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lillotte17 · 7 hours

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Bite Night

Another Astarion x Nivan (Tav) fic whoo!! I'm sure you can guess the premise of this one based on the title lol.

Rating: M again, once more not for sexy times but for mature themes and blood. There are some hints about Nivan's backstory and while not explicit here, his backstory is ROUGH, so take care of yourself y'all.

He couldn’t have guessed with any certainty as to which one, but Nivan was all but positive that one of the gods hated him, specifically.

His life had never been a bed of roses, but he had always assumed that his tale of woe was rather commonplace in the grand scheme of things. He did his best not to dwell on it. Kept a smile on his face, a song in his heart, and his feet on the road. He didn’t bother much with the gods as a general rule, and he had assumed the feeling was mutual.

However, the last tenday or so of horror after horror had him reconsidering that thought. Surely, no one was this unlucky by mere chance. This had to be the product of some sort of divine punishment. A sense of cosmic loathing for his very being. Or a long forgotten family curse, at the very least.

Kidnappings, Illithids, tadpoles, the impending doom of an invasion force set to storm the Sword Coast, and of course, the prospect of waking up one morning with four huge tentacles bursting out of his skull. He had found companions amidst the chaos, fellow victims in truth, which was some relief. There would be no surviving this madness on his own. However, between the constantly furious githyanki, the cold and sarcastic cleric, the tielfing who was literally on fire all the time, and the sharp-tongued fop who had tried to knife him when they first met, it was hard to say which of them he trusted least at his back. With Karlach, he knew that any injury to his person would not be intentional, but as for the others… Well.

It is hard to choose a favorite with some gems as these.

And then, two nights past, just to place a cherry on top of this entire piece of shit cake life was handing him, Nivan had jerked awake with a tenderness low in his belly and an all-too-familiar dampness between his thighs.

Early. Because of course it was. The dammed tadpoles could force others to obey his commands, but they couldn’t be bothered to stop this wretched bit of bodily inconvenience.

It isn’t the worst he has ever had. He can hide it. None of the others are so eager to befriend him that they scamper after him when he goes to wash his clothes. Or himself.

Gale and Astarion are the chattiest of the bunch, but he suspects Gale is a bit too standoffish about his own affairs to poke too deeply into his unprompted. A bit too polite for it too, perhaps. Possibly even shy, deep down. The man reeks of maudlin loneliness, and he clearly wants Nivan’s approval. His genuine friendship too, which is not wholly unwelcome. If nothing else, it makes him fairly easy to redirect when he steps too close to things that Nivan would rather keep to himself.

Astarion, on the other hand, might be trouble. Nivan had known it from the moment they met. He is still not certain why he invited the elf to join their camp. The man is ruthless with both his tongue and his blades, and he watches all of them with a very calculating brand of curiosity that Niavn knows all too well. Astarion is weighing the dynamics of their merry little band. Testing them for strengths and weaknesses. Keeping an eye out for possible protectors, and gaging who he would be willing to back in a fight, should things turn sour.

Nivan cannot say that he hasn’t privately been making the same sorts of deliberations himself, but that does not make it any less aggravating when that discerning gaze is turned in his direction.

And it has been.

More and more often, he feels those red eyes trailing after him.

Astarion always smiles at Nivan when he catches him at it, too. The picture of polite and composed interest. A slight bow in his direction, if he is feeling especially cheeky. His lips curled just so, saccharine sweet. His eyes sharp and piercing all the while.

It sets the hair at the back of Nivan’s neck on end.

There isn’t much to be done about it, though. At least for now. He can hardly pick a fight with the man just for staring at him. Especially if he wants to remain unscrutinized by the others. Misdirection and charm are always better tools for keeping things hidden than throwing accusations, after all.

Astarion is a walking headache of a man, but Nivan cannot spare even half of his attention on whatever mischief he might be planning even if he wanted to at the moment. The world is on fire, there is a worm in his brain, and for some reason everyone around him has started asking him to make decisions for their happy little troupe as though he is some wizened authority figure instead of a thirty two year old bard with a talent for music and magic tricks and a penchant for tall tales. He didn’t ask for this kind of responsibility, and he’d rather not have it, truth be told. Just like he’d rather not have to deal with the uncomfortable amount of blood seeping into the rags he stuffed into his small clothes this morning.

It’s enough to make him want to simply wander off into the woods alone to scream.

