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podcastenthusiast · 10 months

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(Little fic set during the first Long Rest. Astarion experiments with the new limits of his vampiric nature. It goes badly and Tav helps.)

Now on ao3

The atmosphere at camp that first night is fraught with worry and uncertainty, everyone reeling from the recent trauma. Reminds you of home, really. You know a thing or two about sharing space with the only handful of people in this world going through the same horrid experience as you.

Now here you all sit sharing a meal together, too. Or, well, they are.

"Something wrong, Astarion? You're not eating."

The half-orc is looking at you with suspicion—no, with concern. They are all looking at you. Then this is your cue. Time to put on a show. Play your part.

"Well," you sniff haughtily, "to be honest, this is hardly the caliber of cuisine I'm used to. No offence meant, darling."

"None taken; Gale cooked."

"And I did my best with our severely limited provisions, thank you very much. Sorry it isn't up to your standards, Astarion."

You conjure distant memories of decadent meals as unreal to you now as the forgotten color of your own eyes. Can't have anyone sneaking a peak into your mind through your shared connection and seeing blood and vermin--your usual sustenance.

"Even so, please try to eat something," she insists.

"Why? To build team camaraderie? I can think of far more exciting ways to get better acquainted."

"We all need to keep our strength up," she says. "For the journey to that cure Lae'zel spoke of."

Maybe I don't want a cure, you almost snap. But that wouldn't align with the image you've woven for them of a carefree magistrate who must have a comfortable life in the city worth returning to. They cannot know the truth. At least not until they trust you enough to tolerate a monster in their midst. Until you've proven yourself more useful alive.

So you regard the stew warily. Hunger gnaws at your gut, never sated, but only for blood. Still... After a full day in glorious sunlight, perhaps you could decide to push your luck just a bit further. Who knows what other remarkable exceptions to your condition the tadpole has provided? What's the harm in a little experimenting?

You tentatively lift the spoon to your mouth.

———

Later, while the others are asleep in their beds, your evening is spent retching up the meager contents of your stomach into the bushes. Turns out the mind flayer tadpole can't or won't alter every inconvienient facet of your undead physiology. Walking in the sun? Yes, by all means. Eating food? Very much still a no. Makes perfect sense!

"I see Gale's cooking really didn't agree with you."

Her voice manages to startle you. Not many people can do that anymore. Damn. It will be more challenging to seduce her after she's seen you like this, so weak and sick. It's okay. You are a professional, after all.

You fumble for an explanation that would satisfy your traveling companion. Would she believe a garlic allergy, or is that too on the nose? You could claim someone tried to poison you. Or you did it yourself to avoid the inevitable transformation but got the dosage wrong, play her sympathetic heart like the strings of her lyre. That could work.

But she doesn't ask any questions, for which you are immensely grateful.

Your stomach rolls and lurches painfully again. You taste something metallic on your tongue, subtly spitting out a clot of old blood into the grass. Pray she doesn't see; she would think it's already too late for you. She fears the tadpole—fears death, fears becoming something else, losing control of her body, as any reasonable person would in this situation. You almost want to tell her things can get so much worse than that. Worse than she is even capable of imagining.

"Astarion, hey. Breathe."

You breathe. There's a warm pressure against your back. Her hand, you realize, solid and soothing.

"Look at me?"

You look at her.

She touches your forehead. Gentle. You can't recall the last time anyone touched you like that.

"No fever," she mutters as if to herself, withdrawing the hand. Your eyes linger on the veins in her skin. "You feel too cold, in fact, you're shaking. Come sit by the fire."

You obey. Allow her to coax you over to a bedroll. Somehow you have fooled her into believing you're worth caring for.

"I didn't know you're a healer," you hear yourself saying. Where are you? You don't feel entirely present in this moment. Perhaps you haven't been for quite a while.

"Because I'm not. Just a mother," she says, a touch wistfully, and you realize how little you truly know about this woman whose throat you held a knife to mere hours ago. She carries herself like a soldier but calls herself a bard. Probably middle-aged, if the greying hair and lines beneath her eyez are any indication. And she has at least one child, apparently. You wonder vaguely if anyone waits for her back in Baldur's Gate. You wonder how it feels to be missed.

