasn’t just swallowing their blood, it was accepting it as a gift. Their life, willingly offered for his sake, freely taken with no expectation.
When he pulled back, licking away the drops that welled to the surface of Nanne’s skin, the flush that his body had tried to summon all night burned in full force.
The expression on Nanne’s face was hazy, eyes heavily lidded. But not in desire, despite how they looked just as flushed as he felt. It was… sleepy. Content. As if they’d just woken from a nap, still coming alive to the world around them.
“I want to kiss you,” he whispered hoarsely.
Nanne didn’t speak. They simply squeezed his hand again, nodding with a lazy smile.
When he crawled over them, he felt none of the anxiety that had pooled inside of him before. That sweet, gentle warmth eased it all away as he slipped his free hand under their head and lifted it up from the bedroll. Fingers curling in soft hair, he leaned down and kissed them. Not the chaste, simple peck he’d given them just a few hours earlier, not with tongue and teeth as he’d done during sex. A… real kiss. Their lips moving together, their chests brushing together, heat radiating between them, but not overflowing.
When he pulled back, he looked at Nanne, truly looked at them — then smiled as he kissed the scar on the corner of their mouth.
Then, he realized with a start, that by kissing them so fully, he’d just smeared their own blood all over their mouth. “sh*t,” he murmured, reaching for one of his blankets. “Here, darling—” But Nanne just giggled, eyes squeezing shut and head shaking with mirth as he tried his best to wipe their face, and his own, clean. “There,” he sighed, smoothing back their hair. “Much better.”
Their giggles died down as they looked up at him. “Happy?” they asked, squeezing his hand again.
The question made his throat burn — but he nodded.
“Good. I think… I think I’m going to sleep now,” they murmured with a yawn, rolling onto their side. They moved slowly, too sluggishly as they peeled back their blankets, and Astarion hastily reached for his pendant, pressing it to their skin. A burst of green light later, and their face glowed again, motions far more steady. “Oh. Thanks,” they said, smiling sweetly up at him.
“Lae’zel asked a good question, you know,” he found himself saying. “Don’t you get tired of this?”
“Feeding you? No.” Nanne eased into their bedroll, snuggling in until the blanket came up to their chin. To give them their space, he moved to his own bedroll — then paused as they still held out their hand.
After slipping beneath the fur lined cover, he took it, fingers interlacing. “It hurts, though,” he murmured softly. Already the camp had gone quiet, a false sort of serenity. “And you look… drained, after.” He took a deep breath. “It can’t be pleasant.”
Cazador had drained him, the night he’d been Turned. He couldn’t remember it fully — not just from the dulling of his memories, but because his mind immediately shirked away from the thought whenever he tried to recall it. It was all tied up in pain and rage and the all consuming terror of knowing that he was going to die. The physical sensation, he couldn’t recall, but the emotions? Cazador had been excellent at summoning those same emotions over, and over, and over again. Not to the same intensity, not with the knowledge that he couldn’t die, and Cazador would never truly kill him. But a burn was a burn, and it could still hurt, even if it didn’t char all the way down to the bone.
It couldn’t be the same for Nanne, because they’d never go through with this otherwise. But the look on their face as he’d fed hadn’t been one of stifled pain. It had been… relaxed. Calm.
“It does hurt, at first,” Nanne admitted sleepily. “It’s cold. Best way I can put it. But then it all goes numb, and…” Their lips twitched up, cheeks still rosy. “I feel you there. Like I’m lying there with you, and there’s a warm fire, and I’m about to fall asleep. It’s not bad.”
Lying together — like they had last night. Like they would in the future. Oddly enough, the way Nanne described it made perfect sense. It was still different for him, more exhilarating than just sharing a cuddle. But maybe, because it was freely given instead of taken, feeding from them wasn’t a burden. It could be better.
Safe.
“Good night, Asta,” Nanne mumbled, fingers still loosely entwined with his.
“Good night, darling,” he whispered back, closing his eyes as he matched their breathing and slipped into his trance.