The day has been a miserably long one. They had to fight their way through huge pack of gnolls, and afterwards, when they had made to return to their camp, a stray band of goblins had swung at them from the trees, thinking the weary, gore-splattered adventurers seemed like easy pickings. They were almost right, too. Nivan is currently drenched in blood, and though most of it is not his own, he is still sore and irritable and not in the mood for much socialization by the time they are all settling in for the night. A few of his companions seem like they might want to chat, and Karlach has a look about her that makes him suspect that she wants to ask him to play a song, but he can’t find the energy to care. Healing potions never seem to take away all of the dull aches caused by cramping, no matter which ones he tries. He just wants to clean himself off, wrap himself in a dozen blankets, and try to get some rest.

He manages to make it to the secluded corner of the lake near their campsite that he has been bathing in unhindered and unfollowed. The water is a little cooler than he’d prefer, but he tries not to rush himself. He washes all of his clothing carefully. Thoroughly. There will likely be some light stains, but nothing too noticeable. He heals his wounds while he’s at it, and washes his skin until he feels practically raw. This sort of thing always makes him feel a little disjointed. Out of step with his own body.

When he is travelling on his own, it is easy to ignore. He hardly even thinks of it. But surrounded by a group of well-armed strangers is another matter entirely. Especially when any stray memories that float to the top of his mind could get beamed into their heads against his will.

The very thought makes his skin crawl.

The moon is riding high in the sky by the time he is finished. The scars across his chest have been rubbed a bit raw from wearing armor all day, so he simply pulls on a clean pair of soft trousers, scoops his damp gear into his arms and slowly heads back towards the warmth of the waiting fire. About half way there, pain spikes low in his abdomen, much worse than it has been for the last few days. Nivan curses under his breath, nearly limping now, and hoping against hope that he has taken long enough to get clean that all of the others will have gone to bed already.

Naturally, he all but plows directly into Astarion about three steps past the tree line into their camp.

“Ow, watch it!” Nivan hisses before he can think better of it, “Aren’t high elves supposed to have darkvision?”

“That’s rich, coming from a half drow,” Astarion drawls with a sneer, pulling back from him and folding his arms across his chest. He looks him up and down for a moment, and something strange tightens in his expression. His jaw clenches briefly. Pale fingers digging for purchase in the meat of his own elbows.

Nivan scowls in his own turn. It’s not his fault they bumped into each other. The man doesn’t need to get so scandalized about it.

“Exactly, I’m only half a drow, which means my darkvision is likely only half as good.” He says with a smile that is more like a distressed animal baring its teeth than anything else. “What’s your excuse?”

Another burst of pain pulses in his gut. He feels himself wincing despite his best efforts. Warm blood pooling between his legs. His padding is going to be soaked through again if it keeps up like this. He needs to find a way to escape this situation so he can go back to his tent to change instead of standing out in the open starting another asinine fight with Astarion.

Surprisingly, the other man seems to fold at his sniping. Still tense, perhaps, but his expression seems more guarded and unhappy than anything else. His mouth moves strangely, as though he wants to be chewing at something.

“Is something the matter?” Astarion wonders hesitantly, his brow furrowed and his voice unusually strained. “Are you…injured, perhaps? You seem a little…off. Not your usual charming self.”

“I’m FINE!” Nivan snaps.

Astarion flinches, just slightly. Just enough to make him feel like an ass. Nivan pinches the bridge of his nose. Lets out a deep breath. Takes a moment to ground himself.

“I’m fine.” He says again, softer this time, holding up his free hand in a gesture of peace. “It’s just been a long day. I would like to go to bed. You should do the same, we’ve got to keep ourselves moving if we want to outrun the clock on these horrible little worms.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly sleep just yet,” Astarion replies with a humorless chuckle. He seems to have regained the majority of his composure now. He smiles at Nivan in his typical perfect and polished way, even though his hands are still gripping his own shirt sleeves rather tightly. “I’m feeling a bit… Hm. Peckish. I think I’ll take a look around camp to see if we have anything remotely edible that I could nibble on before turning in.”

There is nothing threatening in his voice. Nothing aggressive in his stance. Yet, Nivan nearly wants to take a step away from him. Something in the back of his mind is setting off alarm bells. Deep primal instincts sensing an unseen predator lurking in the shadows.