You don't know what to say, however, so you don't speak.

"It's okay to be scared, you know," she says quietly. "I'm scared, too. But we're in this together."

You laugh bitterly. She sincerely thinks it is fear making you ill, doesn't she, like some pathetic creature. A mistaken assumption, obviously, but...

You are, though.

Terrified.

A fear so bone-deep and familiar it is home to you. You're afraid this has all been some bizarrely wonderful nightmare, that you'll wake up any moment in a gloomy crypt with Cazador looming over you. Even more afraid that it's real and you actually have something to lose. You would sooner eat another wriggling parasite--hells, an entire pot of that damn stew—than go back to Cazador.

He will find you, you're certain. He will send hunters to track you down like a dog. Escape is impossible. This is nothing more than a brief reprieve in the misery of your existence.

You're a little afraid, too, of her. Of this unrelenting, undeserved kindness. Of what happens to you when it goes away.

"Why are you helping me?" you ask. She must want something. Everyone does.

"Maybe I just need you well enough to fight tomorrow," she offers. "Or, consider: you're a person who could use some help. Simple as that."

"You're too good for this sorry world," you say it like an accusation. Too good to me.

She shrugs. "Well, go with the first answer then. Need anything?"

"No, I think not."

The one thing you need, you don't dare ask for. Not yet.

"Try to get some rest, okay? I had last watch so dawn can't be too far off."

"Wait."

"Yeah?"

"I...I would appreciate if you didn't mention this to the others."

That earns a strange look from her, but she nods. "Of course. Good night, Astarion."

You watch the sunrise for the first time in centuries. It is completely worth the awful, sleepless night which preceded it. Your days are numbered, you know, between the parasite and Cazador, but you are damn well going to make every second of that freedom count.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #sorry i had to write some hurt/comfort #be warned it's a little gross but not too much #i'll post on ao3 later

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qzwrites · 6 months

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nykalaeni/astarion 2

skipping ahead a good bit! nykalaeni had sex with lae'zel, but when lae'zel was like "what if we were serious" she was like "haha what? no" then the next night kind of leaned into the moment for a kiss with wyll

i have not repeated the in-game conversation with astarion where he is obviously surprised anyone would pick him over anyone else, but it occurred to me that the conversation only accounted for wyll, and not the thing with lae'zel that happened in the middle of the night and which lae'zel would absolutely not have brought up with the rest of the group lol.

"Why did you think I was going to be with Wyll?" Nykalaeni asked. "You never thought that about Lae'zel, and we did more than just kiss."

"Lae'zel has made it abundantly clear she is not interested in relationships," Astarion said. "But hold on, you only kissed him? The way he was going on about it, I thought you'd exchanged heartfelt vows. Or at the very least had sex."

Nykalaeni groaned and let her head drop to the pillow. "Gods," she said. "At least Lae'zel told me she wanted more. If he'd asked if it meant anything, I would have told him no!"

"I beg your pardon again," Astarion said, "but when did Lae'zel tell you she wanted more?"

"The night before last," Nykalaeni said. "She was weird about it, I wasn't sure what was going on at first because she demanded I fight her to prove I was worthy, but then she wanted me to tell her I was hers. It was hot, but it was also...I mean, she was intense even when it was just sex. I don't know if I could handle being in a relationship with her."

Astarion was practically gaping at her. "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that you chose me over someone else twice now?"

That really wasn't how she would put it. Wyll had forced her hand by deciding on his own that a single kiss meant she was going to be with him and stop sleeping with Astarion; Lae'zel had decided she wanted more and was unwilling to keep on the way they had been. Nykalaeni didn't understand that anymore than she understood Wyll, but at least it meant Nykalaeni was clear on what was happening.

"Would you date Lae'zel?" Nykalaeni asked.

"I cannot imagine the chain of events it would take for that to be an option," Astarion said. "But I can think of little scarier than being the subject of such devotion as she shows to the other things she cares about."

"And Wyll decided on his own that one kiss with him would mean more to me than anyone else," Nykalaeni said. "I don't know what I would have said if he had actually asked, but he didn't, and that's weird and presumptuous. You've always been up-front with me, and we want the same things."

