infatuation ☾ bg3 writings

kinktober 2024: scent (halsin x astarion)

kinktober 2024 prompt list from @/planetcomabg3 on twitter

!! dry humping, masturbation, scent kink

The campfire crackled in the center of camp, the sweet smell of smoke wafting towards the trees carried by a soft breeze. Not far away, Halsin takes bites of his stew. It's a rich mixture of vegetables and meats thrown together by the camp cook (who just so happens to also be their wizard). It's good – flavorful yet lacking in the full bodied tastes of red wine and yellow cheese that he'd usually accompany such a dish with. It smells delightful when he brings the edge of the bowl to his lips to slurp, but there's something else that's been swimming in his senses lately that he cannot seem to pry his mind from, something that he first picked up on while collecting wild herbs on the edge of their camp, and something he began to privately seek out after a long day of exploring and battling when that pungent perfume really began to fade away.

Halsin lowers the bowl from his lips and follows the direction of the evening breeze and finds the source of his bane; the vampire. And don't get him wrong – Astarion is a gorgeous elf and one that Halsin could see himself very easily falling into his bed with – but it's his particular stink that makes his cock begin to stir in his trousers. His natural scent. It wasn't the smell of rot, per say, though death indeed had its unmistakable signature. This was something far more subtle and alluring in its unnaturalness. A scent that lingered at the fringes of Halsin's awareness in every situation, whether they were in the midst of bloody chaos or lounging beside the fire at the end of a long day, constantly pulling him toward its source with quiet persistence.

He watches from the opposite side of the fire as Astarion retreats towards his tent with his usual elegance and grace. He carries himself like nobility instead of a wilderness-bound rogue with a parasite in his head. Halsin wonders if that quick wit and charm continues once he's on his back. Part of him would certainly like to know.

He continues to pick at the meat in the stew, shoveling bites into his mouth as his eyes wander over the elf as he undoes the flaps of his tent and begins to disappear inside. But he stops when he's halfway and turns at the waist, as if the eyes that have been boring into his silhouette have finally managed to burn holes into his flesh and catch his attention. He turns and crimson locks on to hazel, fixed and unwavering, as if he's trying to tell him that he can read his terrible thoughts. Halsin has lain with more than his fair share of men, women, and all of those in-between in his long lifetime. He's been the victim of pleasurable and not-so-pleasurable escapades, and has read the faces and bodies of thousands throughout his travels. As he cradles the bowl in one hand and the spoon in the other, the look that Astarion gives him is nothing short of a silent invitation. A challenge, perhaps, to do something about his incessant staring as of lately, and Halsin is no stranger to such games. The unspoken tension crackles between them, daring him to act, but for now, he remains still – watchful, curious, waiting for the right moment to take him up on it.

The flaps of Astarion's tent fall heavily together behind him, and Halsin finishes his stew, waiting patiently for the golden sun to finish going down.

It's well into the night when Halsin finds his way to Astarion's tent. He's heavy in his trousers, thick and throbbing with the aroma of the vampire flooding into his senses. If he had any less restraint, he surely would've ripped through the walls to seek out its source.

"Astarion?" He calls out towards the tent, his voice low and woven with something he can only describe as pathetic desperation.

A lantern from inside flickers and illuminates the rough shape of the elf inside. He's awake, he can see that, and he watches as the blob of humanoid shape closes whatever had been resting in his lap to the floor; a book, perhaps.