Nivan swallows thickly. His throat bobs with the motion, and the other man’s gaze shifts as though to follow it. And then it lingers. His heartbeat ticks up, just slightly.

Astarion’s pupils are blown wide and black, with just the thinnest rim of red around them.

“Is there a reason that you’re staring at my chest?”

The man blinks at that. Shakes his head slightly, the soft silvery cloud of his curls bouncing at the movement. His smile widens, unrepentant.

“I was simply admiring that lovely tattoo on your neck, my dear,” he says, tilting his head as though to inspect it further, “Thinking about how much the needle must have stung when you let the artist do their work. Did it hurt much? The skin there tends to be so…sensitive, after all.”

“It was nothing I couldn’t handle,” Nivan replies, giving him a wry glance, “I am more than accustomed to dealing with little pricks.”

“Oh darling,” Astarion laughs, “I can assure you that nothing about me is little.”

“At least you’ve got enough self-awareness not to deny being a prick,” Nivan snorts, rolling his eyes. “Enjoy your midnight snack, if you can find one. I’m going to bed.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage to find something,” Astarion replies with a careless wave of his hand, smiling a smile with a lean edge of hunger whetted like a knife. “Sweet dreams.”

Nivan does not, in fact, have sweet dreams. He swigs a health potion and staunches his bleeding as best he can, but even under normal circumstances, he is a light sleeper. It was something of a necessity for a young child alone on rough city streets. He has never managed to break the habit. He has never much tried to. Fear has kept him alive just as much as rest has, and he has never been foolish enough to discredit one at the expense of the other.

The dreams that do come are dark and twisting. Half memory, and half shifting shapes of tentacles and long clawed fingers. Shadows shift around him in the stillness of his tent. A hand on his throat. Another at his waist. Squeezing and pulling and pressing him down and down into the hard-packed dirt. A worm wriggling behind his eye socket. Hot breath ghosting against his ear.

‘If you scream, I’ll make you regret it, little fish. Nobody’s going to look for you if you disappear. Nobody’s going to care.’

Nivan snaps awake to see the blur of a white and wraith-like face hovering above him in the dim light sifting through the canvas. Half asleep and heart racing with a heady rush of fear and rage, he throws the whole of his bodyweight at his assailant, a slender little boot knife fisted in one hand. There is a surprised grunt. A tumbling of limbs and fabric. A flash of sharp teeth in the beam of waning firelight from the opening to his tent. A pair of red eyes burning like a set of coals.

Astarion.

The elf is pinned beneath him now, holding both hands up in surrender, and looking very pointedly at the blade held at his throat. He doesn’t seem especially frightened, though. Nivan can’t even feel his heart racing where his arm is pressed into his chest.

“Shit.” Astarion notes succinctly.

“Come here hoping for that ‘nibble’ you were looking for, did you?” Nivan rasps out. His fingers tighten on his blade, and Astarion angles his chin away from him, bearing the strange puncture scars on his neck.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” He says, a genuine thread of worry weaving its way into his tone.

“Then I don’t think you know what this looks like,” Nivan hisses through gritted teeth.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you!” Astarion insists. “I just needed- well, blood.”

Nivan narrows his eyes at him, the wheels in his mind turning as he slides more towards wakefulness. Putting all the puzzle pieces in their rightful place. The elf’s strange nighttime wanderings in and out of camp when he thinks no one is watching. His anxiety when they had found the exsanguinated boar on the road with the bite marks in its hide. The unnaturally cool feeling of his smooth pale skin beneath his hands.

Vampire.

“And just how did you suppose you were going to get my blood without hurting me?” He wonders with a frown.

“It’s not what you think- I’m not some monster!” Astarion huffs, as though offended by the very thought, “I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds- whatever I can get. I’m just too slow right now. Too weak.”

He blinks up at Nivan with large, beseeching eyes. Lashes fluttering. Lips pouting just so. Well-practiced and flawlessly executed. Unnervingly, even somewhat effective, which is troubling.

“If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

“If you’re really so virtuous with your dining etiquette, why wait until now to tell me what you are?”

“At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs.” Astarion makes a face, almost wincing at the thought. “No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

“I think you might be forgetting how we found ourselves in this position, hm?” Nivan sneers, tapping Astarion’s chin with the flat of his blade. “You snuck into my tent, uninvited, and tried to bite me. How am I supposed to trust you?”