"Hm," Astarion said. He reached out for a lock of her hair, letting it slide over his fingers. "I hope you're not saying I'm the best of a lot of bad options."

She laughed. "You are not a bad option," she said. "To be fair, I don't think Lae'zel is, either, she's just...not for me. Wyll should probably learn to talk about things with the relevant parties, but I'm sure he'll make someone more romantic than me very happy someday."

"So I'm the best of several unappealing options," Astarion said. He let her hair drop from his hand. "That's not much better, you know."

"What happened to mister suave and confident?" Nykalaeni asked him, smiling. "You are very appealing." She leaned over and kissed him. Then, since it did seem to be bothering him, she added quietly, "I didn't expect you to want to make this official, but I do like it. I like you." For some reason, she thought about Lae'zel again, and borrowed the words: "I am yours."

Astarion swallowed, the knob of his voice box bobbing in his throat. "Yes, well," he said. "I thought we'd established that. Sorry, everyone, she's taken." He tried to say it lightly, but it wasn't as convincing as it might have been before he spent several minutes fishing for reassurance.

#bg3 #this bit doesn't feel finished to me but i got nothing else so #nykalaeni #fanfic

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zorkaya-moved · 9 months

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❛ enemies make the best lovers, you know. ❜

[From Astarion!]

@nouvomond

Enemies, he says. She cannot disagree with the initial dynamic of tension and desire to have someone you despise under you. Then again, she doesn't experience hate like others do. She experiences pettiness, but not hatred. Hatred is born from strong emotions, but she lacks such strength in the emotional vault of her internal self. Astarion seems to have an abundance of emotions; good for him. Even now, she does not hate Mephistopheles or Gortash or Ketheric or anyone from her past who has hurt her, chained her, or used her power.

Then again, you don't need hate to see someone as an enemy. The list of enemies who'd love to have her for themselves is long and expansive, be it in Baldur's Gate or across Faerun in general. Maybe she sees others as nuisances, not enemies. A hero is not an enemy but another player on the chessboard. What is an enemy in the eyes of someone who has not 'lived' as others do? Her existence distances itself from others, overlooking everything from another perspective. If she were honest, Zarina envies Astarion's and everyone at the camp's ability to feel so strongly. After all, she is great at mimicking and pretending to 'feel' while inside it remains cold, deathly cold.

"Not always, but I can see where you're coming from," she laughs, leaning back against the tree bark. The Sun is setting and they'll enter the nighttime soon. Astarion's voice must've led countless to their misery. A charming personality, a flirty behavior, and a mystery to hide away reality. Then again, those scars on his neck aren't really hidden from the plain sight either. Golden eyes look away from him as to not intrude upon his own privacy (you'll tell when you're ready or when you're caught). Her gaze and insight are known to be rather... intense if she wants to study someone. Thus, it's turned away as a show of respect. "Have you had many to compare so nicely, Astarion? I didn't expect that. Did the edge get you all excited? The possibility of a knife being at your throat?" Or a stake.

Then, she decides to play along a bit more. The scenario on its own is quite intriguing. Her love for domination and watching others' reactions to her existence is a whole 'nother "sick" hobby of hers. "I'd say I'd find an enemy as a lover exciting if they hated me but just couldn't get enough of me. Imagine the conflict inside their heads. They hate me so bad but I can get them off better than any lover they've ever had and it makes me so mad with anger and frustration." Her chuckle is too melodic and too soft for someone who's just something like that. "Is that why you think enemies make the best lovers? Or did you have something else on your mind? Do share."

#❄ ― IN CHARACTER. ╱ you breathe by the sun，i breathe by the moon.#me @ zarina: i didnt need you to say anything but you decided to be a sick and twisted woman huh #nouvomond

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owlespresso · 4 years

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Glad your requests are open again! Could I get some Astarion with an s/o that is into biting?

Ask and ye shall receive! If you like this work and would like to support me and what I do, consider taking a peek at my ko-fi, which can be found here: https://ko-fi.com/owlespresso

The grass is dulled with the first touches of winter. It’s only a week into the lifeless season, yet the temperatures have taken a nose dive. Which is why you count your blessings now, staring up at the grey skies, back nestled against the dying foliage.

