Summary: Briar, a cleric of Malar Tav, doesn't do hand outs. So when she wakes up with Astation looming over her, poised to bite, she feels for his plight but can't just hand over her blood that easily. She really does want to help her new friend though, and this fun little game of cat and mouse proves to be just the way to do that.
or- Tav's god forbids giving hand outs so she proposes that Astarion hunt her so she can feed him guilt free. Primal play ensues.
My first foray into writing for BG3 and my first attempt at writing in years but this vampire has rotted my brain to the core.
Read the full here on A03 and see a03 for full tags.
The pounding of her heart may well be the thing that gives her away. A rhythmic beat, so thunderous that she could feel it in her throat. The excitement coursing through her was to be expected- the thrill of the hunt was a sensation that she was all too familiar with, and she would never tire of it. Even though life had seen fit to throw her into an abundance of hunts since the nautiloid, and, in spite of the near constant mortal peril that faced them all daily, it was very rare that she got to indulge quite like this.
In fact, she wasn’t sure that she had ever fully indulged this particular desire, there had never been a chance to show such weakness without it coming around to have severe consequences but here she was, finally, well and truly surrendering to being prey.
Well, surrender might be a bit too strong of a term- this little game was her idea after all and the cards where all in her hand when it really mattered. She was the one that set this ball in motion by volunteering to be the hunted, to become the fawn that ducks and dashes from Astarion’s fierce pursuit, but she certainly did not intend to lie down and make it easy for the vampire. After all, the only meal worth indulging in is one that has been well and truly earned and that’s precisely why they were here.
Surprises were abundant in these strange times but rousing from her trance to a body over her, sharp fangs poised and ready to strike at her throat had certainly been a big one. Even in the privacy of her own mind, Briar knew how crazy it sounded that even then she had felt the beginnings of that intoxicating sensation she had so longed for, the forbidden indulgence of feeling like a rabbit before a starved fox.
She should have seen him for what he really was, in hindsight it was all so obvious, his deep red eyes, his flawless alabaster skin, the canines that were more than a little too sharp and prominent. He hadn’t exactly been doing an amazing job of hiding his condition and it was likely only the distraction of the unprecedented circumstances they all found themselves in that no one had noted it so far. He bore a deep-seated scar in the shape of two fang marks nestled along the column of his own slender neck that should have been a dead giveaway and on any normal day she would have discovered his true nature in a heartbeat.
Even caught off guard as she was, it wasn’t hard to read the look in his eyes, clearly, he had expected her to run him through. Perhaps stake him on sight. But the fierce gnawing hunger of a starved monster was a sensation that she was intimately acquainted with and as she gazed into his eyes and found them full of desperation and soul deep aching, she was startled to see something that was too close to a reflection for comfort.
Living so closely in tune with the wilds, Briar knew that life was full of countless calls from all directions. Desire and need were restless companions and if one were to succeed in life, you had to learn when to act and when to stay your hand. Mastering your desires was as important as embracing them- but when your nature calls to you, ravenously empty and screaming, you have no choice but to obey.
Gazing upon his chastened face, it had felt like the cruellest punishment to reprimand him. To watch the most genuine emotions she had ever seen grace his handsome face entirely spring from the fount of sorrow.
Still, her lord forbade pity upon the weak. Survival of the fittest was her creed and snatching up a forbidden drink in the dead of night, whilst your prey lay sleeping, was hardly proof of your hunting prowess. If Astarion could only win his meal by subterfuge, Malar’s teachings would have her state that he did not deserve to eat at all.
She felt these urges every now and then, the desire to give in and take pity on those who were so clearly in need. A whole life spent trying to please Malar, to prove herself as devout as any other in her village, and a whole life spent pretending that a hollow, cavernous pit didn’t open up inside her gut and threaten to swallow her as she ignored the pleading glances of the hungry and needy.
The discomfort bought on by these urges to be weak were familiar by now, she had suppressed them before, and she would continue to do so. It did not matter how much her heart ached to see the raw and honest starvation within her companions’ eyes. To see the hunger that she knew all too well and refuse to help when it would be all too easy. She knew the laws she must abide by, and Malar must not be displeased, her powers depended upon it.
Malar must not be displeased and perhaps he need not be- she had always been an innovator. Those forbidden desires sprung to the forefront of her mind again as she remembered the ravenous way Astarion had been looking at her in the split second before he had realised that she had awakened, and she felt a spark of warmth in her centre. Perhaps there was a way that they could leave this situation under more desirable circumstances.
When she had suggested that Astarion hunt her if he truly expected to taste her blood, the vampire had been dumbfounded and furious. Clearly, he had taken her offer in jest, perhaps thinking that she was mocking his monstrous nature, but she had doubled down on stating her intent. Affirming that any hunter worth their salt should catch their meal, not shamefully steal it away whilst their prey lay sleeping.
She could tell by the look on his face that he still didn’t quite believe her, but his doubt was faltering, and he had regained enough composure to slip back into his familiar rakish mask.
Then he had become confident, cocky. Briar had put a lot of work into concealing the nature of her worship and the nature of her own inner beast, from the rest of her motley crew and although at times, as friendships blossomed and grew amongst them all, this had been a contributor to her sizable mountain of guilt, in this case it had given her an advantage.
Astarion believed that he had seen her full skillset in battle, she was a cleric after all, a little more savage than most of the other clerics he knew when it came to finishing off enemies, but that was no matter of concern. She would still be no match for a vampire with over 200 years of experience, right?
Briar smiled to herself in the darkness, she hoped this confidence would be his downfall. She still had plenty of tricks up her sleeve and her winning hand had been held closely to her chest.
The distant snapping of a twig jolted her from her reminiscence. She was confident that the sound had not come from Astarion, the rogue would never be clumsy enough to make such a simple hunting mistake, but it reminded her to refocus on the task at hand. Eluding her hunter.