“Because we don’t have a choice! Not if we’re going to save ourselves from these worms.” Astarion’s voice cracks like a whip, frustration bleeding through his façade. He grabs hold of Nivan’s wrist. Not pulling the knife from his neck just yet, but with the unspoken implication that he has no intention of going down without a fight, if pressed. His fingers squeeze as his gaze hardens. “I need you alive. You need me strong.”

“Presumptuous to assume I need you at all.” Nivan scoffs, unimpressed. “I can pick a lock and lie just as well as you can. And I don’t think you need me either. Clearly, whatever calculations you’ve been running in that head of yours must have marked me down as expendable, otherwise you would have chosen someone else to snack on.”

Astarion glances away, his body shifting slightly between Nivan’s legs, still pinned to the ground as he sits astride his hips. Under different circumstances, the position might be considered intimate, but as it is, it only feels tense and uncomfortable. Despite this, and despite Nivan’s well-founded opinions that the other man’s interest in him has never been more than mercenary, the expression on the vampire’s face nearly reads as…embarrassment.

“Look, I can admit that sneaking in without permission was not the best decision,” he concedes. “I’ve just been so hungry these last few days, it’s been driving me to distraction. And you… Ahem. Well. You smell of blood, frankly. Utterly delicious -in case you were wondering- and I thought… Maybe, if you were already a little wounded, a little weak, you might not even notice if I purloined a sip or two while you were sleeping.”

“Am I meant to be flattered by the idea that I smelled so appetizing it made you stupid?”

“That’s entirely up to you, darling.” Astarion smiles a smile that does not reach his eyes. “I’m only telling you the truth.”

Nivan frowns, considering what to do next. He cannot say that he trusts the man any farther than he could through him, but Astarion has had opportunities to kill him -to kill every person in camp, truth be told- and he hasn’t acted on any of them. Not even to sate his apparent hunger, until now. The rogue has even pulled him out of a sticky situation once or twice during a fight, with a well-aimed arrow or a swift strike of a blade. If Nivan breaks their alliance and sends him away, he could end up joining the Absolute cultists, or dead on the road, or transformed into a mind flayer. None of which leave an especially good taste in his mouth.

The elf might annoy the piss out of him, but he’s not certain he wants him to die for it.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Nivan wonders with a sigh, scrubbing at the shaved section of his hair.

“Well, I might be speaking from a position of extreme bias, but I think you could begin by removing the threat of imminent stabbing,” Astarion offers dryly.

“You held a knife to my throat by way of an introduction a tenday ago, and you just tried to get your teeth into me for a midnight snack,” Nivan reminds him. “If you have a compelling argument for how letting you up is a safe bet for me in this scenario, I’d love to hear it.”

“I already told you- I’m weak right now,” Astarion pouts, “We trudge about the countryside all day through muck and dirt and slime, we fight people, we kill people, and then we come back to camp and I have to wait until the rest of you have gone to bed before I can even make an attempt at finding something out in the wilderness that I can actually eat. I’ve never had to be this constantly active in my life. It’s positively wretched. And exhausting.”

He heaves a sigh as though he is being terribly put upon.

“Besides, killing you would likely cause more problems than it solved. I may well be faint with hunger, but a full belly would likely not give me much of an advantage when the rest of our merry band awoke the next morning and came after me with pitchforks.”

“And here I thought you might miss having me around.”

“I might do,” Astarion replies with a careless grin, “You’ve got your uses, after all.”

Nivan stares at him for a long moment, weighing the truth of Astarion’s words, before finally pulling his boot knife away from the vampire’s neck and sliding off of him.

Everything else the man has told him with dulcet tones and lying lips may yet prove to be false, but Nivan believes in his hunger. He knows what hunger looks like on a person. What it feels like, clawing and biting and wriggling raw in the pit of your stomach until it stretches you thin and brittle, inside and out. Until anything you have, everything you have, materially and morally, is worth bartering away for just the smallest mouthful of hope.

“There now,” Astarion says brightly, sitting up and straightening out his clothes, “Everyone is calm again, and we can continue this discussion like civilized people.”

Nivan keeps the knife fisted tightly in his hand.

Ruby eyes flick towards it for a moment, but Astarion’s smile holds.

“I’m sure we can come to…some sort of agreement?”