It’s going to snow, soon. The eerie swarm of clouds that hangs above the forest tells you as much, but you remain where you are, taking comfort in knowing shelter is only a few steps away.

It would be a shame to move when Astarion is seated right next to you, having plopped himself down of his own accord. You like to think it’s significant progress, given the open disdain he didn’t hesitate to show you during the first days of your travels.

He’s been rattling on about the last battle you found yourselves in, complaining at the sudden change in weather, and theorizing the parasite that’s nestled snuggly within your brains. Just jumping from one topic to the next as though he’s been bottling all these thoughts up, waiting to dump them on the first person he can trust to listen.

You have to wonder if you’re the closest person to him among your little group. Does he seek you out more than he seeks the others, or are you just imagining it? Just hoping for it?

You wrinkle your nose and try not to think about it, feel a flush of relief when he at last quiets.

Not that you ever want him to stop speaking, not with that velvety voice of his. But you try to keep your thoughts distinctly away from your looming, seemingly inevitable fate. You try to preserve and fan the flames of your hope.

“Do you… have you ever gotten tired of it, yet?” you ask him, staring up at the harsh, grey skies. Winter’s bitter tinge has long crept across your skin and hooked its claws into your bones, even through your thick sleeves. “All of the traveling? And relying on our companions?

Astarion gives a small huff. His gaze remains stuck on the forest that stands on the other side of the brook. Its branches have been picked clean by the changing seasons. He’s thinking, you realize, about his next meal. About the next forest creature he will descend upon with teeth and daggers, about the next unsuspecting morsel he’ll prey upon.

The thought makes you swallow. Not out out fear, but something distinctly different. A warm, gooey feeling you don’t want to think about.

“Please. This is the freest I’ve been in the last two hundred years. I will gladly take the wretched swamps and mile long treks over Cazador’s dingy dungeons. Any day. In a heartbeat—someone else’s, of course, given the state of mine.”

His gaze sweeps from the cluttered horizon to sweep up and down your lounged body, lingering on the swell of your hips, the round of your chest. He studies with an open fascination that makes you want to curl up and away from him. It’s a keen intrigue, something deep-seated and predatory. Even after traveling with him for two weeks, you’re still defenseless against his low, crooning voice and hooded, sultry gazes.

“Mm,” you hum in acknowledgement, because you’re not sure what else to say to that.

“As for our merry little band of miscreants… you depend on me as much as I depend on you. It’s an even trade, as far as I’m concerned,” he waves off your concerns with little to no concern, bringing a knee to his chest whilst the other leg remains stretched out in front of him. “And if you’re worried about my personal opinion on you all as individuals... well, let’s just say I have my favorites.”

“And where do I fall on your list?” you can’t help but ask, genuinely curious rather than teasing. You can see your breath in the air, your words coming out as a frosty plume. They come out without thinking, and for a brief moment you nearly panic. Heat rises to your cheeks as you struggle for the words to walk it back.

“Oh, you? Well, you’re my favorite,” he replies with smooth ease, his voice dipping down to a sultry purr. The grass shifts and crunches underneath him as he shifts to lean over you, fixing you with a wry smile. All too soon, you’re reminded of a few nights ago, him hunched over your neck, eyes alight like a predator’s. The now nearly faded marks on your throb with the memory. His handsome profile, lit softly by firelight.

“Really?”

“Of course. No one else in our merry little band has offered themselves up on a silver platter. I’m quite sure they would balk at the idea of feeding a vampire. I can think of a few who would come at me with a stake as soon as I revealed my true nature,” he sighs languidly, a hand reaching down to cup your cheek. His palm is cold against your skin, but your breath hitches and you shut your eyes, allowing him to nudge your face to the side, revealing the stretch of your neck to him. “So pliant, too. Though I would prefer to think this aspect of your personality is reserved for me and me alone.”

“Well, I’m not going to roll over for just anyone,” you assure him with a roll of your eyes. There’s no bite in your voice, but you feel a roll of warm anticipation hit your gut when he fixes you with a keen gaze.

“Consider me flattered. And most grateful. Might I encroach upon your kindness just a tad more this afternoon?” His eyes are hooded, his smile widening because he knows you’ll agree. You exhale shakily.

“Go ahead,” you shut your eyes, brace yourself for the hook of his teeth into your waiting flesh.

“You are a delight,” he flatters shamelessly. His breath brushes against your skin, prompting goosebumps to raise along your arms. Your heart thump, thump, thumps against your ribs like a bird’s wings against the bars of its gilded cage.

He can hear it, his eyelids lowering, smile widening as he ghosts lips across your neck. He explores slowly, drifting slow kisses from the crook of your shoulder to the curve of your jaw. Each osculation is more tender than the last, but you still sigh and shudder, shutting your eyes because you cannot bear to see his smug expression.

As cool as his skin is, it’s still warmer than the wintry air that surrounds you. One of your hands tentatively rests on his shoulder, the other rests at your side. He’s incorrigibly good with both hands and lips, fingers of his unoccupied hand giving your right breast a faint squeeze, earning a surprised splutter.

You don’t realize your flustered expression has tinged with fear until he begins to croon at you.

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, darling,” he soothes, and voice curling with mock sympathy. “You’re doing so well, so good for me.”

Oh, fuck. That only makes it worse. Your cunt throbs, your clothes suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy. The mere anticipation of the bite is enough to make you wet, panties sticking to the plush give of your folds. The renewed shame of it mixes with heady arousal, creating a cocktail of sensations that leaves you squirming underneath him before he’s even taken a bite.

“You know, I’m beginning to think these little whines and trembles of your are from more than just trepidation. Am I correct in that assumption?” Goddamn him and his blabbering mouth. Your eyes snap open to fix him with a glare, but he only smiles wider.

All you can do is concentrate on keeping breathing even as the very tips of his fangs drag over your skin. Each tender kiss and caress feels like it stretches beyond the span of mere moments, slipping into minutes and maybe hours. Your palms sweat, your eyes stare up at the dulled sky.

Slowly, he journeys from the line of your jaw to the middle of your neck. Once, twice, three times he grazes his sharp fangs over the same spot. Your fingers curl tight into the fabric of his jacket, thighs pressing together—

He bites. Your fingers twitch and your grip tightens, helplessly curled in the fabric of his stupid fancy shirt. The sheer cold of his fangs presses deep into the flesh of your throat, his efforts rewarded with a gush of fresh, sweet blood. This is the part you like the most, you think. The rush of the ambrosia connects the two of you in a way you’ve never experienced with another person before. He drinks deep, enjoys your very being, your very essence—

If you were less drunk off the pleasure of being torn into so intimately, perhaps you’d wonder if this is the only reason why he claims to enjoy your company so much.

But a second squeeze to your breast robs you of that coherency. Black spots are already beginning to swim at the edges of your vision, consciousness growing hazy as he continues to indulge, gorging himself on you entirely.

“Astarion,” you find it in yourself to rasp, feebly tugging on his shirt as you feel yourself beginning to drift away, into an inky, vast blankness. You’re not sure if he’s going to stop, you realize, but what frightens you more is that you don’t entirely mind.

The thought is shoved to the very recesses of your mind as he blessedly pulls away with a gasp. His lips are stained red, and your gaze glues to his tongue as it peeks out and swipes over them. Slowly. As though he’s savoring your flavor as much as he can before he gulps the final droplets down.

“Delectable,” he sighs, hair tousled, pupils dilated. “Are you alright, darling?”

“Feel a little funny. Nothing a snack and a nap can’t fix,” you mumble. Your arms feel like jelly as you press them to the frosted earth, feebly attempting to lift yourself off the ground.

“Ah, ah. There’s no need to push yourself,” he tuts, pushing himself to his feet with nimble ease. A stray beam of sun dips through the clouds. It casts his hair and pale skin in a light most vibrant. Looking up at him like this allows you to admire the strong cut of his jaw, the fine arch of his nose. You’re so dazed by both fatigue and his beauty that you almost forget to take the hand he offers you.

You take it. His fingers are cold, but warmer than the chilled air around you. A harsh contrast to the warm, near fervent gaze he fixes on you as you stand beside him.

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #writing #Anonymous

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