“Look,” Nivan replies, letting out another long breath, “I can’t say that I am wholly without sympathy for your…condition. Despite being chaotic and aggravating, and complaining about absolutely every single thing that I do, I don’t really think of you as someone who kills people for no reason. Your reasons might be complete shit from time to time, but I believe that you have them. I don’t think that you’d murder me out of hand, but that doesn’t mean I trust you with access to my major arteries.”

“Hm, you’re not wrong,” Astarion admits, unrepentant, “But what reason could I possibly have for killing you? We’re allies, after all.”

“Well, as of right now, I’m the only person in camp who knows what you are,” Nivan points out soberly.

“True,” Aastarion says slowly, tilting his head in consideration, “Although, if I’m being perfectly honest, I doubt the secret would have held that much longer. As I said, all this adventuring is running me ragged. Sooner or later, someone will connect the dots, even if you do conveniently disappear. They’ll see that I’m not eating when I should. See that I’m always tired. Always hungry.”

“And if I let you drink from me, do you honestly think your pragmatism will keep that hunger in check?”

“It has so far, hasn’t it?”

Nivan looks him over again, his compassion warring with his survival instincts. Everything about this proposal seems like such a bad idea. Hells, everything about this man seems like a bad idea. But there is something about Astarion that always seems to stir him towards offering him his hand, in friendship, or in mercy, or in something that is not quite pity. Even when he should know better. Like recognizing like, perhaps, in a cracked and cloudy mirror of that reflects only worst parts of himself. He does not know why some upper city fop would inspire such feelings, and he thinks perhaps it is safer not to know.

“Please,” Astarion wheedles, seeing him wavering and pressing his advantage, “Only be a taste, I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”

Something shifts slightly, and Nivan can feel the dampness seeping into his padding again. Between the surprise, the tension, and the blade at his throat, the vampire hadn’t thought to dig too deeply about why he kept smelling blood on him, but that could change in an instant. Nivan needs some kind of distraction before he notices again. A distraction…or a bribe.

“Gods, I’m going to regret this, I can already tell,” Nivan grumbles, massaging his temple with one hand and silently cursing his fate. “…Alright, we’ll give it a try. Just this once, though, to see how it affects each of us. I won’t promise any more than that for now. But no more blood than I can spare, and no more than you actually need.”

“Really? I-” Astarion begins, both his smile and his voice momentarily bright and genuine in his surprise, before he catches himself and shifts back towards something sultry, “Of course. Not one drop more.”

He gestures towards Nivan’s abandoned bedroll.

“Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

Nivan’s gaze follows the motion to the place he had just been sleeping a few minutes ago. He thinks of Astarion leaning over him again while he lies on his back. The weight of the larger man pinning him down as his teeth sink into his neck. The blood gushing from the vital arteries there, making it impossible to think. To fight. Helpless.

His breath catches in his throat, his heartbeat ticking upwards.

“No,” he rasps out, shaking his head, “I think not.”

Astarion makes a face, a mixture of curiosity and exasperation.

“Well, then what arrangement would you prefer?” He wonders, sounding a bit tart. “Shall I come over and sit on your lap, instead?”

“I don’t think we will be doing anything this evening where you end up on top of me,” Nivan says with a tight smirk, trying to play it off lightly and failing, “That’s a privilege for nighttime visitors who have at least taken me out somewhere nice. Bought me a gift or two. Flowers. Chocolates. Something shiny.”

“Ugh, but that’s so much work. And flowers are overrated.”

“But I’m worth it.”

“I’m sure you are, darling,” Astarion sighs, rolling his eyes, “Your exacting standards aside, I would love to hear any suggestion for taking care of the matter at hand, however. Are you planning on cutting you finger and letting the blood drip into a bowl? Because I think we’ll be sitting here for quite a while, if that’s the case.”

He tilts his head at him a moment, something cool and still settling over his features as he smiles at Nivan once more.

“Or… were you perhaps suggesting that you would prefer to be the one on top of me?”

Nivan blinks at that, taken slightly aback, before bursting out laughing.

“Oh, you sweet, self-absorbed thing,” he grins, leaning towards him unconsciously, “If you want me on top of you, I’m afraid you’d have to do so much more than buy me flowers.”

The tension in Astarion’s shoulders seems to soften, but he still looks annoyed.

“Well, what are we doing, then?”

Nivan snorts, amused at the fact that even though he has agreed to do him a favor, Astarion still has to complain about it every step of the way.

Brat.

He shakes his head at him, still smiling as he carefully shuffles closer to where the vampire is sitting back on his haunches, eyeing him warily. He holds out his left arm in offering. The other man looks dubious, to say the least.

“You want me to drink from your arm?”

“Take it or leave it,” Nivan hums, wiggling the appendage in his face, “Try not to bite near my wrist, though, will you? If my fingers are numb tomorrow I won’t be able to play my instrument properly, and nobody wants that.”

“Yes, it would be a great tragedy if we had to endure any amount of silence on this journey,” Astarion drawls.

“Don’t worry, if worst comes to worst, I can just practice my singing instead.”

“Gods forbid.”

“Alright, drink up or shut up, I want to get back to sleep before daybreak.”

Astarion heaves a sigh as though he is being terribly put upon, but complies none the less, delicately taking hold of Nivan’s arm by both elbow and wrist. His hands are cold, which is unsurprising given his nature, but also soft and smooth, which is. He lifts the arm and bows his head with an air of reverence, even as his tongue darts out to hungrily wet his lips. Nivan forces himself not to look away, bracing himself for the inevitable spike of pain.

It arrives as expected, cold and searing as a shard of ice lanced into the meat of his forearm. He hisses through is teeth, fighting the urge to wrench himself away. Astarion’s grip tightens, crimson eyes rolling back in his head as he settles in, fresh blood oozing from the seal of his mouth. The pain soon fades to a dull ache, and Nivan’s heartbeat regains a steady rhythm, even as he watches the pale elf continue to pull vital fluids from him with a sort of horrified fascination.

The air smells like copper and a faint sweetness that might be emanating from the other man’s hair. His face is set in furious concentration, lost to the throes or ravenous bliss, brows furrows and cheeks hollowed out as he gulps down the proffered blood with an insatiable greed. It is a strange and hypnotizing spectacle. Wonder laced with revulsion at witnessing his own consumption.

Still, Nivan cannot help but be curious about whether blood tastes any different for vampires. He wonders if his particular vintage is any good. Astarion seems to be enjoying himself, after all, but he is certainly not of high birth by any stretch of the imagination. If that sort of thing even makes a difference. He probably tastes like common table wine, if he had to guess.

Nivan’s head spins. His fingers going cold. Astarion makes a deep satisfied hum in the back of his throat.

He reaches up his other hand and flicks the sensitive point of one long elven ear.

“That’s enough.”

Astarion jerks slightly, pressing a sound of muffled surprise into the flesh of Nivan’s arm before he obligingly pulls away.

“Oh- of course,” he replies, slightly breathless and lips stained a bright telling red. A trickle of blood dribbles down his chin and his lifts his fingers to it, smiling from ear to ear. “That- that was amazing.”

He sways a little, eyes glazed over, nearly giddy.

“My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…happy!”

Nivan glances down at the open wound on his arm and winces.

“I trust you got what you needed.”

“Oh, I absolutely did, darling.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing you fight.”

He puts a hand over his arm and mutters a healing spell. It won’t recover the blood he’s lost, but at least he’s only bleeding from one place, now. Hopefully this won’t slow him down to the point he becomes a liability. He feels a bit nauseous, but he thinks he’s hiding it well enough. Astarion is too wrapped up in his own pleasure to take much note of his discomforts at this point.

“Shouldn’t take long.” He grins toothily, fangs bared, “So many people need killing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more…filling.”

He gets to his feet and makes to leave, apparently off to look for game in the woods. Nivan watches him go with a strange mix of relief and un certainty. The transaction was borne of necessity more than any sort of trust, but there was an unnamable kind of intimacy to it. He can see the rosy flush of color brushed across Astarion’s cheeks and the tips of his ears, supposedly from his own blood. It feels like something more should be said between them.

But given both of their natures, perhaps it is better not to make the attempt.

To his great surprise, Astarion pauses just before exiting the tent, looking back at him over one shoulder.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

He sweeps out into the night before Nivan can recover from the shock of being offered anything resembling actual gratitude, and it might be just as well. He needs to change his padding again, and he feels a headache coming on. Tomorrow is going to be another long, miserable day.

“You’re welcome.” He says with a tired sigh to the empty darkness of the tent.

#astarion #tavstarion #astarion x tav #Nivan #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #fic #gods this took ages #no final editing we die like writers with executive dysfunction

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